Penalty Play

by Lynda Aicher

  “Mom.” The girl’s eyes had gone wide, indignation spouting in her raised voice. “Ew. I don’t want to use a clarinet someone else has put their mouth on.”

  “We thoroughly sanitize and clean every rental instrument,” Jacqui jumped in, used to hearing that concern. “That’s included with our quality guarantee. But we also have a trial purchase program that may interest you.” She breezed into the spiel like the professional salesperson she was.

  Forty-five minutes later, the pair left, new clarinet in hand, both mother and daughter happy. Jacqui tucked the try-and-buy contract into the appropriate folder in the file cabinet before making a pass through the store to check on the guy who’d been eyeing up the discounted amps.

  The afternoon progressed with a continued trickle of customers until the store became blessedly empty around dinnertime. Jacqui sent Max off for his break, muted the music playing through the store then headed to her baby. She had no hope of ever owning the Steinway grand piano, but it’d been on the sales floor for the last year and had since become her favorite.

  She flexed her fingers, the itch tingling through them in anticipation as she slid onto the bench. One last glance at the front door conveniently positioned within her line of sight confirmed no one was approaching the store.

  Notes plucked out beneath her fingers, the keys flowing in rhythm with the scales she ran as a quick warm-up. The keyboard was her preferred instrument with contemporary music her forte, but a grand piano of this quality almost required a classical piece. Could she get in a full sonata before a customer came in?

  Not likely.

  She slipped into the third movement of the Beethoven sonata without pausing, the notes coming to her from years of muscle memory. Around six minutes in length, she might have a shot of finishing it before someone came in. She’d mastered “The Tempest” as part of her college entrance audition and still thought of it as her lucky song—if you could call a twenty-five minute, three-movement classical piece of music a song.

  The notes soothed through her. The rapid run of keys and tones, mixed with the complexity of movement, overtook every thought as she became part of the sonata. The store filled with the music, the room a poor receptor for the quality of the instrument. It didn’t matter to her though. It wasn’t about the actual sound or who heard it, not for her. It was about making the notes come to life. Feeling the music clear to her toes until nothing else mattered.

  She should’ve known better than to start that particular piece of music. The highly technical quality of the allegretto always demanded her full attention, no matter how often she played it, and it’d been months since she’d played anything classical.

  A sense of being watched registered in her subconscious as she neared the end of the movement. It jerked her out of her zone, and she whipped her head up to spot a tall, bulky man studying her from across the room. With a heavy five o’clock shadow and a worn Red Sox hat pulled low on his brow, his expression was mostly hidden.

  Damn. Her fingers froze then curled guiltily into her palms. The last notes lingered in the air between them in an accusing ring of her irresponsibility.

  “I’m sor—” she started.

  “Don’t stop on—” he said at the same time, hand raising in silent apology.

  Her laugh was dry and forced as she swung her legs around on the bench. Anyone could’ve walked in while she’d been zoned out in the music. A robber or rapist, according to her older brothers, which had her mentally rolling her eyes at the overprotective absurdity. But she knew better than to get lost like that when she was alone in the store.

  “No,” she quickly added with a genuine smile. “I should be working, not playing. What can I do for you?”

  The man shook his head, a gentle smile softening his gruff features. “I wouldn’t call that playing.”

  He hadn’t moved from his spot over twenty feet away. Tall and broad, he could easily overpower her if he chose to. But with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his cargo shorts, he didn’t come across as intimidating, despite his size.

  Intrigued, she cocked a brow and stood. “No? Then what would you call it?”

  “Art.”

  The recognition and understanding brought an instant warmth to her chest. And…it stumped her, coming from a guy who appeared more than a bit uncomfortable in the music store. But he had to be a fellow musician or at a minimum a lover of classical music. Another contradiction based on his appearance.

  “Thank you,” she managed to say.

  “So please—” he motioned to the piano. “Finish.”

  “No.”

