-10-
Grant
There was a restaurant across the street from the music shop, and once I had all the paperwork filled out for my insurance claim, Tara and I ventured over.
“Do you want to go home and change?” I asked, eying her tight shorts and bare midriff. The long-sleeved costume was dark lace and accentuated her curves. I didn’t mind one bit the way she looked, but I also wanted her to be comfortable. Plus I was hoping for an excuse to drop off the cello at my place, change into different clothes myself, and meet her somewhere.
It’d feel more like a date that way.
She pulled the knot of blonde hair on the top of her head, tightening the loop so it wouldn’t fall. “Nope. I don’t care what people think. It’s their problem, not mine. And I don’t really have time. I’ve got a . . . thing later.”
It was a Friday night, so the restaurant was busy, but the counter at the bar was mostly empty, and we took three chairs—one for each of us, and one to lean the large black cello case against.
She ordered a gin and tonic, and I ordered beer, and while we waited for the bartender to pour our drinks, Tara’s gaze zeroed in on me. “Do you like performing on your own?”
Naturally, I did. “Solos are usually awarded through competition.”
“Oh, right.” She crossed her arms, leaned on the bar, and smiled knowingly at me. “Your competitive nature.”
“Yes,” I said, answering her question in earnest. “I like performing solos.” It was the way she’d looked at me when I’d played for her that left me completely disarmed. It made me willing to be vulnerable. “I learned early on in my life,” I said, “to take every chance I got to be in the spotlight, otherwise I wouldn’t be seen. I’m the youngest of three kids, and the least successful.”
By a lot. My oldest brother, Joshua, had started his own company, and Pieter was a doctor. Even growing up, I’d struggled for our parents’ attention. I didn’t get the same high marks in school my brothers did. I didn’t beat my father in chess like Pieter, or get into the prestigious Michaelhouse school like Joshua. My brothers cast such big shadows, I rarely got to be in the light.
The bartender set our drinks down in front of us, but Tara ignored hers, her eyes going wide. “I get it. I have two older sisters, and let me tell you, if I ever need to feel inadequate or like I’m wasting my life, I just spend five minutes with them, and problem solved.” She made a face then reached for her drink. “Let’s forget about that. Since you love competition so much, have you heard of the show Dance Dreams?”
I was halfway to taking a sip of my beer but paused. “Uh, can’t say I have.”
“It’s sort of like The Voice, but for dance. People who make it on the show are put into groups, and they compete against each other every week.”
A weird sensation prickled across my neck. It was awareness that she was telling me this for a reason, and I wasn’t sure how I was going to feel about that reason. I also didn’t want to admit that although I worked in television, I rarely watched it. “Oh,” I said, because I had no idea what else to say. “Reality television?”
“Yeah. Before you finish putting on that face of full-blown judgement, I should probably tell you I’m planning to audition for next season.”
My dubiousness faded. “You should. You’re a brilliant dancer.”
Her tone was pure amusement. “You do know that piece I performed today wasn’t supposed to be interactive, right?” She leaned over, gently nudging me in my chest with her shoulder. “But thanks.”
It was strange how comfortable she was. Not just in what she was wearing, or what she said, but how friendly her gestures were. I’d been in the States for ten years, and it still struck me how different the culture could be. American women often felt . . . distant.
But perhaps I’d been dating the wrong women.
“I haven’t told anyone,” she said, like the thought just occurred to her, “that I’m planning to audition. You’re the first.”
“Why’s that?”
Her soft eyebrows pulled together, creating a crease between them. “I don’t know. Maybe because telling people makes it harder. It makes it real.” She ran a fingertip absentmindedly along the rim of her glass. “Pretty much everyone who auditions is going to be straight out of high school or in college. I’m twenty-eight. The cutoff age is thirty.” Her blue eyes were full of hesitation. “I don’t want to be one of those fools who’s delusional about their chances.”
“Tara, there’s no way. When you were dancing, I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”
She laughed softly. “That’s because you want to get in my pants.”
