The suggestion came out a lot more suggestive than I intended. I wasn’t hinting that I wanted Storm to take me right back to his place. I just wanted him to know that I didn’t need the whole show. It was obvious from the way he treated the whole evening like a joke that he did not normally helicopter into Manhattan just for a bite to eat.
Storm was trying to dazzle me, and the only explanation was he wanted to get rid of me as publicly and painlessly as possible.
But that didn’t explain why we lingered over dinner.
“Finally,” Storm said after the waiter delivered our last course.
“We didn’t need to do the whole tasting menu,” I said.
He shook his head. “No, it’s just that it’s taken you four courses to finally relax.”
I narrowed my eyes at him but kept a pleasant smile fixed on my face. “It’s not that easy when so many people keep looking our way.”
Storm glanced around and laughed. “To be honest, I think you’re getting more attention than me.”
I knew it was probably the designer dress I had been stitched into, but when I turned to look, I bit back a gasp. A group of former clients was taking a seat just a few tables away. As if I didn’t already feel gawky and awkward, this would be just the time for Storm to find out I was really an accountant.
I giggled into my trifle. As if I ever had a chance of being as cool as Storm Morris. He was used to going out with top models and iconic actresses, not an unemployed accountant who’d never had a dress fitting in her life.
Storm watched me giggling with a relieved smile. “So, you finally give?”
I nodded, helplessly laughing at my ridiculous situation. Any other woman would have wanted the entire world to see her with a big-time celebrity but all I could think about was the tinted privacy of Storm’s stretch limo.
“We’ll take dessert to go,” Storm told the waiter.
There was a flurry of activity, and the maître d’ escorted us out. The table of accounting clients barely looked twice as our exit only interrupted their work talk. I breathed a sigh of relief as we headed for the restaurant doors.
The paparazzi had swollen past what Storm was prepared to handle. He threw up one arm and plowed through the crowd with me sheltered tight against his side.
“Sorry about that,” he said breathlessly. “I honestly thought no one would recognize me.”
The driver shut us in the limousine’s cocoon of privacy, and we both took a deep breath. Outside flashes still popped, and the crowd pushed even closer. Storm gave them one more distasteful look and then turned to check on me.
“Just goes to show I’m special,” I joked. “I didn’t recognize you at your own party.”
Storm broke into laughter as the limousine pulled away from the curb. He seemed relieved to be out of the limelight and stretched out his long legs. By the time we got to the helipad, Storm had loosened his tuxedo tie. We ate our boxed dessert as we waited for the pilot to run his safety checklist on the helicopter.
Finally, the blades rotated, and the driver opened the door. It was time to return to reality.
I realized as Storm escorted me into the buzzing helicopter that I was genuinely looking forward to getting out of Manhattan. Storm seemed much more himself the farther we flew away from the skyscrapers, and I wondered if the same was true for me.
Was I a better version of myself outside of the city?
All my life, growing up in Murtaugh, I had dreamed about moving to New York City. I had wanted to escape the small town, my too-familiar classmates, and my mother’s free-spirited reputation. It had never occurred to me that I was moving away from myself. Living in the city had made me someone else the same way Storm had changed in front of the curious public.
“When was the last time you had a dinner like that?” I asked to change my own train of thought.
Storm settled back in the helicopter seat. “A long time. Though it was more fun than I remembered.”
“Really?” I clutched the seat as the helicopter banked.
“Or maybe I was just enjoying you trying so hard to look casual,” Storm said.
I let go of my tight grip to swat his knee. “I knew you were putting it all on for my benefit! You can’t dazzle me that easy!”
Storm caught my trembling hand and held on until we landed safely on the Morris Mansion front lawn. He held on as he helped me out of the helicopter and then stepped back to admire my dress as the retreating helicopter whipped it around my legs.
When it was quiet enough to speak, Storm said softly, “I think maybe I’m the one who got dazzled.”
I kissed him.
It was supposed to be a simple, grateful gesture, like one of those easy European motions, but I stood on my tiptoes and lingered over his lips too long.
I tripped back, and my spiky heels dug into the lawn. “Thanks for dinner and everything but maybe we should call it a night.”
Storm caught my arm and stopped me from babbling. “Want me to show you back to your room?”
He seemed more concerned than seductive, and my cheeks heated with embarrassment. I was reading everything wrong and needed to clear my head.
“No, thanks,” I said. “I’ll find my own way back.”
I sunk into the lawn with every marching step but made my own way up to the mansion. I wasn’t going to embarrass myself any farther. By the time I looked up from my determined walk, I was through the front door, down the east hallway, and thoroughly lost.
