-8-
Grant
It had been the look of horror on Daniel’s face and his frozen conductor’s baton that gave me an inkling something was wrong. I paused my bow mid-stroke and looked up, only to see a body flying toward me.
The reaction was pure instinct. I heaved my cello out of the way and rose from my seat, bracing my arms to slow the woman’s fall. She landed safely but hard, driving me back into my seat, and it was a miracle neither of us had gotten hurt. A split second later? She would have ended up skewered on the scroll of my cello.
As soon as I realized she was all right, the rest of my mind began to function again, taking in how beautiful she was. Her eyes were wild, no doubt from shock, but I was sure they were vibrant even when she was calm. They were as bright and blue as a cloudless summer sky.
Her hair was darker at her temples from sweat, but the messy bun of blonde hair on the top of her head was golden. Her nose was pert and cute, leading down to her cupid-bow lips. She was the prettiest girl I’d ever seen.
And her body . . . fuck, this girl did not disappoint. It wasn’t the right time to assess her, but the male part of me was very happy to have served as the landing pad for this sexy woman.
In fact, none of this situation was bad—not until I saw my cello. It gave me the same feeling as taking an opponent’s head to the solar plexus. I clutched my bow so hard, it was surprising it didn’t snap in two.
It took a moment to absorb the image of the splintered neck, the strings no longer taut over the fingerboard, before I remembered I was prepared for this. The cello was valued at nine thousand dollars these days, but my parents had paid considerably more back when they’d bought it for me. Which meant I always carried instrument insurance.
Tara didn’t need to know that just yet, though. She’d offered to go with me to the shop, and I wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity to get to know her better. The girl was beautiful, sweet, and there wasn’t a ring on her finger. My cello was broken, but maybe fate had rewarded me for that and literally dropped her in my lap.
I stood beside my chair, and as she climbed up on it, she put a hand on my shoulder to steady herself. She probably didn’t need it for balance. Maybe she’d done it as an excuse to touch me. Then up she went, onto the stage to join the group of women waiting anxiously for her.
There was a quick conversation after she confirmed she was okay, and my mouth fell open when one of the girls told Daniel they wanted to start from the beginning.
They were going to run through it again? Would they take out the stunt that had sent Tara flying offstage?
I should have collected my busted cello and put it in its case. I should have looked up the number for Fredrick and Sons on my phone and called to tell them I was coming. But instead I stood beside my chair with my attention on the stage and watched her dance.
It was all I could do.
There was another girl who seemed to be the focus, but my gaze kept returning to Tara. She drew me in. Her narrow waist, her long legs, her flat stomach, and the way she moved . . . I was in awe. And I was probably projecting, but it seemed like she was looking at me as she danced.
Before, the leap she’d done had gone horribly wrong, but there wasn’t a speck of hesitation in her eyes as she attempted it the second time. The girl was fearless. She bounded across the stage, flew high into the air, and dropping perfectly into the other dancers’ hold. It was seamless the way she rolled out of their arms and back onto her feet, transitioning into the next movement.
I watched the performance all the way until the final pose. She was a siren, disarming me, and as soon as I figured out the song was over, I made my way backstage to where I’d stowed my case.
Making the phone call to the music shop wasn’t hard, but putting the damaged neck back into the case was, and I grimaced at the unnatural twang of strings. I tucked the bow into its sleeve, put it away, and then snapped the clasps closed on the case lid.
While I waited for her to finish, I mapped out a course of action. The main objective was to invite her for a drink after the cello situation had been handled, but I’d also settle for her phone number. Tara was deep in discussion with the short, dark-haired girl who seemed to be in charge, and when she said something, Tara laughed.
I wished I had been standing closer, so I could have heard it.
The group of women dispersed, and she raised her index finger to me, signaling one more minute. It was so she could go grab her bag offstage, and when she reappeared, she had one sneaker on and was hopping her way into the other.
“Okay, I’m ready.” She sounded winded, but . . . happy? She’d enjoyed dancing, and I understood . . .I had definitely enjoyed her dancing. She reached out a hand. “Help me down? I’d like a controlled descent this time.”
It didn’t feel like I was overstepping, since she’d asked for it. I reached up, put my hands on her waist, and lifted as she jumped, guiding her down to the ground. When she landed, we were chest to chest, my hands on her hips. I fought the urge to run the pad of my thumb over the bare skin just above where her shorts ended.
