“That’s different,” I replied. “I don’t own an instrument that I don’t use at least once a week.” I’d been thinking about turning my second bedroom into storage for my instruments, now that Nicky wasn’t using it anymore. So far, I had a pantry under the staircase that I definitely didn’t store food in. I also had a walk-in closet on the first floor that’d become a storage unit for my guitars. “You know how leather gets softer when you wear it? And how a cast iron skillet gets better the more you use it?”

“I’m surprised you know that last one.”

I chuckled. “My grandmother is Italian. Some shit rubs off, I guess.”

He smiled and sat down on the piano bench. “I think I know where you’re goin’ with this.”

I nodded. “Guitars are the same.” Touching a guitar was actually good, especially older ones that didn’t have a thick coat of glossy finish. The natural grease in our hands softened the wood and prevented it from cracking, and I explained that to the master chef.

“Duly noted. I should come in here every day and stroke the wood.”

I snorted and shook my head in amusement. Then I sat down next to him, only I faced the piano instead. “This is beautiful.” I ghosted my fingers over the keys but didn’t play them. “Was your mother a musician?” I searched the walls for clues; there were no pictures, but several vintage posters that’d been framed. Promotional posters for burlesque shows, classical concerts, and paintings of great composers. A wild mix.

“Nothing that went beyond singing in her church,” King answered. “But her second husband was a pianist, her favorite uncle toured in a blues band, and her brother—who died in a car accident in his twenties—was a guitar player. It’s his collection on the wall.” He got up from the bench and leaned back against a wall instead. “Will you play something?”

If you want.

I tested the keys, bracing myself for the worst, and was surprised to find the piano perfectly tuned.

King must’ve seen the surprise on my face. “I take good care of everythin’ in here.”

Evidently.

I shifted in my seat. “Sorry about my bitchy outburst earlier, then.”

He chuckled. “You’re protective of instruments. It’s sweet.”

Occupational hazard.

“On that note, I advise you to keep this lid closed when you’re not here.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He paused before he spoke again. “Do you know any classical music? I loved listening to my stepfather when he played.”

I was happy to be of service. “Do you have a preference?” Since the last piece I’d played was “Für Elise” with James, I tinkered on the beginning for King, knowing it would forever be the most recognizable work.