  “Please.” His immediate, soft-spoken plea had her rethinking the man yet again. “It was beautiful.” He swiped the back of his hand over his chin, gaze darting away. “It’s been a long time since I’ve heard ‘The Tempest.’ I’d…” His deep swallow was visible across the room as he stuffed his hand back in his pocket. “I’d like to hear the end.”

  She slowly sat back down, unsure of what to make of her customer. “You know that piece?” She cringed at her silly question. Obviously he did, or he wouldn’t have named it. “Right. Of course you do,” she rushed to say before he could respond. “Sorry.” She swung her legs around, her right foot finding its home by the pedals. A quick scan from the corner of her eye showed him studying her. “You surprised me.” In more than one way.

  His nod was slow, a weighted agreement. “I didn’t mean to.”

  The low pitch of his voice stroked over her awareness to pluck at her curiosity. She set her fingers on the keys. “Do you play?”

  He glanced down, feet shifting as he cleared his throat. “Guitar, some.”

  Yet he could recognize a classical piano piece by ear. Interesting, but she squashed the urge to push him on it. People could appreciate all types of music without needing to explain themselves. The fact that he found pleasure in the notes she played was enough for her.

  The clock behind the counter showed Max had ten minutes left on his break. He’d be back if anything went wrong with this guy. Plus there were security cameras. And the man hadn’t done anything to make her think he’d do something bad. Outside of his size, he was about as threatening as a puppy.

  She picked up the sonata a few bars back from where she’d abruptly stopped. The rise and fall of the notes quickly engrossed her again, but she didn’t let herself become fully absorbed in the music. It still fed into her, swirling in the adrenaline rush that always came when she played. But she stopped short of getting lost in it.

  He edged closer, measured steps that were more unconscious than predatory. She was aware of every step, her fingers playing on autopilot while her mind detailed the intriguing stranger.

  His polo and cargo shorts were clean and pressed, his leather flip-flops of good quality. He was built broad and muscular with a solid thickness through his chest that stretched the material of his shirt. His hair was hidden beneath his ball cap, and she assumed it was dark, based on the stubble on his cheeks.

  Handsome? Her stomach did a small roll of interest. Yes. Definitely.

  Square jaw, broad mouth with an unexpected perfect Cupid’s bow arch to his upper lip. The glimpse of deep eyes beneath the bill of his hat had her pondering their color. A dark brown? A cool gray would fit him too.

  She was closing in on the ending when he reached the edge of the piano. Separated by the length of the instrument, he kept his distance, which put her at ease. She swayed to the beat of the music, playing into the rhythm with the showmanship she’d been taught. Her music performance degree included the art of enticing an audience into both the music and the artist.

  The piano lid was propped up, and his hands came to rest on the lip of the curved tail. Blunt and battered, his fingers tapped out the notes she played in barely lifted movements. But she caught them, the pattern so ingrained in her head there was no way she misread his small actions as a random act.

  This man not only knew the song, but he could play it too.


  Yet he’d denied being able to play the piano.

  The allegretto came to an end on a low note that drifted quietly into the almost sudden conclusion. Her hands remained on the keyboard, heart thumping in the silence that held. Did he like it?

  She squeezed her eyes closed for just a moment and gave herself a mental kick. He was just a customer. It really shouldn’t matter what he thought.

  “That was beautiful.”

  His soft praise brought a grin to her face and a warmth through her chest. “Thank you.” Her legs were a little weak when she stood and her stomach did a strange dance when she stepped around the piano to approach him. Thankfully her voice was pitched into her charming salesperson tone when she spoke. “Now, what can I help you with?”

  “Oh.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets and stepped back. His gaze skated over the store until it landed on the sign noting the guitar section. “I need some new guitar strings. Thought about getting a new guitar too.”

  She cocked her head. “Thought about?” He shrugged. “Do you know what kind you want?”