Tara was an absolute smoke show. Her already quick breathing grew more erratic as she stared up at me. I had a twinge of relief. This attraction between us—I wasn’t the only one picking up on it.
But I couldn’t stay here all night with my hands on her waist, no matter how much I wanted to. The shop closed soon, and I had to try out the loaner piece. I reluctantly released her, bent, and grabbed the handle of my case.
“How are we getting there?” she asked. “I don’t have a car. I took the CTA.”
“I don’t either, and as fun as it is to take this beast through the turnstiles, I was going to call a Lyft.”
She nodded and immediately dug out her phone.
I wanted to do the gentlemanly thing and offer to cover the cost, but decided I was okay letting her pay for our ride. It could be what absolved her of her guilt when she found out I’d file an insurance claim, and she was off the hook. Much better to pay a bill for thirty bucks than three thousand.
“Make sure it can seat three,” I said. “The case doesn’t fit in most trunks.”
We walked out of the pavilion and headed toward the rideshare pick-up spot, weaving our way through the tourists collected around The Bean. There must have been a tour group, because it was packed with Asians. It was like running the gauntlet, trying to get through them.
A camera was abruptly thrust toward me. The white guy holding it looked pale and sweaty, like he wasn’t feeling very well. “Do you speak English?”
I blinked. “Yes.”
“Uh, great. Can you help me out, man?” He didn’t wait for me to respond, he just set the camera in my hand and fiddled with the settings knob on top. As soon as he was satisfied, his voice dropped to a hush. “Take a bunch, okay? Thanks.”
I set down my case and tossed a “what’re you gonna do” smile to Tara. She grinned back and turned her attention to the nervous-looking guy. He hurried to join his girlfriend who was posed in front of the large, mirrored sculpture, the Chicago skyline reflected in it.
As I peered at the digital screen on the camera and made sure they were framed right, the guy stuck his hand in his pocket. What was he doing?
“Oh,” Tara said quietly, her tone soft and warm. She gently nudged my shoulder. “Start clicking.”
But the guy wasn’t holding still. Or even looking at the camera—
Ah. Now I understood. I pressed the button, snapping as many pictures as I could before the girlfriend figured out what was happening, before the nervous guy got down on a knee and held up a ring. The shutter on the camera was fast, so I caught each moment. How her face crumbled with happy tears. How she nodded yes, too overcome to say anything after he asked her to marry him. And how he slipped the sparkling ring on her finger.
There was a smattering of applause from the tourists nearby as the newly-engaged couple kissed, and I kept photographing it, all the way until he started walking toward me. He didn’t look nervous now. He looked like he thought he was the luckiest guy in the world.
“Thank you so much,” he said, grinning.
“Of course.” I passed the camera back to him.
“No, for real. I’ve been trying to find someone to take the pictures for the last five minutes, and I needed a guy who’d get what I was doing. You’re the first American couple I’ve seen.”
“Congratulations,” Tara said.
“Thanks!”
I picked up my cello case as the guy strode to his fiancée, excited to see how the pictures had turned out.
“Are you?” Tara asked as we resumed walking, this time at a faster clip.
“Am I what?”
“American?” She said it casually, as if she were merely curious.
“Yeah.” I chuckled. “Much to my family’s disappointment.”
“Meaning?”
We came down the concrete steps leading toward noisy Michigan Avenue as I thought about how to answer. “My family has always looked down on Americans.”
Her expression went guarded. “Oh, yeah? For what?”
“This is my South African family, not me. I’ve always been the outsider compared to them. I’m the black sheep.” We’d reached the curb, but when I said that, she glanced up from her phone in surprise. Was that recognition lighting her eyes?
My wealthy and white South African parents had spent their entire lives at the top of the class hierarchy. Their status was so engrained in their personalities, they were unbearable.
I hesitated before answering. “They think Americans lack culture, that they’re unrefined.”
Tara raised one perfectly arched eyebrow. “I’m sure that’s true for some people. But I also know people with a dollar to their name who have more class than people in the penthouses on Lake Shore Drive.”
I couldn’t agree more. It was just one of the many reasons I’d left Johannesburg.
She gestured toward the black SUV with the purple Lyft light on the dashboard. “That’s us.”
I needed to keep it light and steer the conversation away from my family. “You know someone who has a penthouse on Lake Shore Drive?”
She pulled open the car door and gave me an enigmatic smile. “Actually, I know several.”