“I’m just glad you’re thinking about me in the shower.” I met his grin with a smirk and stubbed out my smoke. “I’ll go get dressed. Be right back.”

I ducked inside the guest room and dug through my duffel for an outfit that would look decent next to King’s. I did have a black button-down that Nicky had bought me, which I could admit looked good on me. But jeans would have to do. I only owned a single pair of dress pants, and they were reserved for funerals.

Fresh socks, some extra deodorant, cologne, my watch, keys, wallet—where was my phone? Probably outside. I didn’t remember bringing it in with me.

Folding the sleeves of my shirt, I rejoined King on the patio, and he told me that he wanted to show me something.

“Do I need my shoes?” I asked, pocketing my phone.

“No, it’s inside.”

I followed him past the barbecue area and into the house, where he veered left. In front of me was a set of stairs that made me think about Camden. Was he really going to hide out upstairs all evening too?

King continued down a hall and didn’t stop until we’d reached the end. Then he opened a door and revealed a slice of heaven by my standards. They had a music room. Why was I not surprised?

My feet sank into the soft carpet as I eyed the guitars on the walls. At the center of the room was a baby grand with its lid open. I withheld my cringe and shifted my focus to the saxophones and mandolins by the window facing the front of the ranch.

Why collect instruments if you didn’t play them?

They were expensive models too. The Steinway alone went for almost a hundred grand.

Madonna mia, I’d never been so torn between grief and awe.

“Tell me this isn’t a rich man’s hobby to collect instruments you can’t use,” I blurted out.

King furrowed his brow at me. “I inherited every piece from my mother.”

That brought me a lot of relief. “Thank fuck.”

He became curious. “How do you know I don’t play them?”

“No guitarist worth his salt hangs a collection of Taylors on the wall like that unless he doesn’t intend to play them again.” I wanted to fucking cry. I walked over to the guitars and brushed a hand over one of them. They had to have a cleaning service around this place. There wasn’t a speck of dust. That was something, at least.

“How do you store your own instruments?” he asked. “You said you played several.”