Tempo of Love

by Kianna Alexander

  He didn’t hesitate. “The children’s hospital in Lillyville. My team and I worked on the design over the course of eight or nine months. The town didn’t have a proper facility for kids with serious injuries and diseases, and we took that into consideration in our design. We wanted to build something that incorporated meeting the medical needs of very sick children while also conveying a sense of whimsy and playfulness. I think we accomplished that.”

  “Wow. You speak very passionately about the hospital project.”

  He smiled, turning her way. “It’s definitely the one I’m most proud of. I still go over there about once a month to visit with the patients and just enjoy what I created.”

  Her eyes connected with his, and a prickle ran up her spine. Hearing the way he spoke about the children’s hospital touched her in a way she hadn’t expected.

  His voice broke into her thoughts. “That was your last question.”

  “I know.” She continued to keep eye contact with him, not wanting the moment to end.

  He leaned closer, the heat of his body radiating out to mingle with hers. “Are you saying you’re satisfied?”

  She didn’t move away. “Not at all. I’d love to see your office.”

  “Why?”

  “Seeing your workspace may help me understand you better. I may not even need to ask you much else.” She inhaled, taking in the scent of his woodsy deodorant.

  “I’m okay with that. Call me and we’ll set it up.”

  Before she could draw her next breath, he placed a peck on her cheek.

  “What...?” she stammered. She’d been caught off guard, but she couldn’t say she hadn’t enjoyed it. The warmth spreading from her cheek made her reach up to place her hand there.

  He smiled, his dark eyes twinkling.

  She got the distinct sense that he enjoyed seeing her so off-kilter.

  “Have a good day, Nona.”

  Without another word, he strode to his car, got in and drove away.

  Nona sat on the bench for several minutes, gathering her focus.

  * * *

  Saturday morning, Ken gathered with the rest of the Queen City Gents at Marco’s house for band rehearsal. As the four of them set up their instruments in Marco’s spare room, Ken looked around at the faces of the men he considered to be his closest friends. Each man wore a smile, one that seemed to have been put there by the woman in his life. Shaking his head, Ken eased onto the stool behind his drum set, and began tapping out a simple rhythm on the snare and kick tom to warm up.

  Soon, Ken segued into “Drum Waltz,” which he’d learned from the techniques of his idol, jazz drum great Max Roach. The cadence moved in three-quarter time, making use of almost the entire drum set. As Roach had done, Ken threw in taps on the rims and outer casings of the drums to increase the depth and variety of sounds he could make.

  As was usually the case when the guys sensed Ken was in the zone, conversation in the room ceased as Ken ran through the waltz a couple of times then moved into a freestyle, improvised rhythm. He was used to having inspiration grab hold of him this way, but the source of today’s inspiration was a surprise. In his mind’s eye, he pictured Nona in her fitted running gear. She had a body built for pleasure, and he would have to have been blind not to see that. As he remembered her tall, lithe figure, his drumming slowed but became richer, more passionate. Before he knew it, he’d slipped into a sensual, lilting ride cadence. His sticks struck the cymbals and the snare in a pattern reminiscent of the movements of her body as he imagined her slowly strutting toward him. His lips stretched into a smile.

  Nona Gregory is a whole lot of woman.

  When Ken finally looked up from his drum set, he saw Darius, Marco and Rashad all staring at him. No one said a word.

  Ken’s brow crinkled. “What?”

  Still, no one responded.

  Ken chuckled, shaking his head. “You act like you never saw me get into a groove before. Darius, pick your jaw up off the floor. And Rashad, you look like your eyes are about to pop out of your head. Fix your face, man!”

  Marco spoke first as the other two men tried to straighten up. “Sure, we’ve seen you in a groove before. We’ve all been there. But this is different.”

  Ken shrugged. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Taking a few steps closer to Ken, Darius looked closely at him. “It’s a woman.”

  Ken frowned.

  “Oh, it’s definitely a woman.” Rashad clapped his hands together. “Wow. I never thought I’d see the day.”

  Marco added, “I know who it is. It’s the reporter from the newspaper, right? The one who’s writing the story about you?”

  “And what makes you think I have any interest in her?” Ken set his sticks on the snare, folding his arms over his chest.

  “You spent almost an hour complaining about her when we sparred in kendo this week.” Marco folded his arms over his chest, mirroring Ken.

  “You’ve never cared enough about a woman to mention her name to any one of us, let alone talk about her for that long.” Darius shook his head, eyes wide with amazement. “I think it’s finally happening.”

  Ken groaned. He never would have thought someone could make him regret his fantasy. If he’d known his thoughts were so plainly displayed on his face, he’d have tucked his daydream away until he was alone.

  “I’m glad a woman has finally gotten under your skin. I was beginning to worry about you, bro.” Rashad took a seat behind the keyboard he used for rehearsals.

  “Looks like our last single member is about to be taken down, boys.” Darius chuckled as he set his upright bass, Miss Molly, on its stand.

  “Whatever. You guys are full of crap.” Ken waved them off, already sensing the futility of the discussion. His bandmates were always bringing up his singlehood; it had been that way ever since Marco had married Joi a couple of months ago. Now that they knew he’d been thinking about a woman, there was no way they’d quit harping on it.

