LOL #2 Romantic Comedy Anthology - Volume 2 - Even More All-New Romance Stories by Bestselling Authors (LOL Romantic Comedy Anthology #2)

by Anthology

  Natasha, even though you’re a cellist and I’m a violinist, we can make beautiful mus—

  Xan scratched out that so hard that he tore the paper.

  It was just like when he was trying to write lyrics. He was so caught up in the effort that the right words seemed inadequate and the only thing left was smarmy nonsense.

  Natasha, there are some things that I haven’t told you about myself.

  Wrong tack. She wouldn’t be delighted by his revelations, like some shallow women would be. She would demand to know why, after the two years of practically living together at Juilliard and a year of long-distance heart-to-heart talks, he had never mentioned that his name wasn’t actually Xan or Valentine. Not precisely.

  Yes, all that would certainly keep until later.

  Maybe until the ceremony.

  The marriage ceremony would all be in French, anyway, whether they married in France or Monaco. Natasha spoke Italian and Mandarin, not French. He might not have to divulge it for years.

  Then he could just slip it in on their fifth wedding anniversary, after a child or two.

  Some of the wedding guests might provoke questions, however.

  Xan was getting ahead of himself. He returned to writing the proposal. A moment of nerves scuttled through him, but he shook it off.

  His pen moved on the paper, almost of its own volition.

  Natasha, I love you. I love you like my heart will break if you say no, and I will be broken forever.

  What utter rubbish. He might as well throw that emerald ring out the window beside his first class seat on this jet and let it tumble, forever lost, into the snow on the Rocky Mountains below. Natasha would not be amused by such platitudes. Xan obliterated that with black ink.

  The chemical solvents in the black ink irritated his nose with their bright brown fumes and a pitch like a quarter-tone below an E-flat.

  Natasha, I will give up ephemeral, contemporary music and return to the ironclad beauty of classical. I will take up my violin again and lay down my guitar and my ambition to create verse and music of my own that could live on in people’s hearts. We will play Mozart, Beethoven, and Schubert together forever.

  He drew one precise black line through all that, because as he wrote it, he felt his heart skip beats like he was dying.

  Chapter Four

  Xan and Natasha had perfected this.

  At the airport, as Xan exited past the security checkpoint with his guitar case and garment bag slung over his shoulders, he texted Natasha to tell her he had arrived.

  As arranged, she met him at the far end of the pick-up lane, and her lithe body bent as she opened the trunk of her black car, as black as a musician’s formal performance wear. Xan set his guitar case and garment bag inside the Lexus and slammed it, and she pressed her entire body, toes and knees all the way up to her breasts and shoulders, against him for a hard, deep kiss. Her long, black dress swirled around them. She always wore full skirts, so she could reach for her cello to settle it between her legs and play at a moment’s notice, and most of her wardrobe seemed to be casual imitations of concert formals.

  As always, as their mouths met and her warm lips touched his, he reached into her black hair, as light as silken yarn, and caressed the soft skin of her arm, sliding his hand around to the small of her back and breathing in that sweet jasmine scent of her perfume, a sugary blue confection that mixed with the taste of her in his mouth.

  She kissed him back, just as hungry as he was. It had been almost two months since they had been able to meet, which was far, far too long.

  But right away, as always, they were in perfect harmony.

  Chapter Five

  Xan watched the freeways of Los Angeles, snarls of charcoal ribbons that the autos all seemed to navigate without error, while Natasha drove them to somewhere they could rehearse.

  She drove up to the Walt Disney Concert Hall, a building that looked like a wave of liquid stainless steel had splashed against a rock and shined in Xan’s eyes like a high soprano thrill, and down into the parking garage under it.

  She said, “Since I’m with the L.A. Phil, I have keys to the rehearsal rooms.”

  “Excellent,” he said. They carried their cases up the elevator and through the unfinished cement back halls. Xan had learned years ago that asking to carry Natasha’s cello case would be met with laser-glare silence, while insisting on carrying it was an efficient way to start a month-long fight.

