The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins (Mia and Kyle) novel Chapter 488

Mia's POV

The car is warm.

Too warm, maybe. Or maybe that's just me—the champagne still doing its slow work through my bloodstream, turning everything soft at the edges. Kyle's coat is still wrapped around my shoulders, the collar brushing against my jaw every time I breathe. I should give it back. He must be cold. Just that grey t-shirt between his skin and the October night.

I don't move to take it off.

The city slides past the windows. Buildings and streetlights and the occasional late-night pedestrian, all of it blurring together into streaks of light and shadow. We've been driving for maybe five minutes. Maybe ten. Time has gone strange again, the way it does when you're tired and drunk and sitting too close to someone who used to be your husband.

Kyle's hand moves on the dashboard.

I watch it happen in slow motion—his fingers reaching for the stereo, the soft click of a button, and then—

Music.

Not the classical he was playing before. Not Debussy or Satie or any of those melancholy piano pieces that sound like rain on windows. This is different. This is—

Jazz.

A saxophone, low and lazy. A bass line that moves like honey. Drums that brush rather than beat. The kind of music that belongs in smoky bars at 2 AM, in old black-and-white films, in places where people drink whiskey neat and call each other "darling."

I turn my head.

Kyle is looking at the road. Both hands on the wheel now—ten and two, proper driver's position. His jaw is doing that thing, that tight-muscle thing, but his mouth has relaxed into something that's almost a smile. The streetlights slide across his face in intervals. Shadow. Gold. Shadow. Gold.

"What is this?"

My voice comes out strange. Raspy. The champagne and the cigarettes and all the talking by the river have done something to my throat.

"Music."

"I know it's music. I mean—" I gesture at the stereo. The movement makes his coat shift on my shoulders, releasing another wave of that smell. Cedar. Sandalwood. Smoke. "—since when do you listen to jazz?"

"Since always."

"That's not true."

"It's partially true."

"Which part?"

Kyle's hand leaves the wheel. Reaches for the volume dial. Turns it up just slightly—just enough that the saxophone becomes something you feel as much as hear, the notes vibrating through the leather seats, through the floorboards, through the bones of my feet.

"I don't listen to it often," he says. "But that doesn't mean I don't like it."

I stare at him.

The jazz keeps playing. That slow, seductive rhythm that makes everything feel like a dance. The singer comes in now—a woman's voice, deep and rich, singing something about midnight and rain and waiting for someone who might never come.

"You don't listen to jazz."

"I'm listening to it right now."

"Kyle—"

"What?"

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