His strong fingers ran through my curls, smoothing them over his hands. I belatedly realized that the music that was playing was Debussy’s “Girl with the Flaxen Hair.” “How very appropriate,” I said softly, the smile apparent in my voice. “I like it,” he answered easily. “I can’t listen to it without thinking of you.” “Do you listen to it often?” I asked a little breathlessly. “Almost every day for ten years,” he replied evenly. My heart stuttered and stopped, my breath shallow.
