BPOV

The most beautiful music pulled me from a peaceful slumber, the first I'd had in too long. I reached for Edward, expecting him to be lying next to me, but he wasn't. My eyes opened and I looked around his room, but he wasn't there. The door to his bedroom was open, and I climbed out of bed and walked into the living room, stopping when I saw Edward sitting at his keyboard. His eyes were closed and his fingers were flying across the key. There was so much passion in his music, so much energy. It was amazing and breathtaking, and I had the sudden urge to paint him.

"I can feel you staring at me," he murmured, his eyes opening and looking at me with a smile on his face. "Did I wake you?"

I nodded. "How'd you learn to play?"

Edward inhaled a deep breath as he finished his song and let his hands fall into his lap. "There, um, was this little old lady who lived in our building. She used to sit by her window and look out at all the kids playing on the sidewalks and in the street. She always had music playing. Mostly classical, but blues and jazz, too. And, um, when I was eight, things got bad at home. My dad had lost another job and they were flushing every cent they did have on drugs. They were fighting, and when I was around, they um . . . Well, let's just say things got bad and I wasn't spending a lot of time at home. One day, after about three weeks of finding shit to do, Mrs. Delaney asked me to come help her move some stuff around in her apartment. She offered to pay me, so I took her up on it. She had dozens of boxes full of records."

Edward paused and smiled. "She pulled out a B. B. King album and played it. It was . . . it was like being in the most loving embraces. I loved it. It felt . . ."

"Natural," I whispered, causing him to look up at me. "That's how I feel with my art. I can't not paint."

"Exactly," he chuckled. "Um, anyway, Mrs. Delaney told me I could come listen to her records anytime I wanted. I was there every day. First thing in the morning until late at night. I listened to every single one she had, just let them sink into my soul until I knew them by heart. One day, about four months later, my parents had a really bad fight, and I'd gotten in the way. Mrs. Delaney found me hiding in the laundry room. She took one look at the bruises on my arms and face and wrapped me in her arms. I thought she was taking me to her apartment, but she didn't. Instead, she took me down the street to the ice cream parlor and bought me a big, chocolate sundae. When I was done with it, she leaned up and placed her elbow on the table and asked me who my favorite musician was. I immediately said Hampton Hawes."

"Who was he?" I asked.

Edward stood up and walked past me into the kitchen. I followed, watching as he started a pot of coffee. "He was a jazz pianist from the fifties. His sound is amazing. Smooth like silk, full of emotional and raw power. Mrs. Delaney nodded and tossed my empty ice cream dish in the trash. She told me to follow her, and I did. She led me three more blocks away to a small pawn shop. I'd been in places like that before when my parents needed money. They'd sell everything they could get their hands on, anything for their next hit."

He poured us both a cup of coffee, gesturing to the sugar and creamer, which I refused with a shake of my head. "I stood there while she looked over the keyboards. After twenty minutes, she pointed to this huge, black one and said she wanted it. She and the guy haggled over the price, but she managed to get him to give it to her for less than half of the ticket price," he laughed. "Nobody argued with Mrs. Delaney. Anyway, she and I carried it back to her apartment and we set it up on her dining room table. I turned to leave, but she placed her hand on my shoulder and told me to sit down, so I did. She said that someone like me needs a passion. So she began to teach me how to play. We started with the basics. I just fell in love with it. It's all that got me through the day."

Edward turned and leaned against the counter. "She died in her sleep about a year before my dad overdosed. She was the only person I had, you know? The only one who'd ever given a fuck about me." He shook his head. "She called social services on my parents when I was nine, told them my parents were abusing me. They barely looked around, listened to my parents crying about how they were looking for work and how they loved me." Edward snorted. "After they left, my dad beat the fuck out of me. I could barely move when he was done.

"After she died, I thought I'd never get to play again. And then my dad died, and my mom turned against me even more. I just tried to survive. When I got to Vegas and found my job over at the bar, I used my first paycheck and bought my keyboard. I spent every moment I could relearning how to play, letting the music be my companion."

"You're very good," I said, softly. "Do you write your own music, too?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "I try, but lately it hadn't really been working for me."

"Yeah, my muse left me," I murmured, leaning against the counter next to him. I laid my head on his shoulder. "I like listening to you play. It was . . . inspiring."

"Yeah?" he asked, and I nodded. "You inspire me."

