Reckless Abandon(19)

Asher, on the other hand, fills in the silence. “That said, the melody itself was dismal. It doesn’t take a savant to know you are not a musician.”

My eyes shoot wide open and I balk back at him. Fine, he is right about it being dismal but how rude can you be?

“I’ll have you know I graduated from Carnegie Mellon. I, sir, am a classically trained musician.” My voice is loud and rough. I don’t know why I even said the words. I’m sure he doesn’t even know what Carnegie Mellon is.

“You? Well you certainly didn’t train to be a pianist.” He’s baiting me.

“What does it matter to you?”

“I’m interested.” His voice contradicts his words.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.”

“That’s ridiculous.” I bite back.

“What do you play, Emma?” he asks sternly, his tone loud and commanding.

“I don’t play anymore.”

“Just say it.”

“The violin!” I shout. I don’t know why I get so dramatic. But this guy just gets under my skin. “I played the violin.” My voice lowers a few octaves.

The air is tight with tension and the only sounds are the waves crashing around us. I go back to peeling my orange, one I have no desire of actually eating, and peel off an entire portion of the outside layer.

“I know. I googled you,” he says, laughing at his own joke. It’s infuriating. “Why don’t you play anymore?”

Man, he just doesn’t let up.

“I don’t talk about that with anyone.”

“Why not?”

I stand up and walk to the side of the boat, away from Asher, his intense regard and his probing questions. They sound harmless but every mention of music and every furrow of his brow makes me want to shut down and curl into my metaphorical fetal position.

“Just stop asking.” I shoot him a stern look. It’s the first time I’ve been able to hold steady eye contact with him. He’s so intimidating I have a hard time doing so.

The boat bounces in the water as a small wake comes in. We each ride the tide, waiting for the other to say something. Asher is looking out, his eyes zoned in on a piece of granite that hangs down from the top of the rocky archway. It looks like a teardrop of glitter hanging down from the face of a goddess of stone. Yes, I’ve decided the island is a woman.

“You’re from Pittsburgh.” Asher’s statement is just that. A statement, not a question.

“Two hours outside, originally. Moved to the city a few years ago.” Pittsburgh has been my second home for fifteen years. Seven years ago I made it my permanent residence when I got my first apartment just off campus and stayed as I pursued my Master of Music. It was the best seven years of my life.

Asher leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. Shaking his head, he lets out a smile. “Klavon’s still there?”

I lift my head at the mention of the historic ice cream shop in the strip district. “Yeah, it’s still there. You’ve been to Pittsburgh?”

He slowly nods his head and a hazy look passes over his face. “I was born there.”

“Maybe we ran into each other before. I practically grew up there.”

“I left when I was ten and never went back,” he says in a dark undertone. His body slightly shakes with the thought and pulls back with a grin. “Besides I am much older than you. If we’d run into each other I would have been in a world of trouble.”

Appraising the man in front of me, handsome, fit, and nicely dressed, I would guess he’s older by a few years but not that much. “You’re not that much older than me.”

“You forget, I am in possession of your passport information. I know exactly how old you are.”

I roll my eyes. “Geez, talk about an invasion of privacy.”

“Wanna hear something cool?” he asks, and my ears perk up. “We have the same birthday.”

“January twenty-third?” I ask even though he just said he knew we have the same birthday.

“January twenty-third.”

That’s interesting, I guess. What are the odds? Well, I know what the odds are. It’s one out of three hundred and sixty five. But what are the odds I would travel to Italy and meet a gorgeous man who takes me on a boat ride to a sea cave and has the same birthday as me? My guess is one in a gazillion.

“Why did you leave Pittsburgh?” I ask, suddenly interested in his story.

Rising from his seat, Asher walks toward me. His long legs only require three steps to reach me. I stand up straight from where I am leaning on the side of the boat. The top of my head stands just under his chin. He leans forward and grabs the orange out of my hand, brushing his fingers with mine. Ripping off the rest of the peel, Asher breaks it in half and hands the other half back to me.

“I don’t talk about that with anyone,” he answers with a wink, popping a piece of the orange in his mouth.

I put my hand on my hip and shift my weight to the side. “Are you just saying that because I said it earlier?”

Asher leans against the other side of the boat, directly across from me. “No. I don’t like to talk about certain aspects of my past. There are things that no one needs to know and, quite frankly, I’d be happy never to speak of them again.” His answer is honest and concise, and, boy, do I understand.