There was no way I could save face now. Storm had really shown me up, and I had been stupid enough to kiss him goodnight! He was clearly still a star and though I had underestimated him, the world still wanted him. Who was I to think I fit in with his rich and famous lifestyle?
I wandered into a back room, hoping I wouldn’t be seen before I slipped back to my guest suite. Instead of finding a back staircase, I discovered an old study. Two guitars hung on the wood-paneled walls, but every other square inch was covered in photographs. My breath caught as I recognized the room from an iconic album cover—Ian Morris’ private office.
I was about to reverentially back out when a small candid polaroid caught my attention.
“Oh, no,” I sighed as my heart softened.
A young Storm hung by skinny arms from an apple tree in the orchard. Caroline had snapped a similar photograph of me at the same age, except we were trespassing. His smile, though, didn’t belay any feelings of ownership; he looked at the camera, eager for the cameraman’s attention. I knew, because the smile in my photo was exactly the same.
Storm knew what it was like to grow up in the shadow of a brilliant and vivid parent.
All night, I had been thinking about how different we were, but I had been wrong. There was a lot more than the little town of Murtaugh that tied Storm and me together.
I slipped out of the painfully beautiful high heels and padded out of the office barefoot. I planned to sneak back through the mansion and up the front stairs in order to find my guest suite again. Then, halfway down the hallway, I heard the faint chords of a guitar.
The music pulled me like something from a fairytale.
The Cezanne in the hallway reminded me of where I had first run into Storm, aka ‘Sean.’ Music flowed from the library’s open door and I tiptoed closer. The song was rhythmic, with deep blues riffs, and I peeked around the door, expecting to see someone listening to records.
Instead, I saw Storm perched on the edge of the sofa near the fireplace. An old turntable played a scratchy old tune from the floor but the vibrant chords all came from Storm.
The music was so different from his one pop mega-hit that I stood dumbfounded in the open door. This music was improvised, wild and passionate. It poured out of his fingers like the kind of magic that only truly talented people can manifest.
Beyond the addictive music was Storm himself. He had tossed off his tuxedo coat and tugged free of the starched white shirt. His shiny shoes were gone, and he leaned over his guitar in nothing but his tight white undershirt. Storm’s bare foot kept time with the music.
The way he curled one corner of his mouth into a smile and then bit his lip over a particularly dexterous riff made my insides turn to warm honey. Storm laughed out loud as he pulled off the complicated chord change and continued with a new variation.
I knew I shouldn’t be there. I was a more than an intruder, I was a liar and a now a spy. This was a side of Storm that I was certain the world had never seen. It was a shot worth thousands, and I lifted my phone with shaky fingers to capture it.
My cheeks were bright with guilt, but my phone was tucked away when Storm suddenly looked up and stopped playing.
“Got lost, didn’t you?” he said.
I gestured to the guitar still cradled in his arms. “I didn’t know you could play like that.”
Storm reached down and stopped the scratchy record. “I needed to after dinner. It was really weird to be transported back just by the way people looked at me.”
“I thought you said they were looking at me,” I joked.
Storm smiled and stood up. He laid the guitar on the sofa and joined me in the library’s arched door. “I didn’t get to thank you for going with me. I know it was overwhelming, but I really did have a good time.”
“You don’t need to impress me,” I told him.
“So, you mean I don’t impress you at all.” Storm gave a rueful laugh and rubbed his neck. “And that was my best move.”
“Really?” I asked. “Spoiling women with designer dresses and helicopter rides is your go-to move?”
Storm laughed again and caught my hand. “To be honest, I’m really more of a bottle of wine and old movie kind of guy.”
I wanted to kiss him again but took a deep breath instead. “Yeah, you should have led with that. Much better move.”
He smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind. There’s always tomorrow night.”
“Oh, so you’re not trying to scare me off?” I asked.
Storm guided me toward the front staircase. “No. As long as you promise not to torture Tyson with photographs of dusty corners, I’d like you to stay.”
“Why?” I turned around on the second step and found myself eye to eye with Storm.
His gray eyes were warm but serious. “I like seeing my life through your eyes. I mean, through your lens.”
“Your regular life or that whole whirlwind to Manhattan?” I asked.
Storm kissed the back of my hand and stepped back. “My real life. You might be the only one who can tell me what that really looks like.”
I fought the urge to kiss him again and, instead, focused on walking up the grand staircase without tripping on my designer hem. Storm stood barefoot at the bottom of the stairs until I reached the second floor, then he gave me a gentle salute.
He headed back to the library, and I waited to hear if he’d pick up the guitar again. The mansion settled into silence and finally, I headed for my guest suite.