Miranda wasn’t sure what she’d expected. He’d said he was the balladeer, so something soulful, maybe. Something blatantly sexy. But as he fixed his eyes on her and her alone and began to play, he sang a prayer. His rich baritone wrapped around her, creating a cocoon from everybody and everything else as he sang of a man who’d hit bottom and lost everything that mattered—including the woman he loved. It was a song of apology, one that seduced her, not only in the simplicity of the plea for a second chance, but in the sincerity of his performance. His gaze never wavered from hers, and the vulnerability he put on display broke through the wall she’d determinedly erected against him.
By the time the last notes died away, Miranda understood that Clay had spoken nothing more than the truth abou
