Her British Bard (Dream Come True Sweet Romance Book 2)

by Darci Balogh

  "Then text him," he urged her. Then, realizing that she was torn, he teased, "Or, better yet, I'll text him for you." Thomas pulled out his phone. "That way you don't have to be vulnerable."

  "No, don't," she laughed a little bit.

  "Why not? It's only..." he looked at his phone, "One o'clock in the morning. He's a rock star, he probably stays up all night anyway."

  She smiled again. "It's too late to text him now. It would be weird. Plus, you don't have his number."

  He fell back, defeated. But he had made her smile, which was a victory in the end.

  "All right," he said. "Promise you will talk to him when we get to London? I don't like seeing you upset like this."

  Thomas, her dear friend, she smiled at him. "I will," she promised.

  And in that moment Sofia absolutely meant it.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Getting home early in the morning after a cramped and, for some of them, sleepless night on the train was hard on the whole group. Angie and Luna looked tousled and unkempt like little children who had been woken up too early. Liza and Henry wore their rumpled grad student looks complete with oversized, faded sweatshirts from King's College. Professor Shipley and Thomas both glowered at the world, hardly communicating with anything more than a bear like grumble. Bridget wore lack of sleep like a movie star, unrelentingly beautiful in yoga pants, a loose grey T-shirt and her blonde tresses up in a stylish messy bun. Dr. Clara and Marin, opposites in every way physically, were the only two of their crew that were in good spirits. Watching Thomas wearily carry both he and Marin's luggage off the train as Marin chattered happily away with Dr. Clara was mildly entertaining for Sofia, especially since she knew how Marin's snoring had kept him awake.

  Sofia was exhausted on every level. Getting back to her flat with Luna while the others went to their homes or hotels was a daunting task. Once home, she crawled into bed and slept for hours. Not knowing or caring what everyone else was up to, she let her fatigue numb any thought of Ian. When she woke up, the drive to contact him had faded into something else–a soreness in her heart, but one that she thought she could ignore for a little while longer. Who knew? Maybe it would fade over time.

  There was the complete pandemonium of returning home with so much company in town to focus on. Going back to work after a long weekend was also a good distraction. All of these were solid reasons in Sofia's mind to postpone the inevitable text. The longer she waited, the more what had been a good idea in the middle of the night on the train talking to Thomas seemed silly, almost childish. So much so, that she chose to spend the next few days diving into her work at the university and losing herself in frivolous outings with her friends each evening.

  "It's opening night for Jonas Novak at the Peckham Gallery," Bea told them at the large table they were sharing in a stylish Turkish restaurant. "It's his first exhibit in London ever." She and Travis were inviting all of their American friends to see a hot contemporary painter from Prague. "You have to come," she encouraged them, her bright eyes dancing with the excitement of it all.

  "Of course we're coming," Bridget answered for everyone. "It's our last night here, we have to do something fabulous." Her confidence in the group's agreement was unshakeable after years of leading their social engagements. Not even Marin, watching the conversation over a plate of quail kebabs, dared object.

  With an almost imperceptible glance at Sofia, Bridget asked Bea, "Will Ian be joining us?"

  Sofia stopped chewing. A hesitant hush fell over the whole table. All except for Marin who was noisily sucking on a tiny quail bone.

  Though she was astonished at Bridget's pushy question, Sofia didn't look up. She concentrated on her food and pretended she hadn't heard it. The rest of the group followed her lead. None of them were sure what Bridget was up to, so they all stayed quiet. Except Bea. Whether because of nerves or oblivious to the uncomfortable silence, Bea chattered away.

  "No, actually," Bea said. "I asked him, because he's so much fun at these things. But he couldn't. He's playing a concert tonight." Relief flooded Sofia and the strange vibe in the air lifted. Bea continued, "It's actually on the same street as the art exhibit. The place is named Higher Calling. It used to be a derelict chapel that they renovated into a music venue. Absolutely hectic." She looked around the table for a reaction. When none of them responded, she translated to American for them, "Hip and cool."