I wasn't sure what to say so instead I laughed and pushed way from the counter, walking back into the living room.

"Something I said?" he asked.

I shook my head. "I'm just not used to anyone being so . . . nice."

"That's me," he scoffed, sitting on the couch. "Mr. Nice Guy."

"I didn't mean it as a bad thing," I fretted, sitting on the opposite side of the couch.

"No, I know." He closed his eyes for a moment before looking over at me. "What's your plans for today?"

"Um, well, I should probably go to the market and buy food. And one of my customers from the diner told me to call him about a possible job opportunity, so I guess I need to make the call."

"What kind of job?" Edward asked.

I shrugged my shoulders. "I don't know."

"Hmm," he hummed.

There was a look on his face that had me frowning. "What?"

"Nothing," he groused.

"Clearly it's not nothing," I said, feeling my heart race. "Are . . . are you mad at me?"

"No," he replied. "Why would I be mad at you?"

"I — I don't know," I whimpered, struggling to keep my breathing even.

"Hey, calm down." Edward reached out and grabbed my hands, bringing them up to his lips. "I'm not mad, I swear."

Closing my eyes, I nodded. "His name is Sam. He and his wife Emily were . . . or are regulars. They have two little girls, Bridgett and Cassie, who are beautiful and . . ." I smiled as I looked over at him. "Sam's one of the good guys. He doesn't put up with a lot of bullshit, and has stepped up before when people are assholes toward me. So when he tells me that he has a job for me, I feel the need to at least call him."

"Okay," Edward said. "You don't have to explain anything you do to me, Bella."

"I'm just not used to this," I mumbled.

"Me either," he admitted. "Are you going to call Marcus?"

Felt my shoulder tense. "I don't know what to say to him."

"Are you having second thoughts about doing the test?"

"No," I said, shaking my head. "I need to know. If they're really my family, I need to know, but I'm scared because if they are my family, I don't know how I'm going to be able to handle that."

Edward pulled me into his lap, wrapping his arms around me. "I think you just take it one step at a time. You know, do the test. And then take it from there."

"Yeah, maybe," I murmured.

I sat in Edward's lap for several minutes before I headed into his bedroom and fished my cell phone out of my jeans. While Edward piddled around his apartment, I did my bed to settle my nerves and called Sam. The phone rang three times before I heard a click and a rushed, "Hello."

"Sam," I whispered.

"Yeah, this is Sam. Who's this?" he asked.

"Um, it's Bella," I stammered. "From Call's Diner."

"Oh, hey," he said, sounding cheerful. "I was starting to think you weren't going to call."

"Yeah, sorry," I muttered. "Things just . . . got insane."

"I understand that," he scoffed. "So, I'm assuming that you're calling because you're interested in the job offer?"

"I'd like to at least hear about it," I said.

"And I'd like to tell you, but not over the phone," he explained. "Can you meet me for lunch? Say at eleven-thirty at Garcia's? On me, of course."

I bit my lip. "Um, yeah, I guess so. Can I ask you a question first?"

"Sure."

"Why me?" I asked.

Through the phone, I heard Sam sigh. "Because you matter."

And before I could reply, he hung up. Frowning, I tossed my phone on the bed and walked back into the living room, once again finding Edward bent over his keyboard. He smiled and looked up at me.

"How'd it go?"

"Um, good I guess. I mean, he didn't give me any details," I explained, and when he lifted an eyebrow, I added, "He wants to treat me to lunch over at Garcia's."

"Oh," was all he said before looking back down at his sheet music. "I've heard they have good food."

"Yeah."

"I have to go into the bar early," he said, looking back up at me. "Got to be there for a delivery. Will you come by afterward? You can come in through the back."

"Yeah, okay," I agreed. "I should probably get going. I need to shower and . . ."

Edward nodded as he stood up and walked around his keyboard, wrapping his arms around my. His lips found mine. "I'll see you later."

"Mmhmm," I murmured.

—SMTS—

I showed up at Garcia's five minutes early, only to find Sam already there. He stood up as the hostess led me to the table, pulling my chair back and giving me a genuine smile. It was odd and comforting and I wasn't sure what to make of it. I mean, I knew Sam wasn't flirting; he was happily married to Emily, but he wasn't normally this . . . charming?