  “Not really.” He moved away. “I’ll just have a look around.”

  “Okay,” she said to his back. “Let me know if you have any questions.”

  A single head bob was his answer.

  She watched him weave his way around the pianos on display, questions tumbling through her mind. Something about the man was familiar, but she didn’t recognize him as a regular customer. Or even an infrequent one.

  Curiosity and interest had her trailing him, even though he’d clearly dismissed her. “What kind of guitar do you currently play?”

  “I haven’t played in a while,” he mumbled, not turning around.

  “So what do you own?”

  “Acoustic, electric, classical and bass.”

  “Is that all?” she quipped, not meaning to sound as snotty as it came out. “I mean, what else do you need?” And that didn’t sound much better. “Are you in a band?” There. That was a neutral question.

  “No.”

  Okay. That screamed “leave me alone” so she turned around to give him his space. She’d taken two steps before his soft “Sorry” reached her. Or at least she thought she heard that.

  She swiveled back to study him. “What?”

  He turned just his head. “Sorry.”

  “For what?” She was the one being nosy.

  “Being rude.” He looked back to the display of guitar strings.

  And there he went endearing himself to her even more. He not only liked but could probably play classical piano music, and he had manners. She crossed her arms over her chest and studied him again.

  His forearms were defined with muscles that carried up to his biceps. He held his shoulders back and now that she got a good look at him from behind, he had a really nice ass. Round and firm beneath his shorts that led to muscled thighs and chiseled calves. Her stomach flipped at the thought of all that power focused on her—in bed. Dang, that was hot and so not appropriate.

  She shook her head and yanked her mind from the side-trip into fantasy land. Who was this man? Her lip cocked up in understanding when she saw the bumps on the back of his heels.

  He played hockey. A lot, she’d guess, given the size of his Bauer bumps.

  Two of her brothers had required surgery to fix the deformity caused by the heels rubbing on the back of the skates. Didn’t he know about the heel pads he could wear to reduce those?

  “You weren’t rude,” she finally responded, still distracted by his feet. Should she say something about the pads? Would that be rude of her? Intrusive? Probably. “So…” She motioned toward the large display of guitars. “Would you like to try any of them out?”

  His gaze went to the display before shifting back to her. “I know my feet are ugly.”

  Holy crap. Heat flew up her neck to flame her cheeks and her mouth dropped open before she snapped it shut. “That’s not what I was thinking.”

  “No? Most women do.”

  Her disgust was pushed out on a short burst of air. “Then I’m not most women.”

  He shifted to face her, arms crossing to match her stance. “Then what were you thinking? I know you were staring at my feet, and there’s no way you could miss how fugly they are.”

  “Fugly?” She quirked a brow, lips twitching. “Really?”

  He grunted—a real caveman-style grunt. “I know they’re fucking ugly. I don’t need anyone to tell me that.”

  And the challenge was raised. Or was it a dare? The curse word was both natural and stiff on his lips. Yup, manners. She’d guess he didn’t like swearing in front of women or had been raised not to do so. Like her brothers had.

  “Do you want to know what I was really thinking?” She stepped forward, undaunted by his size or attitude. Her instinct told her this man wouldn’t hurt her. Plus, she wasn’t one to back down from a challenge. She hadn’t kicked the butt out of cancer—twice—by giving up when the odds were against her.

  She stopped a few feet from him, his imposing height seeming to tower over her five-seven frame. He was all hard muscle and intimidation that sent a zing of want-laced fear through her. Still, she met his eyes and cocked a brow waiting for him to answer.

  He tipped the bill back on his cap, and her breath caught. Green. He had dark-green eyes that held hers captive with their layers of questions and defenses. “Sure.”

  Sure? Sure what?

  She blinked then jerked her gaze away from his. With a quick inhale, she stepped to the side and pointed at his heels. “I wondered if those hurt and if you’d tried the gel pads in your skates.” She glanced up. “Should I continue?”

