Games Worth Playing (1/4)

"Turn here." Layla pointed out the window, her arm feeling more like a lead weight than an appendage. She shivered. Her damp clothes adhered to her body in a cold, clammy layer that she couldn't wait to shed as soon as she walked in her door.

Derek cranked up the heat and aimed all of the vents in her direction. "I wish I had a blanket or something."

"I'm fine. My house isn't very far." She closed her eyes and pretended like it was because she was too tired to keep them open.

Really it was because she couldn't risk looking at him after he'd caught her staring at his thigh. She actually felt much better now that she wasn't standing out in the rain thinking about how she was going to stretch her worn out marching uniforms for another season.

Even so, she must be a fool to have agreed to let him drive her home. Only a fool, no matter how sick and stressed, would get in the car with a man who looked like more trouble than a high-school piccolo section trying to play a note in tune.

Oh...she didn't think he'd murder her or anything like that.

She thought he'd convince her to forgive him, and then some. If she wasn't slightly feverish and severely exhausted, she probably already would have happily agreed to the "and then some."

Who did he think he was touching her face like that? Looking at her as if he actually cared about a nobody band teacher when he could have an underwear model on his arm faster than she could say John Philip Sousa?

"Thanks, but I don't need a blanket. I just need a hot cup of peppermint tea and a nap. I'm sure I'll be back to normal by tomorrow...we have an away game, and the kids have been working on their new routine all week." She cracked her eyes to see how close they were to her street. "Turn right here, then left at the next corner. It's a dead end...my house is the last one on the left."

Derek did as she said, the sound of the Chopin waltz playing on the car stereo filling the silence that stretched between them, the notes of the piano falling on her ears like the rain that still fell outside. It was really hard to stay mad at someone who had such good taste in music.

Plus, he had apologized, and it had sounded sincere. Maybe that man with the cocky smirk who'd stomped all over a teenage boy's ego with his designer shoes wasn't the real Derek.

She chanced a look at him--because hell, when would she ever be this close to a real, live rock star ever again--to find his lips curled in that mischievous half-smile he'd surely perfected just to make women want to throw their underwear at him.

"What?" Up until this point, she'd been too distracted by her anger to be nervous around him, but now it hit her...she was alone with a rock god. Little old her with big old him. Her life couldn't get anymore unreal at this moment.

"Oh...nothing." The curl of his lips deepened as he glanced at her. "You've just never spoken to me like you didn't hate me, that's all. I don't know how to handle it."

Layla shook her head. "This is so weird. You're you...maybe I don't know how to handle that."

And he still hadn't given her a good reason for why he was in her middle of nowhere town in the first place.

"That's my house." She pointed at the old farmhouse she'd called home since the day she was born.

Her parents had given it to her when they decided to move to the coast of South Carolina a few years back. They'd refused to let her buy it from them, but instead insisted she make a house payment-sized contribution to her retirement savings every month.

It was still her home after all these years, but lately the emptiness of it had been creeping up on her. Not that she ever allowed herself to slow down long enough to feel alone. Her work--the band, the kids, the music--kept her busy.

It always had, and she'd assumed it always would. But with more and more cuts coming to the district every day and her program seeming to get hit the hardest, she wasn't so sure any more.

The tires crunched on the gravel as he pulled up her driveway. "You seem to be handling it very...creatively. I've never had a woman yell at me through a megaphone before. And I have to admit...I kinda liked being ordered around by you, Ms. M."

Layla felt her cheeks flush, and this time even she had to admit it had nothing to do with her fever and everything to do with the the implication in his voice as he called her Ms. M.

"Please. Stop trying to win me over. I'm not one of your groupies."

"Clearly, or I wouldn't have to win you over." He put the car in park and turned to face her. "Fine. You don't like me, but tell me you at least like my music."

Layla suppressed a laugh at the expression on his face, a cross between mock horror and indignation. "Sorry. I've heard a few songs, but can't say I'll be throwing my underwear at you anytime soon. Now this..." she waved her hand to indicate the Chopin pouring from the car speakers. "This I like. You play the piano don't you? Play like this, and I might reconsider."

She bit down on her words, hardly believing they'd come out of her mouth. Now the jerk had not only convinced her to like it when he flirted with her, he'd somehow convinced her it was acceptable to flirt back.

The rain picked up, drumming down on the car in a torrent that drowned out the music and blurred the world around them through the glass.

He stared at her for a moment, then cleared his throat. "I have a suggestion. Well, two suggestions, really."

"What?"

"First, you should stay here for a minute until the rain slows. I don't have an umbrella, and I'm not letting you walk out in that. Are you feeling okay enough to wait?"

When he said things like that--when he acted like a real person instead of the entitled jerk he was supposed to be--he made it difficult for her to maintain the level of cool detachment she'd decided to adopt around him so far.

"I'll be fine for a few minutes. I'm just tired more than anything at this point."

"Alright, then. My other suggestion...we should play a game while we wait."

She raised an eyebrow at him.

"We should play pretend. You can pretend I'm just a normal guy. I'm not famous, and I'm not an asshole who totally fucked up the other day...and I can pretend you're the type of woman who would actually like me."

She didn't know what to say to that, but she could feel all that cool detachment she was so proud of slipping away, and right now, she didn't have the energy to pick it up and slap it back on.

He turned off the ignition but left the radio on, the dizzying runs of the piano playing a soft counterpoint to the melody of the rain. His eyes met hers, and she couldn't help but feeling like he was beseeching her. Begging her to do this one little thing in the cocoon of his car while the world poured down around them.

"Okay." She looked out the window, unable to bear the way his eyes made her insides melt into a puddle between her legs. Just like every other woman he'd set them on, she was sure.

"Oh...and I have to pretend you like my music. My ego is very fragile."

She leaned her head back on the headrest and closed her eyes. She didn't know if she could play pretend with a man like him. If it was a game, she was certain she'd lose. A guy like him probably wouldn't have it any other way.

"I never said I didn't like it," she grumbled.

"Uh...you kinda did."

"Fine. I've enjoyed the few songs I've heard. I'm just not a superfan."

"Not yet, you mean," he teased.

She could see his smile without opening her eyes.

He turned up the stereo so the rain faded to a pleasant drone behind the backdrop of cascading notes.

Layla let the silence draw out between them, content to absorb the sound of the piano as it washed over her. She thought he might be doing the same. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, hoping to dispel the butterflies that fluttered their wings against her belly from being like this.

So close to him. Alone. Just listening.

The music and the rain somehow pushing them together like he wasn't an asshole and she could actually like him.

As if he would actually like her.

Pretend.

She cracked her eyes to find him studying her face, the fingers of both hands tapping silently on the steering wheel as if it were a keyboard and he was the one creating the sound that enveloped them. She had the silly thought that if he stopped, so would the music, and this game of his would be over.