by Nikki Sloane
“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.
-10-
Grant
There was a restaurant across the street from the music shop, and once I had all the paperwork filled out for my insurance claim, Tara and I ventured over.
“Do you want to go home and change?” I asked, eying her tight shorts and bare midriff. The long-sleeved costume was dark lace and accentuated her curves. I didn’t mind one bit the way she looked, but I also wanted her to be comfortable. Plus I was hoping for an excuse to drop off the cello at my place, change into different clothes myself, and meet her somewhere.
It’d feel more like a date that way.
She pulled the knot of blonde hair on the top of her head, tightening the loop so it wouldn’t fall. “Nope. I don’t care what people think. It’s their problem, not mine. And I don’t really have time. I’ve got a . . . thing later.”
It was a Friday night, so the restaurant was busy, but the counter at the bar was mostly empty, and
we took three chairs—one for each of us, and one to lean the large black cello case against.
She ordered a gin and tonic, and I ordered beer, and while we waited for the bartender to pour our drinks, Tara’s gaze zeroed in on me. “Do you like performing on your own?”
Naturally, I did. “Solos are usually awarded through competition.”
“Oh, right.” She crossed her arms, leaned on the bar, and smiled knowingly at me. “Your competitive nature.”
“Yes,” I said, answering her question in earnest. “I like performing solos.” It was the way she’d looked at me when I’d played for her that left me completely disarmed. It made me willing to be vulnerable. “I learned early on in my life,” I said, “to take every chance I got to be in the spotlight, otherwise I wouldn’t be seen. I’m the youngest of three kids, and the least successful.”
By a lot. My oldest brother, Joshua, had started his own company, and Pieter was a doctor. Even growing up, I’d struggled for our parents’ attention. I didn’t get the same high marks in school my brothers did. I didn’t beat my father in chess like Pieter, or get into the prestigious Michaelhouse school like Joshua. My brothers cast such big shadows, I rarely got to be in the light.
The bartender set our drinks down in front of us, but Tara ignored hers, her eyes going wide. “I get it. I have two older sisters, and let me tell you, if I ever need to feel inadequate or like I’m wasting my life, I just spend five minutes with them, and problem solved.” She made a face then reached for her drink. “Let’s forget about that. Since you love competition so much, have you heard of the show Dance Dreams?”
I was halfway to taking a sip of my beer but paused. “Uh, can’t say I have.”
“It’s sort of like The Voice, but for dance. People who make it on the show are put into groups, and they compete against each other every week.”
A weird sensation prickled across my neck. It was awareness that she was telling me this for a reason, and I wasn’t sure how I was going to feel about that reason. I also didn’t want to admit that although I worked in television, I rarely watched it. “Oh,” I said, because I had no idea what else to say. “Reality television?”
“Yeah. Before you finish putting on that face of full-blown judgement, I should probably tell you I’m planning to audition for next season.”
My dubiousness faded. “You should. You’re a brilliant dancer.”
Her tone was pure amusement. “You do know that piece I performed today wasn’t supposed to be interactive, right?” She leaned over, gently nudging me in my chest with her shoulder. “But thanks.”
It was strange how comfortable she was. Not just in what she was wearing, or what she said, but how friendly her gestures were. I’d been in the States for ten years, and it still struck me how different the culture could be. American women often felt . . . distant.
But perhaps I’d been dating the wrong women.
“I haven’t told anyone,” she said, like the thought just occurred to her, “that I’m planning to audition. You’re the first.”
“Why’s that?”
Her soft eyebrows pulled together, creating a crease between them. “I don’t know. Maybe because telling people makes it harder. It makes it real.” She ran a fingertip absentmindedly along the rim of her glass. “Pretty much everyone who auditions is going to be straight out of high school or in college. I’m twenty-eight. The cutoff age is thirty.” Her blue eyes were full of hesitation. “I don’t want to be one of those fools who’s delusional about their chances.”
“Tara, there’s no way. When you were dancing, I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”
She laughed softly. “That’s because you want to get in my pants.”
I struggled not to drop my beer. Since she’d offered it . . . “Well, you might not be wrong about that.” Her directness wasn’t just a huge turn-on, it took the guessing out on whether she was interested. “But you were the best one up on that stage, and if you don’t know that, you’re crazy.”
“You’re sweet, but those kids are going to give me some stiff competition. The guy who won last year? He walked away from a principal spot in the New York City ballet.” She swiveled her seat until her knee was subtly against my thigh. “Any chance you want to help me?”
My dick stirred, which was ridiculous. She was barely touching me, and not in a sexual way. I struggled to keep my tone even. “Help how?”
