“You almost had me convinced to let you quit taking lessons,” her mother said. “But then when I was about to make the phone call to inform her you were quitting, you stopped me. And you said, ‘Mom, I want to keep trying.’ Remember?”
Ivy felt the tears leaking from her eyes and she nodded. “Yeah.”
Her mother was emotional now as well. “So, even though it physically hurt me to know you were going to face that old demon of a teacher, I let you keep going for piano lessons with her. And little by little, you got better. And you worked tirelessly. And you improved more. Finally, one day about a year later, Miss Cleary met with me in person, and told me you were one of the most talented, hardest working and fearless pianists she’d ever had the pleasure to instruct.”
Ivy laughed. “She’s still probably mad that I never attended Julliard.”
“I’m certain she is,” Ivy’s mother chuckled. “But the point is, you have that strength, honey. You always had it.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Ivy sniffled. “I needed to hear that.”
A few moments later they got off the phone, but Ivy wasn’t able to fall asleep right away. She lay in bed, her thoughts going round and round, until she finally drifted off.
Ivy startled awake sometime later, feeling disoriented.
Had she been having a bad dream? She didn’t really know. Her bedroom was dark and shadowy and her heart was beating hard in her ribcage as she sat up.
There was a loud buzz from her nightstand and she glanced over, seeing a text come through on her cell phone. Ivy picked the phone up and saw a text message shining brightly on her screen.
I’m outside.
It was from an unknown number.
She blinked, suddenly feeling awake as a surge of adrenaline rushed through her system.
Outside? Who was outside?
Ivy got out of bed, shivering, and went to the bedroom window, looking out onto the street in front of her building.
Cullen Sharpe was standing there, bathed in darkness, but the nearby streetlight revealed just enough of him for her to know it was Cullen and not some strange man.
A wave of relief hit her as she realized it was Cullen. Of course, she knew she couldn’t trust Cullen, but somehow she did despite herself.
What’s he doing here?
She opened her window and craned her head outside as the cool air blew against her face. “Cullen?” she called out.
He looked up at her. “Buzz me in,” he said.
She shook her head. “I can’t do that—“
“Buzz me in, Ivy.” He walked up the steps and disappeared from view under the overhang of the building.
“Fuck,” Ivy whispered, closing her window.
She didn’t have time to change or put on makeup, nothing. Nor did she have time to gather her wits.
There were so many reasons why she knew it was a bad idea to open her door to Cullen Sharpe right now.
So many reasons, and yet not one of them seemed powerful enough to truly stop her from letting him into her home.
Ivy padded out of her room and into the hallway. By the front door to her apartment was her intercom and she hit the button to buzz him through the main entrance to the building.
She unlocked the deadbolt and waited next to it. Moments later, she heard his steady footsteps coming up the stairs and then he was knocking.
Here we go.
Ivy took a deep breath and opened the door.
Cullen stepped inside. He was wearing baggy workout pants, sneakers, a t-shirt and a light jacket. He looked much more casual than she was used to.
“I woke you,” he said. It was a statement, not an apology.
“Yeah,” she admitted, folding her arms self-consciously over her chest. She was, after all, wearing nothing but a flimsy white nightie.
Cullen shut the door behind him and looked at her soberly. “I’ve been thinking about you,” he said.
She licked her lips. “What about me?”
“About what you said earlier today. When you accused me of being a hypocrite who never tells you anything. It’s true what you said.” He ran a hand through his hair as if he was distraught. “I’m a hypocrite. And I’ve treated you badly.”
A thrill went through her chest. “Cullen,” she said. “You don’t have to do this.”
He made eye contact again, and his cold blue eyes were smoldering. “It might look as though I have the perfect life,” he went on. “A successful neurosurgeon who starts a drug company that sets the world on fire with a highly marketable drug and more on the way. Fame, millions of dollars, women throwing themselves at my feet. Acclaim, awards, the respect of my peers. Everything most people want, right?”
“Right,” she murmured, although she knew only too well just how far from that ideal Cullen Sharpe was in reality. After all, he had colleagues saying that he might have murdered one of his former patients, and an FBI agent claiming that the U.S. government considered him an enemy.
That didn’t sound like something to be envious of.
Cullen’s eyes suddenly bored into hers, and for a split second, she thought—Oh my God, he knows. Somehow, he found out that I know what he’s been accused of.
But then Cullen spoke. “None of my current success means anything. I’m trapped in the past, Ivy.”