  The exhibit was unique. Probably brilliant. The artist had used vibrant blues and whites and yellows, slashes and smears, and undulating wave form shapes. The paint spilled off the canvas, over the frame and onto the walls of the gallery, creating what looked like an ocean of interpretive color. Everyone agreed it was one of the most intriguing art exhibits they'd ever seen.

  Sofia wished she could enjoy it. Her head had been spinning ever since Bridget brought up Ian's name at dinner. Knowing that he was close by performing at Higher Calling made Sofia's stomach jump whenever a man his height and build appeared in her peripheral vision. She tried to shake it off, the knowledge that he was so close. Her mind wouldn't let go of the possibility that he may walk in at any moment.

  That was ridiculous. He was putting on a concert. He was busy. Besides, why would he? She hadn't spoken to him since she left him on the patio during the ball.

  Bridget's laughter tumbled through the low murmur of the crowd and Sofia looked in her direction. Why did she have to bring him up in conversation that way? Sofia had been perfectly fine drinking wine and dining out with her friends. She didn't need to be reminded of the whole mess with Ian. It had been callous and insensitive of Bridget, and Sofia was feeling irritated at her.

  The spinning in her head whirled a little faster as her annoyance grew. She glanced down at her almost empty wine glass. She'd been drinking a lot of wine this evening. Maybe that was part of her head spinning...and her flailing emotions.

  "Love this look, by the way," Bridget had snuck up on her while she was peering into her wine glass. Sofia was wearing a short velvet wraparound dress in hunter green with black suede boots that ended just above her knees. Bridget tugged on the sleeve teasingly. "It's kinda racy."

  "Thanks," Sofia said.

  "What do you think of this place?" Bridget asked.

  Sofia scowled. "It's nice," she punctuated the statement with a sniff.

  "What is the matter?"

  "You know what," Sofia answered in a huff. Bridget grinned. She did know, she just thought it was funny. Sofia grew more irritated, "What was all that about Ian?"

  Bridget's beautifully shaped eyebrows lifted in mock surprise. "Why, Sofia, whatever do you mean?" She was using her fake southern accent, which meant she thought she was being extra charming and sly.

  "It wasn't nice of you to embarrass me like that at dinner," Sofia said.

  Bridget's expression turned contrite. "I didn't mean it to embarrass you, Fifi." Sofia scoffed. "I didn't!" Bridget looked sincere enough, bothered that Sofia could think she would do anything to hurt her.

  Sofia succumbed to her friend's annoying charm. "Then why did you say it?"

  Bridget leveled a serious gaze out of her baby blues. So serious that Sofia sobered up as she waited for the answer. When she did respond, Bridget's words hit her hard. "Because I don't want to leave one of my best friends in the world heart broken in London when we fly home tomorrow. You forget, Fifi, I was there when you first saw each other...at Tawny's wedding. I could see it then and I saw it the other night at the ball. I think you're making a big mistake if you push this one away. Maybe the mistake of your life."

  Unprepared for this response, Sofia grew silent. The irritation that had been bubbling inside of her since dinner receded and left her slightly bewildered. How much of her feelings for Ian had been so obvious to Bridget and the others? How much of Ian's feelings for her had they witnessed and felt were strong enough to warrant this heavy duty advice?

  Bridget was a lot of things, but she wasn't cruel. They had been friends since childhood and ther
e was no way Bridget would send her on a wild goose chase in love. If anything, she was probably more protective of the hearts of her friends than she was her own.

  Sofia's silence remained as the evening progressed. She looked at the artwork, listened to the conversations around her, and went to the bar to get another glass of wine. She didn't know how many glasses she had already drank over the course of the evening. She was confused over all of the emotions that were circling through her body. And she wasn't sure how she ended up outside the art gallery staring at a derelict chapel that pulsed with strobe lights and a throbbing bass emanating from its open front doors–the "absolutely hectic" music venue that could only be Higher Calling.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Cold night air surrounded her, but it felt good after the warm stuffiness of the art gallery. Her black suede boots crunched as she walked on loose pieces of gravel that had come up from between the stones of the sidewalk. She briefly considered going back and getting her jacket, but decided against it. She didn't want to see anyone or have to explain what she was about to do.