“The Coldplay song you played . . . ‘The Scientist.’ I was already planning to use it for my audition.” She blinked her big eyes at me, and they were filled with hope. “If you played it live, it’d give me an advantage. I’d stand out from all the other hopefuls.”
I couldn’t process what she was asking. “You want me to go on a reality TV show with you?”
“No, I want you to compete with me on a reality TV show.”
I delivered a tight smile. “I see what you did there.”
“Oh, Grant.” Her expression was devious, and she set a hand on my knee. “You’re not the only one allowed to use manipulation to get what they want.”
Her touch filled my body with static.
It wasn’t the first time a woman had come on to me with an agenda. I was a handsome guy, who played rugby and had an accent the girls declared sexy. I was a status to claim in college. Even Morgan had me questioning her motives about our relationship since I had some control over how much on-air time she got.
But this was a first—a woman who wanted me for my ability to play the cello.
It was strangely refreshing.
My parents would be horrified at the thought of me being on reality television, and that helped pique my interest.
“Full disclosure,” she said, “there’s no guarantee my audition would make it on TV. They could just use a highlight, or not show it, or I might not even make it that far in the rounds.”
“How many rounds are there?”
“Last time they came to Chicago for casting, they started with groups. I guess they lump all the dance genres together, they pick the music, and everyone dances at the same time, freestyle. If the producers like what they see, then there’s an interview. And from that, the top thirty or so are selected for solos. Those are filmed in front of the judges.”
Her hand was still on my knee, heating through my jeans, and she gave me a squeeze.
“One of the kids at my friend’s studio auditioned last year. She said fifteen hundred dancers showed up, but I bet this year there’ll be more.”
Just based on math, the odds weren’t in Tara’s favor, but I’d seen her dance. It’d be a crime if she wasn’t in the top, and the idea I could help get her there was appealing, enough so that I considered saying yes without all the details. “When is it?”
“It’s like a month away. October fourteenth.”
I pulled out my phone, scrolled to my calendar. “That’s a Saturday.” She could tell from my tone that was a problem, and I elaborated. “It’s rugby season. I have a match at three.”
It hurt to see her crestfallen, but there was no way I was going to miss a match. I played sick or injured, or whatever obstacle was thrown at me. I couldn’t play to win if I wasn’t there. Plus, if one of the other players said he couldn’t make it because he was auditioning for some TV show, I’d lose my shit.
“Is it in town?” she asked, trying to stave off disappointment.
“Yes.”
“We could be done by then.”
She did her best to sound convincing, but I wasn’t fooled. “I know how television works. Unless it’s live, shooting always falls behind schedule.”
“How long does a game take?”
“A match is eighty minutes, plus ten minutes at the half. With penalties and the clock stopping on injuries, it’s around three hours.”
“Oh.” She deflated, her shoulders slumping.
“Don’t misunderstand, I’d love to help you, but I don’t want to let my team down.”
“Right.” She brightened abruptly. “How about we play it by ear, then? If I make it to the judges by the time your game starts, I can ask to go last, and maybe you can come back after.”
“That sounds like a long shot.”
“It’s better than no shot.” She grinned. “This whole thing is a long shot, so what do you say? You want to take a chance with me?”
I wanted to, in more than one way. I gazed at this beautiful woman, who was looking back at me like I could be her hero. All I had to do was say yes.
“Sure,” I said, and when excitement lit up her face, I felt ten feet tall.
-11-
Tara
After Grant paid for our drinks, he asked to see me home, and we shared a cab to my apartment. He left the meter running with the taxi driver and carried the loaner cello while he walked me to the main door.
I slipped my key in the top lock and let him follow me into the entryway. With the sun down, and my dance costume, it was cold outside in the wind, and I had the strong suspicion he was going to want to kiss me goodnight.
When it came to sex, I didn’t mind an audience, but a first kiss was different, far more intimate, and I didn’t want the skeevy cab driver watching. He’d been eyeballing me in the mirror most of the ride here.
“Thank you for the drink,” I said, ambling my way toward my front door. The apartment building was like a condo. It had two floors with two units on each side, and a large set of stairs running up one wall. I was on the ground floor and gestured to my door, tucked at the end in the shadow beneath the stairs. “That’s me.”
Grant walked beside me, matching my hesitant pace, like he was as unsure as I was about what happened next.
I hadn’t truly dated in three years, which meant I hadn’t had a real kiss in that amount of time. Yes, men kissed me sometimes at the blindfold club, but that didn’t count because those were empty, meaningless things. Silas and Regan’s kisses didn’t count either. Those were about pleasure, not emotion or connection.