  In the silent rehearsal hall, a concert grand piano hulked in one corner like a lacquered black sailboat with an ebony sail. Two piano benches lined up behind it.

  Though four music stands stood in the middle of the room, there were no chairs.

  “Shit,” muttered Natasha. “Someone stole all the damn chairs again.”

  “We can use the piano benches. I never lean back anyway.”

  “Okay, fine. Let’s work for a couple hours, anyway. You’ll be fine. I promise that I’ll get you up to par.” She found the sheet music in her cello case and handed it to him.

  He cleared his throat to dispel the annoyance. She had no way of knowing that he practiced daily for hours, usually by sneaking out to the tour’s RV and playing in the complete darkness so he could see the colors better. “As you wish.”

  “Oh, my God. Seriously, stop it. A couple times through, and you’ll be up to speed.” She extended the endpin on the base of her cello and spun the cello in her hand like she was a jazz musician.

  Xan tried not to be insulted as he arranged the sheet music on the stand that she thought he needed to be brought up to speed, especially for such a terribly common piece as String Quartet Number 19 in C Major, K. 465 by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, nicknamed “Dissonance.”

  He had performed it dozens of times, starting when he was twelve.

  He could play the first violin’s part in his sleep, and considering his schedule at Juilliard, he probably had.

  He could play “Dissonance” better than most pianists could plink out “Heart and Soul.”

  The colors in it were incredible. Xan couldn’t ever forget them.

  All this, he didn’t say. Natasha wouldn’t be impressed. He needed to prove it.

  So he would.

  They set two piano benches beside and cheated toward each other so they could check in during the piece.

  Xan reached out and trailed his fingers down her arm. She didn’t move away. If anything, she leaned into his hand.

  He stepped closer, running both his hands down her arms, but she backed up, sat on the bench, and nudged him aside her cello. “I can’t get my instrument between my legs with you in the way.”

  “As the actress said to the bishop.” He grinned.

  She laughed, but said, “Come on. Let’s get on with this.”

  Again, he could have said his line, but he refrained.

  Xan opened his guitar case and felt a tug toward the acoustic guitar inside. He hadn’t worked on his guitar yet today. He would have to find time later. Inside the thick foam-lined lid, he popped a snap, revealing a cavity carved out for his violin. The only people who usually saw it were airline security personnel manning an X-ray scanner.

  He positioned his violin under the left side of his jaw. The chinrest felt right under his jaw, comfortable, and it locked into place like an extension of himself.

  He hated it.

  For Natasha, her strong fingers already running up and down the neck of her cello as she warmed up, her other arm working the long bow across the strings to drive the music out of the instrument, Xan would perform with the violin.

  God, she was beautiful, sitting there with her cello, the full skirt of her black dress allowing her to play that gorgeous instrument with an hourglass shape reminiscent of her own.

  “Dissonance” was about a half an hour long and in four movements. Natasha set a nice pace, and they sawed through it without the second violin and viola that were supposed to provide the middle timbres.

  Xan tried not to look smug tha
t he hadn’t dropped a note.

  “Pretty good,” Natasha said. “Once more time through?”

  “Of course.” Xan had no intention of playing the piece all the way through.

  They began as usual, with Natasha playing the drumbeat of quiet, ominous, dark blue C’s on her cello. Xan waited the few beats where the viola and second violin should have joined in with notes that completed a melancholy C-minor chord, and he drew a bright A out of his violin, which sounded so bare without the other instruments and amplified the dissonance at his sixth above Natasha’s notes. The colors clashed behind his closed eyes in a way that Mozart probably never intended, but it amused Xan. The few bars of dissonance resolved into a joyous splash of a C-major chord.

  He played for about fifteen minutes, through the first two movements, and then let his notes play lighter, and lighter, until he set down his violin.

  Natasha didn’t glance at him, supposedly absorbed in her own music.