Instead of the polyester uniform he typically wore, he was wearing a pair of dark slacks and a white dress shirt. The hostess asked me what I'd like to drink. Stammering, I ordered a glass of ice tea. The moment she was gone, Sam leaned forward, placing his elbow on the table.

"You look like you're about to puke," he laughed.

"Kind of feeling like it," I admitted. "Sorry, I'm just not used to this kind of stuff."

"What kind of stuff?" he asked. "Eating somewhere other than that diner?"

I nodded. "I don't . . . I didn't make a lot there. I learned to be thrifty."

"Suppose you did," he murmured, leaning away from me as our waitress placed an ice tea in front of us both.

"Are you ready to order?" she asked, her eyes flickering from him to me and back.

"I'll take my usual," he ordered.

She smiled and nodded before turning back to me. "And for you?"

"Um," I mumbled, picking up the menu.

"She'll take the same as me," Sam said, flashing me a polite smile. "I promise you'll like it."

"Okay," I replied, closing the menu and handing it to her.

"I'll get these right out." And with that, she was gone.

"So." Sam leaned forward again. "The job."

"Yeah, the job," I echoed. "I feel like I should tell you now that I don't have a lot of experience doing anything other than working at the diner. It's really the only job I've ever had."

Sam put a hand up. "Whoa, just hold on, okay? Let me explain what I'm offering and then we can discuss whether or not you're right for the position."

"Okay," I said.

"First, I run a small security company. Businesses, such as the casinos, hire me to come in and test their teams, evaluate their systems, and advise in ways to increase their coverage. For the last few months, my team and I have been working inside various casinos, which is why I've been wearing the uniform from the MGM Grand. Normally, Emily runs my office, but with the girls getting older and Cassie starting school in the fall, she wants to step back, which means I need someone to run the day to day operations of my business."

"And you think that's me?" I asked.

"I do," he said with a smile.

I scoffed. "You're insane."

"And why is that?"

"Because I don't know the first thing about running an office," I exclaimed. "I can barely use a computer!"

"Emily will train you," he said, like it wasn't a big deal.

I shook my head.

"Bella, look, I know I'm taking a gamble here, but I believe that you have more potential than serving slop to a bunch of drunken assholes," he quipped. "And Emily agrees with me."

I fell back in my seat, unsure of what to say. Our waitress choose that moment to place our food in front of us. Sitting on the two royal blues plates were bacon cheeseburger and cheese-fries. Sam thanked her before popping one of his fries into his mouth.

"Why are you doing this?" I asked, unable to keep the quiver from lacing my words. "You don't know me, Sam. For all you know, I'm a criminal."

"I know more than you think," he replied, causing my eyes to widen. "I get paid to be observant, Bella. I knew immediately that you'd been through hell."

"I see," I said, picking a fry off my plate. "So you're what? Offering me this job out of pity?"

"No. I'm offering you this job because for a year now, I've been watching you. Watching the way you interact with your customers, going the extra step to ensure that their trip to the diner was the best it could be. And I watched you with the old man, your father," he said with caution.

I inhaled a sharp breath. "You knew who he was and didn't tell me?"

"No," he was quick to deny. "I only learned that the old man was your father recently. I don't know all the details, Bella, but from what I do know, after you were abducted, your father . . . struggled. He . . . never got over your kidnapping and slowly over time, began to change. Then about six years ago, he disappeared. Walked away from everything. His wife, his son, everything. It wasn't until you rushed him to the hospital that he resurfaced."

I brought my hand up to my chest, tears flooding my eyes. "So you're saying that I was kidnapped? That my parents didn't send me away?"

Sam nodded.

A sob trickled out of my mouth. Sam reached for my hand, but I pulled away. "Don't touch me."

"Okay, I'm sorry," he said, leaning away from me.

"And so that means you know about him?" I asked. "The man who . . ."

"Yes, I know about Phil Dwyer," he murmured.

A tear trickled down my face, followed by another and another. Standing up, I cried, "I'm sorry. I have to go."

Sam nodded. "Think about the job offer. No pressure, just think about it."

Weeping softly, I told him I would and rushed out of the restaurant feeling like even more than a freak than I normally did. Everything I thought I knew was falling apart, and I didn't know what to do. For fifteen years, I'd believed that my parents sent me away, that they hadn't wanted me anymore, but now, it seemed like everything I thought I knew was nothing but one big lie.

Thank you for all your reviews. Thoughts on Sam's offer?