I struggled not to drop my beer. Since she’d offered it . . . “Well, you might not be wrong about that.” Her directness wasn’t just a huge turn-on, it took the guessing out on whether she was interested. “But you were the best one up on that stage, and if you don’t know that, you’re crazy.”
“You’re sweet, but those kids are going to give me some stiff competition. The guy who won last year? He walked away from a principal spot in the New York City ballet.” She swiveled her seat until her knee was subtly against my thigh. “Any chance you want to help me?”
My dick stirred, which was ridiculous. She was barely touching me, and not in a sexual way. I struggled to keep my tone even. “Help how?”
“The Coldplay song you played . . . ‘The Scientist.’ I was already planning to use it for my audition.” She blinked her big eyes at me, and they were filled with hope. “If you played it live, it’d give me an advantage. I’d stand out from all the other hopefuls.”
I couldn’t process what she was asking. “You want me to go on a reality TV show with you?”
“No, I want you to compete with me on a reality TV show.”
I delivered a tight smile. “I see what you did there.”
“Oh, Grant.” Her expression was devious, and she set a hand on my knee. “You’re not the only one allowed to use manipulation to get what they want.”
Her touch filled my body with static.
It wasn’t the first time a woman had come on to me with an agenda. I was a handsome guy, who played rugby and had an accent the girls declared sexy. I was a status to claim in college. Even Morgan had me questioning her motives about our relationship since I had some control over how much on-air time she got.
But this was a first—a woman who wanted me for my ability to play the cello.
My parents would be horrified at the thought of me being on reality television, and that helped pique my interest.
“Full disclosure,” she said, “there’s no guarantee my audition would make it on TV. They could just use a highlight, or not show it, or I might not even make it that far in the rounds.”
“How many rounds are there?”
“Last time they came to Chicago for casting, they started with groups. I guess they lump all the dance genres together, they pick the music, and everyone dances at the same time, freestyle. If the producers like what they see, then there’s an interview. And from that, the top thirty or so are selected for solos. Those are filmed in front of the judges.”
Her hand was still on my knee, heating through my jeans, and she gave me a squeeze.
“One of the kids at my friend’s studio auditioned last year. She said fifteen hundred dancers showed up, but I bet this year there’ll be more.”
Just based on math, the odds weren’t in Tara’s favor, but I’d seen her dance. It’d be a crime if she wasn’t in the top, and the idea I could help get her there was appealing, enough so that I considered saying yes without all the details. “When is it?”
“It’s like a month away. October fourteenth.”
I pulled out my phone, scrolled to my calendar. “That’s a Saturday.” She could tell from my tone that was a problem, and I elaborated. “It’s rugby season. I have a match at three.”
It hurt to see her crestfallen, but there was no way I was going to miss a match. I played sick or injured, or whatever obstacle was thrown at me. I couldn’t play to win if I wasn’t there. Plus, if one of the other players said he couldn’t make it because he was auditioning for some TV show, I’d lose my shit.
“Is it in town?” she asked, trying to stave off disappointment.
“Yes.”
“We could be done by then.”
She did her best to sound convincing, but I wasn’t fooled. “I know how television works. Unless it’s live, shooting always falls behind schedule.”
“How long does a game take?”
“A match is eighty minutes, plus ten minutes at the half. With penalties and the clock stopping on injuries, it’s around three hours.”
“Oh.” She deflated, her shoulders slumping.
“Don’t misunderstand, I’d love to help you, but I don’t want to let my team down.”
Her expression was resigned as she stared at her drink, but I could see her mind working. She didn’t want to give up, and I admired that.
“Right.” She brightened abruptly. “How about we play it by ear, then? If I make it to the judges by the time your game starts, I can ask to go last, and maybe you can come back after.”
“That sounds like a long shot.”
“It’s better than no shot.” She grinned. “This whole thing is a long shot, so what do you say? You want to take a chance with me?”
I wanted to, in more than one way. I gazed at this beautiful woman, who was looking back at me like I could be her hero. All I had to do was say yes.
“Sure,” I said, and when excitement lit up her face, I felt ten feet tall.