  Xan straddled her bench behind her, pressing his body against her back.

  Natasha concentrated on her music as if he wasn’t there.

  The third time was the charm, some said. Maybe this time, he could get her to drop her bow.

  He rubbed his palms down her legs, which were braced wide on either side of the cello, the thick fabric of her dress rough on his hands. He flipped her skirt up to get underneath and slid his hands over her thighs. When he drew his hands around to her ass, at first he thought she wasn’t wearing underwear, but the thin elastic of a thong caught on his thumb.

  Her legs quivered just little in his hands. He was getting to her already. Xan smiled.

  He took his time, caressing her strong back and pinched waist through her clothes, enjoying the feel of her buttery skin, while he breathed on the back of her neck, bared by the wide neckline of her dress that stretched almost all the way to the points of her shoulders, letting his breath roll down her spine. That sugary blue pastry of her perfume plus her feminine scent made his mouth water.

  When his hands came around to cup her breasts, she leaned back against him and rested her head back on his shoulder, still playing her cello. Her fingers crawled up the neck of the instrument, and she drew the bow across the strings below without looking. It was impressive, as impressive as the first time he had tried this.

  He circled her breasts, running his thumbs across the peaks until he felt them harden under her dress. Her breathing roughened, but her playing never faltered.

  Xan dove his hand down her ribs and stomach, feeling all those womanly curves that turned him on when he just thought about her. Her skirt was in the way, that long skirt, and he fought, flipping the fabric, to get his hand under it and then slide his fingers into her panties. She was already slick inside, and he drew the wetness out of her, slipping over her skin.

  She arched her back, her round bum rubbing against him through his pants and driving herself down on his hand, and she gasped. The notes thrummed out of her cello without missing a beat.

  At the end of the trio and thus the third movement, she moved on to the fourth. Just a few minutes left.

  Xan unzipped his fly, rolled on a condom that he had pocketed just in case, and pressed between her shoulder blades, rolling her forward. He lifted her hips, moved forward, held her thong aside, and settled her over himself. He slid into her, feeling her warmth around himself, and stroked into her.

  She whimpered but kept playing. Xan wrapped one arm around her waist and drew her back to lie against him.

  He moved in her, gently. One had to play fair in this game. Jerking her around to make her drop the bow would be unfair. He reached under her skirt again and circled his fingers around her clit, feeling her tighten on him.

  His fingers moved in time to her music, and her playing didn’t falter as he thrust slowly into her. It had been two months since the last time he’d had her, and he was famished for her, so he couldn’t last.

  The music was coming to its crescendo, too.

  She played the last few bars, sawing the bow across the strings of the cello, as Xan thrummed his fingers on her clit and bit down on the back of her neck, and her hips jerked forward as she cried out. One more thrust inside her soft body, and he came, too, panting against her back.

  She dragged the last few notes out of the cello, a little more tremulous than was usual as she breathed hard, staring at the ceiling. Her body shook in his arms, the aftershocks still running through her.

  Someday, someday, he swore to all that was holy, he was going to make her drop that damn bow.

  Chapter Six

  Xan wore his white tie and tails tuxedo, bowed politely to the group of about three hundred guests assembled in the ballroom of a mansion overlooking the mountains above Los Angeles, and sat down to play.

  Before the recital, Natasha had insisted (to the second violinist’s great annoyance) that they should keep all their parts the same and only replace Kieran with Xan as first violin, not reshuffle everyone.

  Their rehearsal that afternoon seemed to have convinced her that he could play the music, or convinced her of something, anyway.

  Xan managed every note impeccably for the first half, but during the third movement, the Menuetto, an exuberant minuet, Xan glanced over at Natasha, who held the body of her cello between her knees while she played. As she caught his eye, she subtly arched her back and clenched her thighs around the instrument.

