Can a man’s secret yearnings be revealed in a tank full of fish?
Love You So Special
(Love You So Series, bk 3)
by Tara Lain
Blurb:
Artie Haynes knows he’s nothing special, with just-your-regular-brown hair, a solid plumber’s job, not much education, and a family that can barely get off the couch. But Artie has quirks—like his love of tropical fish, a landlord who’s a professor of existentialism, a passion for the amazing piano music he hears at a concert hall while he’s fixing the bathrooms—and the fact that he’s never come out as gay and probably never will. But when he’s hired to build a guesthouse for the pianist whose music enchanted him, Artie is swept up into an unimaginable world.
Francois Desmarais may be famous, rich, and revered as one of the world’s great classical composers and pianists, but he’s soothed and challenged by the inquisitive, stalwart, protective man in his back yard. When Francois’s terrible fear of crowds turns into a dangerous plot, Artie can stay in the closet or prove just how special he is.
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Excerpt
Francois
pointed to a door farther down the hall, and Artie strode there feeling the
heat of Madame’s stare between his shoulder blades. He opened the door for
Francois, and they both stepped into the subdued lighting of the offstage area.
The sounds of voices and feet moving around filtered through the heavy curtain
that separated the stage from the audience as people moved back to their seats
after the intermission. A huge black piano stood in the middle of the stage.
Artie
totally got why this was scary. Giant numbers of eyes would be staring up at
Francois as he tried to play, some of them admiring, some bored, maybe even
some pissed-off. Francois said everyone knew he was gay. What if somebody in
that mass of people hated gay men? Shit,
what if they decided to make some statement?
Francois’s
whole body trembled. Artie tightened his hand on that tense arm.
Shit, take a breath. Stop freaking yourself out.
Remember why you’re here. “Have you ever considered asking
for a white piano?”
Francois
frowned. “What?”
“You
know, like shiny white? We could get you a sequined suit.”
His
expression went from outraged to amused. “Uh, you were thinking I should play
‘Pinball Wizard’?”
“Nah.
‘Bennie and the Jets.’”
His teeth
were now showing. “I’ve got it. ‘The Bitch is Back.’”
Artie
laughed. “There you go. That’s my boy. Give ’em hell.”
His smile
faded, but he didn’t look scared. “I like being your boy.” He leaned forward,
pecked Artie on the lips, then grinned. “That was for luck.” Chuckling, he
turned and strode onto the big bare stage just as the curtains slid apart and
the place burst into an ocean of yells, applause, and enthusiasm.
Francois
never faced the audience or bowed. Maybe people wondered why he walked in from
the back of the piano and crossed around to the keyboard, but he didn’t look
awkward. He just slid onto the piano bench, looked up at Artie—and winked.
Before
Artie even stopped vibrating, music poured from the piano, and Artie didn’t
care if he never thought again. All he wanted to do was feel. He thrust out a
hand until he felt a wall, staggered toward it, and leaned. Hold me up. The music flowed through him
like a shot of bourbon with a beer chaser and a mouthful of Francois’s
champagne. Wow, what would it be like to be able to create that? Francois’s
brain must be full of music all the time.
The piano
looped and soared, raising Artie’s heart into his throat, then dropping it to
his belly. Francois’s eyes were mostly closed, but every now and then he’d open
them and gaze at Artie. Then a hint of a smile would turn his lips as his
eyelids drifted shut again.
No one
but Francois could sound like that. He was sure of that. Artie might not be an
expert, but he’d listened to a lot of other piano players on YouTube since he’d
started working for Madame, and to his mind, Francois was the best.
He slowly
let his breath slide out between his lips and lolled his head against the wall.
Man, I’d settle for just hearing that
music every day forever.
His head
snapped up. Holy shit, do I really feel
that way? He stared hard at Francois’s spectacular face framed by the
impossible-to-control pale blond hair like a wacky halo. The guy was weird,
temperamental, and about as obviously gay as anybody since Elton John. Just
showing up somewhere with him could blow Artie’s whole fucking cover. But
looking at that face made his cock do some kind of happy dance, just when he’d
been thinking he wasn’t much of a dancer.
Maybe I’ve got to break down and tell him I’m gay.
Like he’d
heard Artie’s thoughts, Francois’s eyes opened. For a moment he looked dreamy;
then he cocked his head and broke out in the one full-wattage smile he’d shown
the whole night.
Artie
fell back a step as if he’d been hit with a laser beam, and his perfectly
tailored trousers felt like his too-tight jeans.
The music
built and soared. Francois’s stare barely left Artie’s face, and Artie wanted
to run across the stage, slide over the piano, and kiss Francois—among other
things. As Francois crashed to the end, he might have puckered his lips at
Artie—or maybe Artie imagined it.
Their
eyes clung as the audience went apeshit. Whereas they’d been enthusiastic when
he walked in, clapping and cheering loudly, this time they practically rose to
NFL proportions, cheering along with the applause.
Then the
miracle happened. Francois rose from the piano, his chest expanded with what
had to be a huge breath—and he turned to the audience and bowed.