  People filled the sidewalk and all of the doorways of every building on the narrow street. There were several other art galleries and restaurants on this block in addition to the chapel turned bar. The night was clear, no rain, but a damp chill in the air stayed as a reminder that this was London.

  Sofia tore her gaze away from Higher Calling and took in the crowded sidewalk. Groups of friends, lovers, young and old, talked and laughed as they moved from one destination to the next. Lively. Vibrant. Exciting.

  The door of Higher Calling was packed. A line of people waiting to get in, even at this late hour, snaked out the front and down the side of the building. They made it impossible for Sofia to get to the large, bald, heavy set bouncer who stood directly at the entrance like a wall of muscle between the people waiting and the lucky ones inside.

  She paused at the bottom of the steps leading to the chapel doors, looking up and allowing the music–and the sound of Ian's voice singing–to wash over her. At times deep and growling, at times lifting into a high treble, somewhere between a shout and a scream, rising and falling with the music, louder, softer, his voice pulled everyone, especially Sofia, into its web.

  Lights spilled from the door, stretching out over the line of fans and sweeping across the street. They moved over Sofia and she thought she could feel them on her skin. Feel him. She closed her eyes and let the sensation take over, not paying any attention to how long she stayed that way.

  “Unbelievable.” A familiar voice sounded at her elbow.

  Sofia's eyes opened to find Emery standing next to her. Wearing a bright white jacket that looked like it had been made out of a shag carpet and matched her spiky hair, she was chewing pink gum instead of smoking her regular cigarette, and glowering at Sofia.

  "I came to see him," Sofia said calmly. Surprised that Emery's presence didn't incite jealousy or anger in her, Sofia lifted one shoulder in a little shrug and said, "But I don't have a ticket."

  Emery stared at her for a few moments, chewing the wad of gum in her mouth thoughtfully. She, too, seemed surprised at Sofia's reaction. She blew a bubble, letting it snap and pulling it back into her mouth with her tongue. Her eyes shifted to the line of fans waiting to get in, then to the bouncer, then back to Sofia. She scrunched her nose up like a child considering their options. Apparently landing on the best move, Emery let out a heavy sigh and her normally combative stance flopped in on itself so she looked comically deflated.

  With a roll of her eyes she muttered in a disgruntled tone, "He will kill me if I don't help you." She reluctantly reached out to Sofia and said, "Come on."

  Emery pulled her up the steps and, after a few words with the burly bouncer, through the front doors of Higher Calling raising a few complaints from the line of fans. Emery ignored them. In fact, she mostly ignored Sofia, too, who continued following her only because she didn't know what else to do. Even if she wanted to ask Emery where she was taking her, she couldn't have over the music. Now surrounding them, the pounding of the song vibrated through Sofia's whole body. Ian's song rose around her, wrapping her in its rhythm, numbing her to anything else.

  Instead of taking her to the front of the pulsating crowd, Emery led Sofia down the side of the venue and through a heavy door that must have once been used by deacons or alter boys during church services. Flashes of the impressive architecture over the stage lit by purple and red lights imprinted on Sofia's mind as she disappeared with Emery into the back hallway.

  "You can wait for him back here," Emery said over her shoulder. The sounds of the concert were muffled in the hallway, but not gone. As the current song ended, the din of a cheering crowd rose on the other side of the wall. They came to a door and Emery shoved it open, revealing a well lit room with two couches and a familiar snack filled card table at one end. Emery deposited Sofia alone in the room and left with only a cursory acceptance of her thanks.

  With the concert now only a distant thumping, and nobody around to distract her, Sofia's nerves rushed through her. She had not started out toward Higher Calling with much of a plan, but this wasn't what she had expected.

  "What did you expect?" she asked out loud. There was nobody there to answer.

