“Love is nothing more than a meaningless word in a lyric until someone comes along and makes the music to bring it to life … and sweetness, you’re helping me make music for it, one instrument at a time.” The smile spreads wide on my lips, my body reacting to the thought of being played by Hawkin. I laugh softly and need to sate my simmering desire with another kiss, but he holds my face firm. My eyes flick back up to see a new intensity in his gaze.

“I love you, Quinlan.” He murmurs the words but to me it sounds like he is shouting them from the rooftops. And damn it feels good to know we’re both going into this on an open playing field with clear eyes, full hearts, glitches expected, and vulnerability exposed.

“Hey, Hawke?” My heart overflows with so much joy I can hear it in my own voice.

“Mm-hmm?” he murmurs, eyes locked on mine but dick stirring back to life beneath me.

I angle my head and a lascivious smirk turns up the corner of my mouth. “I finally know the answer to the question.”

“The question?”

“If it’s true you can play my body like a guitar.”

He shifts his body some so that he can look at me better, and I love the mischievous smile that lights up his face. “Hmm,” he murmurs as he runs a finger up and down my arm, my body reacting instantly. “So?”

“Well, you sure know how to pluck my strings right,” I say, brushing a soft kiss against his lips that garners me a low hum.

“And?”

“You can make my body sing,” I say, the smile that comes to my lips so natural it’s ridiculous but feels so good.

“We do make beautiful music together,” he says with a snicker.

“Oh God!” I roll my eyes and laugh, breaking the moment. “That was totally corny.”

“It was, wasn’t it?” He leans up and presses his lips to mine. When he lays his head back down, our eyes meet, and there’s something in them that makes my heart beat faster. “I have a bet for you.”

“I thought you swore off bets?”

“Yeah, but there’s no chance in hell I’m gonna lose this one.” He raises his eyebrows in challenge, mouth spread in an arrogant smirk.

“You’re so sure of yourself considering you lost the last one.” I trail my finger up and down his collarbone as if our bodies lying on top of each other weren’t enough of a connection.

“I may have lost in one sense, but I sure as hell won what matters.” And I know he’s just trying to butter me up for whatever bet he wants to make, but it doesn’t stop the ridiculous hitch in my breath from the sentiment.

“Lay it on me, rocker boy.”

“Blind bet,” he asserts and just puts his finger against my lips when I start to disagree. “Loser gets a pink heart on the inside of their wrist in Bent fashion.”

“Hawke …” I look at him as if he’s crazy despite the small thrill that just courses through me over the thought that not only does he love me, but he considers me one of the guys. That’s pretty damn cool. “What are …? I don’t … You already have one! That’s not fair.”

“Agree? Yes or no,” he says, continuing with his little display of authority, which is kind of hot.

I narrow my eyes and stare at him, knowing full well I’m going to agree despite not knowing the terms of this bet. When I don’t respond quickly enough for his liking, he starts tickling me.

“Stop! Stop!” I cry out and try to wriggle away from him to no avail.

“Agree, then.” He laughs.

“Okay! Okay! I agree!” And the minute the words are out of my mouth, he stops his tickle torture.

Our residual laughter fills the room as we both take a second to catch our breath. “I knew you’d see my way of thinking.” When I just roll my eyes, he continues. “So, loser gets a pink heart, right? You get one or I make mine bigger. Agreed?”

“Yes.” I nod my head cautiously.

“Sweet. I guess we better get a future appointment lined up for you with Sledge, then,” he says, making a show of smacking his hands together and rubbing them back and forth in triumph.

“Wait! You’re already declaring victory and I don’t even know the bet yet!”

“Yep!” He falls silent to torture me on purpose.

“The bet, Play …” My patience is waning.

“You have your career to build and we have so much more to experience together first, so not in the immediate future …” He pauses, and we stare at each other for a beat as that slow, shy smile I love lights up his face. “But I bet you that you’ll say yes.”

“Say yes?” What is he talking about? “I say ‘yes’ all the time, so you’re going to have to be a little more specific. Say ‘yes’ to what?” And as the last comment falls from my lips, it dawns on me just what he’s saying to me. The lump forms in my throat instantly, followed by goose bumps blanketing my body. My mind tries to catch up with my heart, but for the first time in forever I don’t want it to. I want to live in the moment. I search his eyes, the emotion in them giving me an answer way before he speaks.

“When I ask you to marry me.”

It’s funny. I figured this was what he was going to say, but hearing it out loud still causes my heart to skip a beat. My smile is so wide my cheeks hurt. “That’s a good question,” I murmur with a calm composure that completely contradicts my racing pulse and overload of happiness.

He pulls me tighter against him, and I hum in contentment as I settle into the comfort of him, knowing the answer I’ll give when the time comes, without a doubt in my mind. It may be a long time off, and we might have more sour notes to face along the way, but Hawkin Play has definitely claimed my heart.

And then it hits me. I snap my head up and look at him as if he’s crazy. “Wait a minute. You’re betting me that I’m going to say no?”

“Took you long enough.” He laughs and presses a kiss to my forehead. “Gotta hedge my bet somehow and your reaction just let me know that I’m going to win this one hands down.”

He stops my sigh of exasperation by pressing his lips to mine. It’s so easy to slip into the kiss with him, so damn natural I feel like everything that has been lacking in my love life for so long finally clicks into place.

And I know that bet or no bet, it doesn’t matter, because this man has wrapped himself around my heart, and I don’t ever want to let him go. I can’t wait to see our future unfold.

