Loved by You by Kate Perry Page A

god-awful recital.
    People had laughed when she tripped and tore her dress, and then they’d laughed more when she couldn’t climb on the piano bench because of the puffy layers of her dress. She couldn’t play, paralyzed by the mocking laughter and the snide whispers.
    “Hey.” Chance lifted her chin. “You’re not there anymore.”
    But she was—every time she was in front of people all those emotions reared up like a monster hiding under her bed, ready to eat her up. “And I’ll never be again. It was humiliating.”
    “You were four,” he pointed out gently. “Shouldn’t you give yourself a break?”
    She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t perform. Period.”
    “So have someone else perform your music.”
    “I used to. They don’t play it right.”
    “You must have a goal for the songs you compose.” At her mutinous look, he gaped at her. “Seriously? You write them and then they don’t see the light of day?”
    “Now you sound like my mom.”
    “Maybe your mom is right.”
    She glared at him. “Careful, or I’ll break up with you.”
    “You can’t break up with me.” He pulled her stool closer to his. “It’s not a big deal if you don’t want to play in front of people, but if your music is important to you, there are ways of getting it out.”
    “No label is going to sign an artist who won’t perform.”
    “So stack the deck the way you want it. It’s your hand, play it any way you want.” He gestured to the disinterested bartender for another round. “Start your own label.”
    “Right.” She smirked.
    “I’m serious. Go indie. What do you have to lose?” He nodded in thanks and handed KT a fresh bottle. “Though if you don’t feel compelled to have your music heard, maybe it’s not your purpose.”
    Not her purpose? She blinked at the ridiculous thought.
    But she knew she couldn’t say anything to the contrary without backing herself into a corner.
    She pouted.
    He nudged her leg with his. “Maybe being a teacher is your calling.”
    “Ha! Unlikely.” She considered it for two seconds and then shuddered in horror. “Not even.”
    “It was just a thought.” He slid his hand up her thigh. “I have another thought I guarantee you’ll like better. It involves the fancy bra you’re wearing and me taking it off.”
    “That’s something I can get behind.” She slid off the stool.
    He caught her close, holding her gaze. “Maybe one day you’ll play for me?”
    “Maybe.” Not.
    His lips quirked, as if he could hear her thoughts. Placing a kiss on her forehead, he vowed, “One day you will, and I’ll feel honored to be the one you trust.”
    The tight feeling in her chest constricted—not at the thought of playing for him, but that she’d hurt him by not playing.

Chapter Twelve
    Bijou strode toward the carriage house with purpose, practicing what she was going to say to KT to convince her to go to therapy with her. Only as she approached the front door, what she heard made her lose her train of thought.
    Music. But not just any music—the most haunting music she’d ever heard.
    Her ear pressed to the door, she tried to place the melody, but she didn’t recognize it. More complicated than Beethoven, less chirpy than Bach, more serious than Mozart. It was modern, but not Rachmaninov or Chopin, or even someone like Cage. There was a hint of the romanticism of Michael Nyman or Ennio Morricone, but without the sappy sentimentality. This was raw and powerful but still sweet.
    She stood, cast in a spell by the rising music, when KT’s voice rose from behind the piano, like the sun coming out from behind the clouds.
    Her sister’s voice was soft at first, mingling gently with the music, then suddenly soaring over the piano’s voice, strong and commanding.
    Bijou’s heart thundered the same way it had when she’d kissed Will. Whatever this was, it was good . Why hadn’t she heard it before?
    Knowing KT hardly ever locked her door, Bijou quietly twisted the knob and