  “Huh.” He shook his head then to her surprise coughed out a “Sure.”

  His arms were still crossed in a protective gesture over his chest, making this man so very different from the one who’d pantomimed keys on the edge of the piano. What was his story?

  “Okay.” She warmed to the byplay, even though she was unsure where it was going. “I was thinking you must play a lot of hockey to have bumps like that. The muscles in your thighs and ass confirm that assumption, along with the calluses on your pointer fingers and palms.” A byproduct of repeatedly tying his skate laces. She measured his reaction before breaking into a grin. “And that was it. Ugly didn’t cross my mind. Not even once.” Not even close.

  “The muscles in my ass?” His brow quirked, amusement tugging at his lips.

  “Really?” she hedged, ducking her mortification. She usually didn’t tell strangers—customers—she’d been checking out their backside. “That’s what you got out of that?”

  He met her stare for a silent second or two before a half smile broke free. “Hockey fan?”

  “No,” she quickly assured him. Maybe too quickly, based on his sudden scowl. “I have four older brothers who all play. I have knowledge by osmosis more than desire.”

  “Oh.” His frown pulled his brows down and flattened his smile. “So you don’t like hockey?” His confusion was entirely too cute for such a gruff guy.

  “More ambivalent really.”

  The bell on the front door jangled, and Jacqui leaned around the aisle to spot Max returning from his dinner break. Good. She could turn this customer over to him before she tanked a potential sale or embarrassed herself further.

  “Hey, Max,” she called, waving him down.

  “I’ll be right out,” he said before ducking into the back area.

  Which left her with Mr. Gruff.

  She turned back to him, taking the offensive. “I’m Jacqui by the way.” She held out her hand just to see if he’d take it.

  “Jacqui,” he mimicked, her name rolling off his tongue in a low rumble that tumbled down her spine in a warm caress. His large palm engulfed her hand in a gentle hold. “Henrik. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  And there was the gentleman again.

  The heat of his hold fed up her arm to entrap her as she sorted through the varying facets of the man. “
Henrik,” she repeated automatically, a smile spreading. “It’s a pleasure to meet you too.”

  The intensity of his gaze stole the last of her breath. There was something sad in his eyes. Deep and hurting that called out to the wounded part of her that understood pain. His story was intense, whatever it was.

  “Okay.” Max’s call boomed over their heads, breaking the moment. “I’m back.”

  Right. Jacqui stepped away, belatedly ending her contact with the puzzle of a man. Henrik. German or Scandinavian?

  Max appeared at the end of the aisle, dark bangs flopping over his brow to cover most of one eye. “Do you need me for something?”

  It took her a moment to think through his question. Apparently her brain needed a shot of caffeine to keep up with the conversation.

  “Yeah,” she croaked out before clearing her throat. “Could you help Henrik? He was interested in looking at guitars.”

  “Sure—”

  “That’s okay,” Henrik cut off Max’s response, his frown carving a deep groove in his forehead. “I’m good.”

  “No.” Guilt twisted in Jacqui’s chest. She stepped into Henrik’s personal space and ignored the confused look Max shot her. She pitched her voice low in an attempt to keep her words private. “Now I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you in any way. My directness gets me in trouble. But please, look at the guitars. Buy one if you want, or don’t. Just don’t leave because I was being forward and blunt.”

  Her hand had come to rest on his forearm during her plea, and he glanced down to where she touched him. Again heat seemed to radiate out to ignite a scorching flash of desire straight to her sex, but she squelched the urge to jerk her hand away now that he’d called attention to it.

  There was a spark in his eyes when he lifted his head, the green shining brighter with what could only be mischief. “What if I want you to sell me a guitar?”

  Oh? Her brow lifted, but she managed to hold back her smile. “You do know that guitars are all I’m selling, right?”

  “Of course.”

  Her throat had gone dry and she swallowed to force moisture down it. “Good.”