  “I just want to know her name.” The remark came from Darius.

  When Ken didn’t answer, Marco volunteered the information. “Her name is Nona.”

  “I’d love to meet her.” Rashad played his hands over the keys. “Just to say thanks for taking Ken down a peg.”

  Rolling his eyes, Ken vowed not to mention that he’d kissed Nona. He saw no need to add fuel to this fire. “Can we just get on with rehearsal?”

  Darius grinned. “As much as I like teasing Ken, he’s right. We really should get to work on this week’s set.”

  Conversation turned toward the music the band would play and away from Ken’s personal life. Relieved, he grabbed his sticks and waited for Rashad’s cue.

  In the back of his mind, he thought of Nona and the problem she presented. He’d agreed to let her interview him for the newspaper because no sensible businessman would turn down good publicity. But being attracted to Nona had come as a surprise, something he’d never considered would be part of the equation. The way she made him feel only served to further complicate an already complex situation. He was a private man, and letting someone into his personal life was difficult enough without the added burden of growing attraction.

  He knew he’d have to work doubly hard now. He had to protect his single status as well as his privacy, no matter how intoxicating the determined reporter might be.

  Chapter 5

  “Okay, ladies and gentlemen. I need your attention on me, please.”

  Nona stood before her intermediate jazz dance class, dressed in her leggings, tank and felt-bottom dancing shoes. Her students, ranging in age from eleven to fourteen, were lined up in front of her. All ten of her students were present, eight girls and two boys, each standing on their designated mark on the wooden floor.

  She’d been teaching this c
lass two nights a week at Butterfly Ballet and Dance for the past five years, and she truly loved the work. It wasn’t the highest-paying gig in the world, but the joy she got from working with her students and seeing them improve their art more than made up for the paltry paycheck. Her parents’ prodding, and the sense of obligation she felt to them, had led her into journalism as a main career. Pure passion drove her to teach dance.

  As the children settled down, ending their conversations and focusing on her, she smiled. “Thank you. Today, we’ll continue to work on our turns as a basis for our recital choreography. Everybody into first position parallel, please.” She moved into the position, standing with her feet eight inches apart and her toes pointed forward.

  The children mimicked her stance.

  “Second position legs.” She waited as the children adjusted. “Now add second position arms.”

  Over the next forty minutes, Nona walked her students through the practice of a series of turn maneuvers. Moving between the two rows of students, she stopped to reposition little arms and feet as they executed paddle turns, piques and pirouettes. They worked hard, staying focused even as they repeated the same maneuver over and over again. When they achieved good form and proper execution, Nona heaped them with praise for their efforts.

  The intermediate group was full of students who’d begun dance lessons as young children, some as young as four or five years old. Those who didn’t like dance or didn’t feel capable enough to handle it usually dropped out before the intermediate level. By the time they reached Nona’s class, they were serious about learning all they could. Their interest level and dedication were growing, with many of them eager to move on to advanced classes. They were still excited about dancing but knew they had a lot more to learn, and that was what appealed to her about teaching students at that level.

  As the end of class approached, Nona had her students sit on the floor in a circle, as usual. Sitting down between two of the kids, she looked around at their faces. “Great class today, everyone. Now, let’s have our chat. Who has something they want to talk about today?”

  Class chats were something Nona had implemented early in her dance teaching days. Due to the age of her students, they often were facing complex issues at school or with their families. They were middle schoolers, navigating a veritable minefield of social, personal and academic issues. She hoped the class chats gave them a forum to speak to their peers in dance and to ask advice from her as an impartial adult. She kept what the children said to her in confidence, except in instances where one of her students might be in danger. Thankfully, she hadn’t run into that issue so far, so she’d built a rapport with the youngsters under her tutelage.

  Eleven-year-old Marie raised her hand. “Some of the girls at school have been calling me a geek because I read comic books.”

  Nona shook her head. “I’m sorry to hear that, Marie. What is our motto when it comes to our interests?”

  The children repeated the often-said phrase in unison. “Being me is the only way to be.”

  “Right.” Nona sent a smile Marie’s way. “So if you like comic books, keep right on reading them.”

  “I like comics, too.” The remark came from twelve-year-old Diamond. “Maybe we can trade.”

  Marie’s eyes lit up.

  Nona smiled even brighter. “See? You got yourself a comic buddy, right here in class. Now, does anybody else have something they want to talk about?”

  The question was met with silence and head shakes.

  “You’re sure?”

  The only noise in the room was Diamond and Marie’s excited comic book–related banter.

  Nona clasped her hands together. “Okay. Then I have a question for you all.”

  Ten sets of surprised eyes looked her way.

  Ralph, her oldest student at fourteen, asked, “You want our advice on something?”

  She nodded. “Yes. You all know that I work as a reporter for the newspaper. I have an article to write about a man who just won a very important contract from the city.”

  “Okay, so what’s the problem?” Diamond focused on Nona, eyes filled with questions.