  By the time the concert was over, Sofia had second guessed her decision to leave the art gallery, look for Ian, follow Emery, and allow herself to be stuck in this little room without any idea what was going to happen next. For all she knew, Emery could have hid her away in here until Ian left the building. Or even locked the door so Sofia couldn't leave. She tried the knob just to be sure and it turned. With relief, she pulled the door open, but saw only a dimly lit hallway with nobody in sight.

  After a few more minutes of self-doubt, Sofia decided this was probably a big mistake. There were other ways she could get in touch with Ian. She didn't have to secretly hide out backstage at his concert. She went to the door again and grabbed the knob. At the same moment that she pulled someone else pushed from the other side and the door flung open into Ian's surprised face.

  If he was shocked to see her, Sofia was even more shocked to see him in his current state. Hot and sweaty from performing, it appeared Ian had taken his shirt off when he got backstage. He stood bare chested in front of her, with tattoos twisting across his muscled arms, chest, and abs. Wearing only faded jeans and black boots, he was still revved up from the concert and his cat eyes flashed.

  Sofia swallowed. Hard.

  "Hullo," he said, his voice raspy from use.

  "Hi," she answered.

  He glanced behind her into the empty room. "May I?"

  "Of course," she blushed a little and stepped back to let him in. Not quickly enough to avoid his bare skin brushing against her as he did. A thrill jolted to the center of her body as they touched.

  Ian tossed his shirt on the couch and went to the snack table. Her eyes wandered across his wide shoulders that tapered perfectly into a lean waist. Her gaze rested with curiosity on the tattoo that stretched down the length of his spine from just above his shoulder blades to where it ended at the waistband of his jeans. In the shape of a guitar, the tattoo was only made up of black ink. But it wasn't actually a guitar. It was the silhouette of trees on a lake on one half and their reflection making up the other half. Mirrored images of a landscape, but in the shape of a guitar. The whole image was intriguing. Especially on Ian's naked back. Her lips parted as she followed the lines of his body. The sight of him literally took her breath away.

  "Emery said I had a surprise down here," he said as he grabbed a bottle of water and twisted off the lid, turning back around to look at her. "She meant you?"

  Sofia nodded self-consciously. "I guess so."

  He drank from the bottle, never taking his eyes off of her, and Sofia felt almost as exposed as he looked. He gestured toward the cart in a silent offer. She nodded. He picked up another bottle of water and brought it to her. Sofia could barely keep her eyes on his, she was dis
tracted by the ridges of his six-pack abs and the way his jeans hung low on his hips.

  "And to what do I owe this pleasure?" he asked as she took the bottle of water from his hand.

  "I was next door," Sofia explained. "Bea said you were here. Emery got me in." He took another swig and waited. "I wanted to..." she searched for the right words, but only came up with, "say hi." Ian's eyebrows lifted and she was compelled to explain more. "After we danced...I was going to call or text or something–"

  "Why didn't you?"

  She didn't have an answer to that question. And after a few moments, Ian knew it. He shook his head and looked away into the empty space between her and the door. When he returned his eyes to hers, the look in them cut into her heart like ice. Ian stepped away and sat on the armrest of the nearest couch facing her. He had his feet kicked out in front of him and his arms crossed over his chest, regarding her with a skeptical expression that stung.

  "I didn't know what to say..." her words came out half choked.

  Again, he shook his head and looked away. He let out a sharp laugh and said, "I get it, you know. It's fine."

  "Get what?"

  "We're different, you and I, just like you said." He indicated her clothes with a nod of his head. "I mean, look at you. You're perfect and put together and posh." He uncrossed his arms and gestured toward his naked chest. "And look at me. I look a mess. Tatted up and ratty and low brow."

  "You're not low brow," she said. He didn't look a mess, he looked sexy and edgy, she wanted to say. But she didn't.

  "I'm an artist, aren't I? A rock and roll singer. I stay up all night and sing in pubs and bars, and that doesn't fit in with whatever plan you have in that pretty head of yours. I get it."

  The excitement of seeing him again, of finally talking to him, began to morph into something darker. A sickening feeling rolled in her stomach. This wasn't the reception she had anticipated.