  Xan almost dropped his violin, and he returned to concentrating on the sheet music, because as his blood rushed through his body, he was in imminent danger of being subjected to one of the most embarrassing things that can happen to male musician onstage. While playing the violin, he couldn’t even cross his legs. His feet needed to be balanced on the floor to play properly.

  After a few bars, he regained his composure, and he assured himself that it was probably only because he had been surprised.

  He looked back at Natasha and met her sultry, dark eyes. He ground his chin into the chinrest of his violin and watched her dusky cheeks turn rosy.

  This time, she averted her eyes and watched her sheet music. Her neck bowed as she played her cello, baring the nape of her neck where he liked to bite when he was behind her.

  Now he was doing it to himself. He turned back to his music and followed the notes, even though he didn’t really need to look. He knew the music, and his fingers made the music he heard in his head.

  Natasha caught his eye again, and the sparkle in her dark eyes was meant for him as her fingers slid up and down the long, thick neck of her cello.

  Xan sucked in cool air, trying to calm the wild energy spiraling through his body already. He leaned upstage, toward the second violinist, raising his outside leg to conceal his fly. The ring box in his pants pocket poked him.

  They had to stop.

  They were up there on the dais, eye-fucking, while several hundred people surrounded them, all in chairs, facing them.

  Xan glanced over the crowd.

  Many audience members were staring at their programs in their hands, waiting for the string quartet to be over so they could go home, having both donated to charity and appreciated the arts enough for one day.

  Some were sporting that glazed expression that chamber music can inspire in the elderly or uneducated.

  A few had closed their eyes and the expression on their rapt expressions on their faces suggested they were either fellow syntesthetes and the colors flashing through their minds would alert them instantly if Xan dropped a single note or, statistically more likely, they were dead drunk. The wine had been rather good and plentiful for a charity event.

  In the back row, one gray-haired man had thrown back his head, and his much younger date seated beside him was bobbing rhythmically while she stared straight ahead, listening to the music.

  Xan was rather offended, not by the guy getting a hand job in the back row, but by everyone falling asleep to his music. He was a twenty-three year old rock star. He wanted this crowd on their feet and dancing, h
e wanted their hearts thumping and their fists in the air, and he couldn’t do that with a damn violin latched onto his face.

  Xan turned back to Natasha.

  She lowered her dark eyes, lashes brushing her cheeks, and watched her music.

  He could have put the ring inside her cello, or in her case, if he had had the chance. She could have found it, and then he could have gotten down on one knee and dredged up the perfect words to say, and it could have been beautiful.

  Damn it. He had missed that chance. Time was growing short. His plane to rejoin the tour left the next morning.

  Chapter Seven

  After the charity performance, Natasha drove Xan to her new-favorite dessert place called Frosting Shots. From the bright counter, they bought three thin slices of undecorated cake—yellow butter, blue velvet, and flourless chocolate—plus half a dozen shot glasses piped full of buttercreams and whipped ganaches to share. Xan loosened his white bow tie at his throat so he could swallow, the ends flapping on his chest, and flipped the coat tails behind him while he perched on the small cafe chair.

  They sat together, scooping their forks into the frosting shots and picking at the slices of cake, their feet entwined beneath the table and covered by Natasha’s voluminous skirt. Her stout cello case leaned against the wall next to Xan’s guitar case because they were in downtown Los Angeles. You don’t leave stuff in cars in downtown L.A. that you would like to see again. Her cello and Xan’s violin each would cost more than half the houses in L.A. to replace, if it were possible to replace those fine, old, Italian instruments.

  Xan slid his fork into the dark chocolate cake, so dark the the bitterness of the chocolate made his mind sing deep bass notes, and the overhead lights glinted on the silken ganache.

  Again, he could have hidden the ring in the cake or a frosting cup, if he had thought about it and had some advance notice.

  However, getting mud-like ganache out of the prongs around those diamonds and that emerald would have been impossible. Proposing with a sticky, dirty ring and then immediately sending it off to Paris to be cleaned would have been ridiculous.