The house was still filled with the lingering resonance of piano notes. Mio sat upright on the bench, her fingers poised over the keys, determined to run through the verse again. She had promised herself that today she would get the phrasing right, no matter how many repetitions it took.
But there was one problem.
Claude Lockheart.
The man had sworn—sworn—that he would behave until the pizza delivery arrived. He had even put on a solemn face, pressing a hand dramatically to his chest as if pledging allegiance to her musical focus. Yet here he was, leaning lazily against the edge of the piano with his shirt hanging open—why bother buttoning more than two buttons when you knew it drove your wife crazy?—and watching her with eyes that glinted with mischief.
"You missed the note again," Claude murmured, pointing at the sheet music.
"I didn't miss it. I just… decorated it," Mio retorted, trying to focus on the keys.
