Beauty from Pain (Beauty, #1)(74)

I sit in the chair beside her and take her hands. “But, you did. Staying with me was the best gift you could’ve given me.”

I don’t think she knows what to say to that, so I make it easy for her. “Make a wish and blow out your candles before we catch the house on fire.”

She smiles and draws a deep breath before she leans forward to extinguish the twenty-three tiny flames.

I want all of her wishes to come true. Not just this one.





37

Laurelyn Prescott

After Lachlan finishes his work at the Auckland vineyard, we return to Avalon and fall back into our routines. He works every day while I keep busy at the house, waiting for him to come home.

Wow. We have routines. How domestic is that? And I called Avalon home? That’s a minuscule detail that doesn’t evade my attention.

Harvest time for the vineyards is approaching, so Lachlan is working a lot more since our return from New Zealand. I spend time with Addison when she’s not wrapped up with Zac, but I’m still left with a lot of time to keep myself busy, so I do the only thing I can: I throw myself into writing music.

I have a career to return to in four weeks. At least, I hope I still have a career. Blake still owns half the rights to my songs from the record we were producing, and he can shove them up his ass. I’m writing new songs. It’s the wrecked affair with him I worry about. I pray word of it doesn’t get out and ruin everything I’ve worked so hard to achieve.

Wow. I only have four weeks left with Lachlan.

Our precious time together feels like a candle with wicks burning at both ends. Once the flame meets in the middle, we’re over. I’ll never see him again, or hear his laugh or touch his skin. I’ll never share a bed with him again. Am I prepared for it when that time comes? I don’t think I am, but it doesn’t matter if I’m not. It’s coming, and I’d better figure out how to get ready.

I’m thankful to have the Martin and the baby grand at my disposal because Lachlan’s long hours give me a lot of time to compose. Being here inspires me. Hell, I should at least be honest about it. It’s Lachlan who inspires me. I know the stuff I’m writing is gold, but the inspiration behind the music is bittersweet, and I fear I’ve come to that place I didn’t want to be—writing hits because I’m terribly in love.

I’m tinkering with a melody on the baby grand when Mrs. Porcelli comes into the living room. “Dinner is ready and on the stove, Laurelyn, so I’m leaving.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Porcelli. Have a nice evening.”

I play the chorus again, trying to decide if it’s right. “It’s a lovely song, Laurelyn.”

“You’ve been listening?”

She nods. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. I doubt you’ve had much choice but to listen. You think it’s good?”

“I think it’s great.”

“Thank you. I hope you’re not the only one who thinks so.”

“I also think he feels the same about you.” I look up from the piano at her. “The song is about Mr. McLachlan, isn’t it?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“I’m afraid so, dear. Have you played it for him?”

“Oh, no. I could never do that.” And I especially couldn’t if the song is that transparent.

“I think you should reconsider. He’d love it.”

“I’ll think about it,” I lie.

“Good. I’ll be choofing off now. Have a good evening.”

I work on my newest song until Lachlan comes home. Home. There’s that word again. I see him standing in the doorway watching me, and I stop singing the moment his eyes meet mine. How long as he been standing there?

“It’s beautiful. Don’t stop on my account.”

“I’ve been at it all day, so I’m ready to call it quits for the night.” I get up from the bench. “Dinner’s ready. Would you like to eat now?”

“Only if you’re joining me.”

I walk to the doorway to kiss him. “I’ve joined you every night for two months. I’m not stopping now.”

I fill our plates with salmon and rice pilaf while Lachlan chooses a vintage, and then we meet at the informal dining table. He pulls my chair out for me and pours my wine. It’s one of the many routines we’ve developed after living together for eight weeks.

“Do you remember me telling you I wanted to take you to Sydney a while back?”

“Yes, and you have tickets for the opera.”

“That’s right. Madama Butterfly. It’s this weekend and I still want you to come with me.”

“I’m in, but I have to warn you—I’m no fan of opera. I don’t understand it.”

“Honestly, I’m not a huge fan myself, but these tickets are a gift from one of my customers in Sydney. They’re balcony seats and I’m afraid he has the tickets for the other seats and will know if I don’t show.”

“You’re so considerate.”

“I’m not being considerate. I’m being business-minded. I don’t want to insult him and lose his account.”

“Well, then, you’re being considerate in your business-mindedness.”