-9-
Tara
Our Lyft driver was amused when Grant put his cello in the passenger seat and buckled it in, and I was pleased about it too. It meant Grant and I would ride together in the back seat and it’d give us time to get to know each other better. Although the drive wouldn’t take long.
“South Africa, huh?” I said. “I’m sorry, I would have guessed New Zealand.”
A smile tugged across his lips. “That’s at least better than guessing Ireland.”
“Wait, is that real? Someone thought your accent sounded Irish?”
“Oh, I get all the bloody awful guesses. Australian the most, which . . . all right. They’re similar. But I don’t understand when people ask if I’m Scottish or Irish, or . . . from New Jersey.”
I snorted. “New Jersey, oh my God.”
The car pulled out into traffic, and I fiddled with the strap of my seatbelt. How was I going to play this? God, I hadn’t flirted in so long, I was sure to be terrible.
“So,” I drawled, then corrected to not sound like a fool, “you don’t look like a guy who plays cello. How’d that happen?”
His expression hinted he’d told this story many times, but still enjoyed it. “Growing up, my parents despised rugby. All sports, really. Me—being the black sheep—of course it was all I wanted to do. So, I struck a deal. They’d let me go out for rugby if I took up the cello.” His blue eyes gleamed. “I was sure I’d fucking hate it.”
It was more statement from me than question. “But you didn’t?”
He massaged the back of his neck, probably so I wouldn’t see the faint bashfulness in his expression. I almost didn’t because his thick bicep was sexy and distracting. “Well, I did at first, mostly to spite them. Then my tutor told me I was awful.”
I gave him a skeptical look. “And this made you like it?”
“I’m competitive by nature, so I had to prove him wrong. Once that was done, I found out I could compete for first chair.” He shrugged. “There was always some new challenge. I was doomed.”
I laughed. “Poor rugby. It lost out to the cello.”
“No, I still do that. Actually, I’ve got a match next weekend in Detroit.”
“Oh,” I said. Oh, yes, my body said. I knew nothing about the sport, other than the sexy-as-fuck men were built like brutes and just my type. “You play professionally?”
“No, it’s Division One. That’s a step down from professional.” He forced a casual tone, but I heard the longing beneath. “I enjoy it very much, but I’m not meant to play at that level.”
Meaning no matter how much he’d wanted to, it hadn’t happened for him. Well, I knew all about that, didn’t I? I shifted subtly closer to him in my seat, wanting to be near.
“It’s the same with me and ballet,” I admitted. “I tried for a while to make a career out of it, but it wasn’t in the cards.”
His eyes turned warm in understanding. “What do you do?”
I knew the question was coming, and yet I still wasn’t prepared. Instead, I stalled. “You mean, when I’m not landing on hot cello guys?”
Surprise glanced through his face at my unexpected compliment, and the warmth in his expression heated further. It made the air in the car go thin.
The rest of society told me I should be, but I wasn’t ashamed of what I did. It was the oldest profession, after all. I wasn’t stupid. I’d had the conversation enough times with a potential partner to know exactly how it was going to go, down to the moment everything ended.
I wanted one night of . . . possibility. One evening free of the other person’s hang-ups and judgement clouding their perception of me. I could take my pleasure now and feel guilty about it later.
“High-end sales,” I said. It wasn’t a lie. “You?”
“I’m a line producer on Channel Five, the morning news.” He leaned back in his seat and cast an arm on the window sill, looking comfortable and confident and very inviting. “It sounds a lot better than it is. I went to school to be a journalist. This was the closest media job I could get.”
“Do you do on-air stuff?”
“No. I plan the segments, the focus pieces, those sorts of things.”
“Do you like it?”
“Well enough. I don’t like getting up early, but otherwise, yeah. I’m never going to be a morning person.” A smile hinted at the corner of his lips. “It’s not as enjoyable as, say, a hot dancer falling on me.”
I grinned.
But the car ride was much too short.
The shop was on the corner, and violins hung in rows in the windows. I stood on the curb, peering up at the sign overhead that looked original to the building, while Grant pulled his cello case from the front seat.
The door had an actual bell on it, and it rang pleasantly when we went inside. Warm, lacquered wood was all around because every square inch of the music shop had some sort of string instrument. The place seemed empty, but at the bell, a man appeared from a door near the back.
He had to be ninety, but he was a spry looking thing, and absolutely adorable. “Broken cello?” That was the matter-of-fact greeting he gave Grant. “Put it on the counter so I can take a look at it.”
He wore glasses on a chain around his neck, and while Grant did as asked, the man cleaned the lenses on his shirt and slipped them on. I wandered toward the back of the store, half listening as I looked at the rack of sheet music.
