Heartbreaker (Unbreakable #1)(64)

I looped an arm through hers. “Show me where we’re going.”

“Just down here.” She steered us along the edge of a massive round table, then leaned over and plucked a fork and a dessert plate of chocolate cake from a display laden with them.

Tilting my head toward her, I murmured conspiratorially. “Do we need to stockpile food?”

She glanced left, then right, before arching her brows. “If they’re offering, I’m taking.” Holding up the plate with one hand, she gave a decisive nod as she speared the fork through the densely frosted back corner. Then she paused in the middle of the hall and offered me the first bite.

The moment the rich dark chocolate exploded on my taste buds, I moaned. “Oh. My. God.”

“Right?” She gave me a secretive look. “This is my second piece.”

I laughed as she stuck a heaping forkful into her mouth. Then she guided us down a hall, left, right, then led us into a tiled gallery.

Through a set of french doors to the left, a hostess stood at a podium with menus in her hand, then directed a young couple farther into a candlelit dining room. We went to the right, down two wide steps, into a lounge area where the sultry sounds of jazz music already drifted into the air. I tried to spot Darren by the windows, but too many people standing and dancing blocked my view as we worked our way inside.

Across the sizable room and along the far wall, stretched a stately bar area furnished in rich, dark woods. On my right, a half dozen cozy seating areas had been created with squared-off leather club chairs and matching ottomans. Candles flickered on low tables.

In the center of the space, three couples commanded a wooden dance floor, mesmerizing the audience with their twirling moves and gyrating hips. My brain tried to place their dance: Samba? Rhumba? As a kid, I hadn’t paid enough attention to the country-club mandated ballroom dance lessons to remember.

We claimed one of only two available seating areas left. I relaxed back into a butter-soft brown leather club chair with an unimpeded view of the musicians who were positioned near the right corner of the dance floor.

My gaze finally landed on Darren. His dark hair was its usual: messy but stylish. His black short-sleeved T-shirt exposed the flexing muscles of his forearms.

“Another bite?” Logan asked, lifting a second piece of cake toward me.

I shook my head. “No, thanks.”

My focus remained riveted on him. He had his eyes shut. With the slightest movements, his whole body undulated in a rhythm that transformed into sound through his hands to the various percussion pieces of his drum set. His left hand remained low, pulsing a soft beat over the center of a snare with what looked like a brush. His other hand hovered a matching brush over the top cymbal of a pair that had been vertically mounted on a stand.

“That’s a hi-hat.” Logan nodded toward Darren’s left.

“The cymbals?”

She nodded. “Yep.”

“What’s he using on it?”

“A brush.” She put her empty plate on a side table. “It’s made of thin wires. Gives a softer sound for jazz and ballads.”

“You play guitar, right?”

“Bass guitar.” She slouched down into the chair until her head rested on its low-slung back. “I like losing myself in the deeper tones.”

I mimicked her posture, relaxing back with her.

The song changed, shifting the music to a much slower tempo. After a moment, all three couples vacated the dance floor, heading in the direction of the bar. Two other couples, perhaps encouraged by the experts’ absence, migrated to the floor and began swaying to the romantic strains.

My attention drifted back toward Darren.

My breath caught when I realized that he stared directly at me, gaze smoldering.

A sensual smile curved my lips as a heated flush worked its way outward from my heart, both up my chest, neck, and face and down through my belly, lower, into more scandalous regions. Connected.

“You’re into art, right?”

I blinked, suddenly aware there were others in the room. “Yes. I’m a sculptor.”

Darren broke eye contact, closing his eyes once more as he played.

“Ever teach a class?”

“A class?” I glanced at her, confused about the topic changeup, wanting to be sure I hadn’t missed something during the seconds I’d been entranced while staring at her brother.

“Yeah. Art.”

“No.” I’d only graduated in the last year myself. “Why?”

She gave a one-shoulder shrug. “I go to meetings on Tuesday and Thursday mornings at the community center.”

I didn’t follow. “Meetings? Don’t you have school?”

After a deep breath, she glanced my way, then stared hard for a few beats. “SSL. Survivors of Suicide Loss. And yeah, I go to school in the afternoons on those days.”

“Oh.” Made sense. I would be a wreck if someone I’d loved died, let alone by suicide.

“My therapist made me go. At first it was horrible. Total nightmare having to listen to everyone else’s stories. Then I’d go home and relive my own. Eventually it started to help.”

I put a gentle hand on her arm. “I’m glad.”

“Anyway, art is supposed to help. Their budget from donations allowed for art supplies. All the stuff was bought, and they’d lined up a teacher and everything. But he was transferring in from out-of-state for his paying job and his move got cancelled.”