Note by note.

      Beat by beat.

            Song by song.

Instrument by instrument.




Continue reading for a preview of

K. Bromberg’s next steamy standalone romance,


HARD BEAT

Coming from Piatkus in November 2015



A hand slaps me on the back firmly. It’s one of many in an impromptu celebration to greet me in the bar of the hotel.

“Welcome back, you crazy fucker!”

Burn out, my ass.

I turn to see Pauly: broad grin, hair falling over his thick glasses, and belly protruding. “Man, it’s good to see you!” As I turn to shake his hand, I’m instantly pulled into his arms for a rough embrace.

He pulls back and cuffs the side of my cheek. “You okay?” It’s the same look that everyone has been giving me and it’s driving me fucking insane. Pity mixed with sadness. But Pauly is allowed to look at me like that since he was there before all the shit hit the fan. And coming back here, I feared this moment, meeting him face-to-face—as if he’d judge me, think it was my fault … but all I feel right now is relief.

It feels so damn good to be back here, with people who get me, who understand why I’d return to work when so many others think I should have given it up to stay home for good. They don’t get that once you’re a nomad, you’re always a nomad. Or that home isn’t where your house is necessarily; it’s where you feel comfortable. And, yes, that comfort can alter over time—your needs shift and your wants change—but I feel more like myself than I have since Stella’s death.

I pull my thoughts back to the here and now, to Pauly and the stale cigarette smoke that hangs in the air around me and the pungent scent of spices coming in through the open windows of the bar.

“I’m better now that I’m back here.” I motion for him to sit down on the barstool next to me.

“Thank God for that. Took Rafe long enough.”

“Almost four months.”

“Shit,” he says in sympathy, knowing what a big deal that is to someone like me.

“Yeah. Tell me about it. The first two months were a mandatory leave of absence, but then, once I threatened to go to CNN, he said he was speeding things up…. Then, fuck, they made me go take another Centurian course.” The Centurian course was a class for foreign correspondents about what to do in hostile environments and how to handle the multitude of things that can go wrong at any given time. “And then I was told they couldn’t find a photographer who wanted to travel to this paradise…. It was one damn thing after another.”

“So in other words he was dragging his feet so he could get you back here on his time frame.”

“Exactly.” I nod my head and bring my bottle up to my lips. “He thought I needed a break—probably afraid that I’m going to burn out….” I motion for the bartender to bring us another couple of beers.

“We’re all going to at some point. In the meantime”—he taps the neck of his beer bottle against mine—“might as well get our fix.”

“Amen, brother. So, tell me what the hell has been happening while I’ve been gone.” The need to change the subject is paramount for me right now. I know Stella is going to be everywhere here, but I need a way to make her not so present in my mind so I can focus on doing my job.

At least it’s a good theory.

“I’m hearing that some new players have moved into the game and that there’s a high-official meet in the works, but we can talk shop later. Right now we need to welcome you back properly.” Pauly raises his voice to shout the last few words, and in agreement the crowd of people around us, mostly men, raise their glasses and call out a few “aye, ayes.”

The excitement around me is palpable. It doesn’t take much in this place to give people a reason to celebrate. We all live on that razor-thin edge of unpredictability in this godforsaken land, so we take the chances we get to party, because who knows when we’ll get another one? For all we know, tomorrow we could be on air-raid-siren lockdown in the hotel or out in the field, embedded on a mission with a military unit.

When I turn back around the bartender is busily filling the row of shot glasses on the bar in front of me with Fireball whisky. History tells me that this row will be the first of many in tonight’s welcome-back celebration. My inclination is to chug back the first shot and then slowly work my way out of the bar and to my room.

It’s been a long-ass few days. Between flights through multiple time zones and then a transport into the heart of the city, plus trying to reconnect with my sources to let them know I’m back in town so I can grease their palms some, I’m exhausted, exhilarated, and feeling a little more like myself, back in the thick of things, doing exactly what I love.

“C’mon, T Squared,” Carson yells as he slaps his hand on the bar. Hearing the nickname, which refers to my initials, is like a welcome mat laid before me, and right then I know there is no way in hell I’m skipping out on this party.

“I’m game if you’re game!” I hold a glass up for him and wait for everyone close to us to grab a shot. The jostling of more people patting my shoulders, accompanied by “Welcome back” comments, causes the amber liquid to slosh over the side of the shot glass.

“Shh. Shh. Shh,” Pauly instructs our friends as he stands on his chair, holding up his own glass. “Tanner Thomas, we are so glad to see your ugly ass back in this shit hole we can’t seem to leave. I’m sure once you hand our asses to us time and again by getting the stories first, we’ll want you to leave, but for now we’re glad you’re here. Slainte!” As soon as he finishes the toast, the room around us erupts into cheers before we all toss back the whisky.

I welcome the burn, and before the sting even abates, my glass is already being refilled. When I look up from the glass my eyes lock on a woman I hadn’t noticed at the other side of the bar. The momentary connection affords me a glimpse of dark hair and light eyes as she lifts her drink and nods to me, but as soon as I register she’s doing it on purpose, someone moves and blocks my view of her.

But I keep my eyes fixed in that direction, wanting another glance of the mysterious woman. She doesn’t look familiar to me, but at the same time, something more than curiosity pulls at me. It’s been four long months—she could be anybody—but it bugs me that I don’t know who she is.