  “The man I’m supposed to interview is very secretive. I’ve spoken to him twice and still don’t know very much about him. At least not enough to write my story. So what do you all think I could do to get him to tell me about himself?”

  She looked around the room, taking in her students’ thoughtful expressions. She hadn’t intended to ask them about this when she’d come into the studio today, but she figured she didn’t have anything to lose. She needed to get Ken to open up somehow if she were to have any chance of meeting her deadline.

  Ralph spoke first. “What does he like to do for a hobby?”

  “I know he likes to run. I went on a run with him the other day, and that helped some.”

  “Well, I’d see what else he likes to do. If you do what he likes to do, I bet he’ll talk to you some more.” Ralph folded his arms over his chest. “Yeah. That’s what I’d do.”

  She nodded. “Thanks, Ralph.”

  “No problem.”

  Betty, the youngest of her students, spoke then. “What about cookies? Have you tried baking him cookies?”

  That suggestion made her chuckle. “No, I haven’t. But at this point I’m willing to try it. Maybe I’ll take him some cookies the next time I interview him. Thanks, Betty.”

  The girl responded with a shy smile.

  “I’d say be nice to him, but you’re probably already doing that.” Diamond tapped her chin with her index finger. “Be honest with him and let him know you’re not trying to get in his business, you’re just doing your job.”

  Nona nodded. “Good suggestion, Diamond. Anybody else?”

  No one else had anything to say.

  “Well, thank you all for listening, and for your helpful suggestions to my problem. Class is dismissed.”

  As the children got up and gathered their belongings, Nona watched over them. Through the side windows of the one-story building, she could see their parents’ vehicles idling in the parking lot. She got her clipboard from her dance bag, prepared to check off names one by one as the students were picked up. Once she’d seen all her students safely off, Nona took a minute to straighten up her space, then switched off the lights and headed to her car.

  Crossing the parking lot, she enjoyed the crisp breeze that blew over her, giving her momentary respite from the humid night air. Thinking back on the advice of her students, she smiled and wondered what kind of cookies she should bake for Ken.

  Knowing she’d be willing to give him cookies of a much more adult nature, she shook her head and climbed into her car.

  * * *

  Wednesday morning, Ken strode into his office around seven. It was a bit earlier than he usually came in to work, but he wanted to get an early start on his drafting for the Grand Pearl project. He knew Nona would arrive to interview him around nine, and he wanted two hours alone in the office to work. Lynn rarely came in before nine thirty, and the two interns came in the afternoon when they were released from their college classes.

  Instead of flipping the light switch, he walked across his semidark office toward the windows. The windows went from floor to ceiling, making up the entire eastern wall of his office. Once there, he turned the handle to open the vertical blinds. Sunlight flooded the space, and he took in a deep breath. Morning light always seemed to jump-start his artistic inspiration, making mornings his most productive time for the creative side of his business. He reserved afternoons for paperwork, phone calls and the other activities constituting the practical side of his work.

  He faced away from the window, looking around his private office. The walls were painted in a shade of gray so muted it appeared white. His desk was glass, with chrome legs and hardware, and had no drawers.
Instead, he stored all his important papers in the two silver filing cabinets occupying the south wall behind the desk. Two bookcases sat near the cabinets, storing various mementos and trinkets. Two chrome chairs with white vinyl seats sat facing the desk. On the rare occasion he had guests in his office, they occupied those chairs.

  In the center of the room was his drafting table. Comprised of chrome and stainless steel with a vinyl-covered drawing surface, the table had a matching leather-topped stool for him to sit on. The drafting table was the focal point of the space, positioned in a way to take advantage of the natural light. On the north side of the room sat a seldom-used white microfiber love seat. In place of artwork on the walls, he’d hung blueprints and sketches of his past projects.

  At the drafting table, he put on his headphones and connected them to his smartphone. With a playlist of some of his favorite Max Roach and Art Blakey tunes at a low volume in his ears, he picked up his charcoal pencil and started adding lines to a large piece of fresh white paper.

  As he worked, his vision for the new main hall of the Grand Pearl started to come to life. He was an architect, not an interior designer, so he kept his focus on the structural elements of the space. He sketched crown molding around the area and in a different view drew out the detail of an intricate tray ceiling he thought would enhance the aesthetic appeal of the space. He didn’t look up from his illustration until his smartphone vibrated on his hip.

  Taking the phone from his pocket, he read the text from Nona, alerting him that she was outside his building. Setting down his pencil, he stopped his playlist and removed his headphones. He walked out of his private office, down the hall and through the reception area to the glass doors fronting his suite. Unlocking the door, he swung it open.

  A second later, he watched as Nona climbed out of her black sedan. Her hair was held back from her face by a gold headband, her hazel eyes obscured by large gold-rimmed sunglasses. She wore a sleeveless orange top, paired with a tan pencil skirt that just grazed the tops of her knees. The outfit left the lower expanse of her sable legs bared to his eyes. A smile touched his lips as he watched her walk toward him, her steps sure and confident despite the pencil-thin, sky-high orange heels on her feet. Carrying a clipboard tucked under her arm, along with a small orange clutch, she walked toward him.