Artie
peered in the open front door of the Desmarais’s house. No way he’d pass that
opportunity up. He stepped inside and followed the sound of voices. Man, what a house. All fancy and
traditional and shit, with paintings on the walls of scary-looking people.
Funny. He wouldn’t exactly expect that messy, casual, snarky guy to live in a
house like this.
He walked
quietly down the hall the woman had run down. Voices came from ahead of him.
“The man
said you were hurt, Senor Desmarais.”
“I’m
okay. I’m fine. Just go back to—whatever. Honest, I’m fine.”
“But he
said—”
“Where is
this man?” He sounded pissed and upset.
Artie
stepped into the doorway. He might get a vase in the face, but—he just needed
to be sure Francois was okay. “I’m here. Sorry. I was just worried that you
were hurt.”
“Why?
Because you scared the bloody hell out of me and made me fall on my butt?”
Artie
fought a smile. Francois must be feeling better if he could be a wiseass.
“Yeah. Sorry about that.”
The woman
looked back and forth between them like she was watching tennis.
Francois
crossed his arms. “It’s okay, Maria. I want to talk to Artie here for a minute.
Thanks so much for looking out for me.”
“But—”
She looked seriously uncertain.
He waved a
hand. “It’s okay. Honest.”
“Your
mama—”
He turned
a full frown on her. “What does my mother have to do with this?”
“Nothing.”
She shook her head. “Can I get you anything?”
“No
thanks. I’ll get it.” He walked to the door of the room, herding her toward it.
When they got there, he smiled, thanked her again, and closed the door; then he
turned to Artie with a crease between his eyebrows—barely visible under his
pale, shaggy bangs. “So why are you messing in my life? What business is it of
yours?”
Good question. Artie gave
Francois a look. The gorgeous face was still blotchy from crying, and he
vibrated with stress. “Look, crying’s one thing. Everybody needs a good cry
sometimes.” Francois looked shocked at that statement, but Artie pushed on.
“But when I hear your music going all to shit, I figure something’s really
wrong, and I don’t see anybody doing fuck about it, so—” He shrugged and took a
breath. “—I did. Sorry I scared you, but I couldn’t think of what else to do.”
He let his eyes meet Francois’s.
Francois
stared at him like maybe he’d lost his mind—or maybe he’d found it. Somewhere
in between. “What do you mean, my music went to shit?”
Artie
gave him a duh look. “You were all
over the place. All angry and making no sense. It sounded like you were pissed
at the piano. I mean, when you write, you stop and start, but it has a flow.
You know? This didn’t. It was just like a bunch of notes, like—” Artie stopped
because Francois’s lips were parted and he looked like he might pass out. Well, hell. “Look, I don’t mean anything
by it. I never heard better music than you play, but what the fuck do I know?
I’m just a plumber. So don’t pay any attention to—”
“How do
you even know that?”
“What?”
“What my
music sounds like. How I was all over the place?”
Artie
pointed toward the window. “I listen.” He held up his hands. “Don’t get me
wrong, I don’t eavesdrop. But I work right out there. How could I not hear?”
“You
listen.” He said the word like he was sleepwalking, and his eyes got all shiny.
“People pay huge prices for tickets to my concerts and don’t listen!” Shit, is he going to cry again?
Artie
didn’t say anything. Hell, he didn’t know what else to say. But crying men
weren’t really an everyday thing for him. He’d never seen his father cry. His
brother, a little, but never any guy he worked with, even when they got hurt
bad.
I cry. Alone, under a pillow. Sometimes to the fish. I
know what that feels like. He’d stick his fingers in the
water and let them nibble just to have something touch him that wasn’t cold or
hurting. Tentatively, he reached out and put a hand on Francois’s arm. “It’s
okay.”
The
crease flashed between his brows as he stared at Artie’s hand. “What’s okay?”
“Whatever.”
Artie smiled. “All of it. Sometimes being a particular way is just a pile of
shit.” Jesus, he didn’t even know why he’d said that.
Francois
gasped—and suddenly Artie had an armload of guy. Francois threw his arms around
Artie’s neck and just squeezed.
Love You So Series
Bk 1
LOVE YOU SO HARD
Bk 2
LOVE YOU SO MADLY
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About the Author
Tara Lain writes the Beautiful Boys of Romance in LGBT romance novels that star her unique, charismatic heroes. Her best-selling novels have garnered awards for Best Series, Best Contemporary Romance, Best Erotic Romance, Best Ménage, Best LGBT Romance, Best Gay Characters, and more. Readers often call her books “sweet,” even with all that hawt sex, because Tara believes in love and her books deliver on happily-ever-after. In addition to writing dozens and dozens of romance novels, Tara also owns an advertising and public relations firm. Her love of creating book titles comes from years of manifesting ad headlines for everything from analytical instruments to semiconductors. She does workshops on both author promotion and writing craft. Together with her soulmate husband and her soulmate Dog, she recently realized a vision to live where there were a lot more trees and a lot fewer cars by moving to Ashland, Oregon. She hasn’t stopped smiling since.
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