The shop owner made a tsk-tsk sound. “What a shame, this is a beauty. You got insurance on it?”
“Yes, sir.”
I paused. “Insurance?”
Grant’s mouth skewed to the side. “This cello’s the most expensive thing I own.”
It was like the shop owner only noticed me now that I’d spoken. He tipped his head down and peered at me over the tops of his glasses. “Is she with you?”
“Yeah,” I said dryly. “I’m the one who broke his cello.”
His gaze flew from me to Grant, and his tone was accusatory. “What’d you do?”
Grant’s shoulders pulled back in confusion. “What?”
“To make her mad enough,” the man motioned to the counter, “to make her do this?”
“No.” I fought back a laugh. “We don’t know each other. I’m just the dancer who fell on him, and then offered to pay for the repair.”
Now it was the man’s turn to look confused. “But he has insurance.”
I crossed my arms over my chest and gave Grant a sharp look. “Yeah, he failed to mention it.”
Rather than look guilty, he flashed a shit-eating grin. “I told you it wasn’t necessary, and you said we could talk about it on our way here.”
Which we hadn’t. There was mischief in his eyes. Yeah, he knew exactly what he’d done. Was I upset about this? No. Not in the slightest, but I wasn’t going to let him off easy either.
“I guess it didn’t come up, huh?”
“I’m sorry about that.” Although he didn’t seem sorry at all. He looked rather proud as he strolled over. “You could let me buy you a drink to make up for it.”
I playfully narrowed my eyes at him, but who was I kidding? I was thrilled. “I suppose we could do that.”
“If you’re done hitting on her,” the shop owner said to Grant, “I put the loaner over there for you to try out.” He tossed a gnarled hand toward a chair in the corner, a cello in a stand beside it.
Grant left me by the sheet music and went to retrieve his bow from his case before moving to the chair. Pinpricks of excitement trickled down my spine as he picked up the instrument, sat down, and readied his bow. His thighs were large and powerful, parted around the beautiful cello.
I hadn’t realized I was going to get to hear him play, and suddenly I was dying for it.
It was quite the juxtaposition to see this hulking bull of a man handle the instrument so delicately. I wished I was that lucky cello in his hands, lingering between his legs. He set his fingers against the neck, and it made me want those same fingers on the same place on my body.
The first slide of his bow over the strings, and I was done for. A single long note was all it took.
His gaze flicked to mine and he resettled in his chair, his face going serious. He knew he had an audience and wanted to perform for me. I got that. It was the same thing I’d done at the pavilion during our second run-through.
We drew in the same preparing breath before he started.
And then he did.
The sound was mournful and rich, and it made me ache. I was riveted to my spot on the carpet in the tiny store, and the noise from the busy road went silent. Like all the cars outside had stopped just so they could hear him play.
His bow gliding across the strings was hypnotic, as were his fingers sliding down the long throat of the instrument, vibrating the string to produce a wavering note. It was all too much. Too beautiful to watch or listen to. It hurt to breathe.
Was it the same for him? His gaze drifted from mine and became unfocused. Either he was concentrating or lost in the music.
I’d surrendered to it instantly. The power of it made me want to dance, to express the beauty of the sound with the movement of my body. The choreography filled my head as the muscles in my calves contracted, wanting to rise into relevé. They yearned to leap.
The energy building inside me was frantic, desperate for release, and kept me from recognizing the music at first. I’d heard it before. I knew it . . .
Holy.
Fucking.
Shit.
I pressed my hand flat to my heart, covering the spot where an invisible fist had struck me. “Is that Coldplay?”
His bow ceased, the music stopped, and why the fuck had I said anything? Because that was the last thing I wanted.
“Yeah.” His chest rose and fell quickly, like he was chasing his breath. “I played it at a friend’s wedding.”
With the absence of his music, the store became ordinary. The colors weren’t as rich, and the polish on the violins didn’t gleam as brightly. It was like the sun had disappeared behind a cloud. I still felt it lingering, even after it had gone.
I didn’t want to disrespect the sound that had filled the shop, and my voice was hushed. “That was beautiful.”
He dropped to match my quiet tone. “Thank you.”
The shop owner came over, and the men discussed the setup on the loaner, but I couldn’t listen. My body resonated like one of the strings he’d played, and my mind buzzed with ideas.
I’d come with him to get his cello repaired with the goal of getting to know him better, but now I had an additional goal. I wanted him to play during my audition next month. Live music not only brought out my best side, it made the audience more receptive. With Grant performing alongside me, how could the judges resist sending me on to the next round?
We’d have to practice together. He’d have to play the beautiful song for me over and over again. Maybe there’d be long nights involved . . . The more I thought about it, the more excited I became.
I needed him, and I wasn’t going to take no for an answer.