The Billionaire's Bought Bride and Instant Mom Chapter 9

Aveline

"That sounds perfect," I said, settling into the chair across from the piano bench.

"I'll be downstairs if you need anything." Mitchell paused at the doorway, looking at Ryan with something close to wonder. "And Dr. Reeves? Thank you. I haven't seen Master Ryan smile in... well, in longer than I care to remember."

The door closed with a soft click, leaving Ryan and me alone in the spacious music room. Unlike before, when he'd retreated into his shell, he turned to face me fully, those remarkable eyes studying my face with open curiosity.

"You do smell like roses," he said suddenly, his voice clear but with that innocent directness only children possess.

I had to smile. "What about other people? How do they smell?"

"Bad different," he said, scrunching up his nose. "Like... like when someone uses too much soap and perfume all mixed together."

He paused thoughtfully. "Miss Hart always smells like she spilled a whole bottle of flower water on herself. It makes my nose hurt."

Then he looked at me with a small smile. "But you smell nice, like the garden after it rains."

"Well, thank you. That's very sweet of you to say."

He was quiet for a moment, then looked at me with the kind of serious expression that seemed too old for his face. "What are you going to teach me?"

The question was so direct, so matter-of-fact, that it caught me off guard. "What do you think I'm here to teach you?"

"I don't know. That's why I asked." He swung his legs from the piano bench, his feet not quite reaching the floor. "Are you like Miss Hart? Are you going to try to make me sing better?"

"I'm not a music teacher," I said gently. "I'm what's called a psychology teacher, a special kind of teacher. Do you know what that means?"

Ryan's expression grew thoughtful, then slightly guarded. "Are you here because they think I'm a problem kid?"

The question was asked so simply, without self-pity or drama, that it made my chest tight. "Do you think you're a problem?"

"Everyone else does." He said it like he was stating a fact about the weather. "Miss Hart said so. And the teacher before her. They all say I don't talk right or act right." He looked at me directly. "Are you going to try to fix me too?"

I moved to the chair across from him, wanting to be at his eye level. "You know what, Ryan? I don't think you need fixing. I think you're exactly who you're supposed to be. I'm just here to talk with you, maybe be your friend if you'd like that."

His eyes widened, as if he hadn't expected that answer. "Really? Just talk?"

"Just talk. And maybe play, if you want to. Whatever makes you happy."

For the first time since Melody had left, his face lit up with genuine excitement. "I would like that! I don't have many friends. Just Mitchell, but he's always busy with grown-up things."

He seemed to consider something, then slid off the piano bench. "Do you want to see something? I can play a song, but it's not very good yet."

"I'd love to hear it."

He climbed back onto the bench, his small hands finding the keys with careful precision. "It's called 'Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.' Mitchell taught me, but I keep messing up the middle part."

He began to play, his fingers moving slowly across the keys. The melody was recognizable but slightly halting, with a few wrong notes scattered throughout—exactly what you'd expect from a five-year-old learning piano.

But there was something else. Even with the mistakes, even with the childish tempo, there was an underlying sense of pitch that was absolutely perfect. When he hit a wrong note, he immediately corrected it, not by looking at the keys but by listening.

"That was lovely," I said when he finished. "You have a good ear for music."

"I like how the notes sound," he said simply. "Some of them are happy notes and some are sad notes. That one—" He pressed middle C. "That one always sounds honest to me."

I felt my breath catch. "Honest?"

"Like it's telling the truth. And this one—" He pressed F-sharp. "This one sounds like it's asking a question."

Perfect pitch. And not just perfect pitch—he was assigning emotional characteristics to individual notes. The level of musical intuition he was displaying was extraordinary.

"That's a beautiful way to think about music," I said carefully. "Do all the notes have feelings to you?"

"Uh-huh." He played a simple scale, pausing on certain notes. "This one is sleepy, this one is excited, this one is worried." He looked at me with those dark eyes. "Do other people hear the feelings too?"

"Some do," I said gently. "You have a very special gift, Ryan."

He beamed at that, his whole face transforming. "Really?"

"Really. Would you like to play something together? We could take turns, like having a conversation with the piano."

"You know how to play?" His excitement was infectious.

"A little. Not as well as you, though."

I played a simple, gentle melody—a musical question. Ryan listened intently, his head tilted to one side, then played back an answer that was perfectly in key and somehow perfectly suited to what I'd played.

"That was wonderful," I said. "It's like you really were talking with the music."

"I was!" He bounced excitedly on the bench, then suddenly jumped down. "Oh! Do you want to see my room? I have so many toys! Come on, come on!"