by Nikki Sloane
The corners of his mouth hinted at a smile. “You might have given me a startle.”
“She’s all right,” the conductor repeated, loud enough for everyone to hear. There were sighs of relief from the crowd that had gathered, and my dance troupe on stage.
I tore my gaze away from the stranger who was still holding me and surveyed the carnage around us. Folding chairs had been overturned and music stands knocked sideways in the crush to escape. A large string instrument lay on its side, its neck bent at an unnatural angle and wood splintered around it.
My voice was filled with dread. “Whose cello is that?”
The man followed my gaze and drew in a long, sobering breath. “It’s mine.”
For a second, I couldn’t accept it. The major disconnect in my brain said there was no way this sexy beast of a man played a delicate, refined instrument like the cello. He looked far more likely to crush skulls than hang with Yo-Yo Ma. It wasn’t the bow he still gripped in his hand that convinced me, but the way he stared at the broken instrument like it was a dead lover.
Oh, no.
In order to save me, he’d sacrificed the carefully crafted instrument of wood and strings that probably cost a small fortune. I scrambled out of his lap, flooded with guilt. “I’m so sorry,” I blurted out. “I’ll pay to fix it.”
He peered up at me with a strange look, almost as if he were sadder I was out of his arms than about the broken cello at his feet. “What?”
“Your cello. It was my fault, I shouldn’t have . . .”
The words died in my throat as he stood from his chair. He was even more impressive now, towering over me. The guy was like a tree. Thick and sturdy, and something I’d be happy to climb all over.
“It was an accident,” he said. “I’m right glad you didn’t get hurt.”
I wasn’t imagining it, there definitely was an accent there. New Zealand? Something vaguely British. Like he needed anything else to make him more appealing.
“Grant!” A man nearby reached for the cello but stopped as if he realized just in time it was infected with the plague. His tone was consolatory. “Oh, no.”
The mountain of man who’d been referred to as Grant slid his gaze back to me. I’d just destroyed his precious cello, not to mention his night. He should have been upset or even angry. Instead, he simply stared at me. It was like I was a puzzle he was trying to decipher.
Around us, the orchestra members put back the chairs and stands my stage dive had disrupted. The conductor came down off his platform and scurried over to us. Well, more to Grant.
“Fredrick and Sons string shop,” he announced. “Over in Streeterville. He’ll give you a loaner while he repairs.” He checked his watch. “And I think he’s open until eight.”
“I’ll go with you,” I said instantly.
Both men looked dubious, but Grant gave a sad smile. “That’s really not necessary.”
“It’s the least I can do.” It was clear he’d need more convincing. “Please, I feel awful about it. Let me help.”
“That’s a nice offer,” the conductor interrupted, “but just so you know, a repair like that isn’t going to come cheap.”
“It’s not a problem.” I gazed up at Grant with pleading eyes. It was foolish to basically write a blank check, but this enormous cello-playing man with an unplaceable accent was fascinating. Now that he’d caught me, I was sure I didn’t want to get away. “Grant, is it? I’m Tara. Give me a few minutes to finish up, and we can talk about it on the way to the shop. Deal?”
There was hesitation, but he finally spoke. “All right.”
Blood roared in my ears. I was imagining it. Seeing things that weren’t there, because I was all hyped up on adrenaline. That wasn’t desire in his eyes . . . was it?
“Okay, good.” A thrill zipped through me. “Can you help me back onto the stage?”
-8-
Grant
It had been the look of horror on Daniel’s face and his frozen conductor’s baton that gave me an inkling something was wrong. I paused my bow mid-stroke and looked up, only to see a body flying toward me.
The reaction was pure instinct. I heaved my cello out of the way and rose from my seat, bracing my arms to slow the woman’s fall. She landed safely but hard, driving me back into my seat, and it was a miracle neither of us had gotten hurt. A split second later? She would have ended up skewered on the scroll of my cello.
As soon as I realized she was all right, the rest of my mind began to function again, taking in how beautiful she was. Her eyes were wild, no doubt from shock, but I was sure they were vibrant even when she was calm. They were as bright and blue as a cloudless summer sky.
Her hair was darker at her temples from sweat, but the messy bun of blonde hair on the top of her head was golden. Her nose was pert and cute, leading down to her cupid-bow lips. She was the prettiest girl I’d ever seen.
And her body . . . fuck, this girl did not disappoint. It wasn’t the right time to assess her, but the male part of me was very happy to have served as the landing pad for this sexy woman.
In fact, none of this situation was bad—not until I saw my cello. It gave me the same feeling as taking an opponent’s head to the solar plexus. I clutched my bow so hard, it was surprising it didn’t snap in two.
It took a moment to absorb the image of the splintered neck, the strings no longer taut over the fingerboard, before I remembered I was prepared for this. The cello was valued at nine thousand dollars these days, but my parents had paid considerably more back when they’d bought it for me. Which meant I always carried instrument insurance.
Tara didn’t need to know that just yet, though. She’d offered to go with me to the shop, and I wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity to get to know her better. The girl was beautiful, sweet, and there wasn’t a ring on her finger. My cello was broken, but maybe fate had rewarded me for that and literally dropped her in my lap.
I stood beside my chair, and as she climbed up on it, she put a hand on my shoulder to steady herself. She probably didn’t need it for balance. Maybe she’d done it as an excuse to touch me. Then up she went, onto the stage to join the group of women waiting anxiously for her.
There was a quick conversation after she confirmed she was okay, and my mouth fell open when one of the girls told Daniel they wanted to start from the beginning.
They were going to run through it again? Would they take out the stunt that had sent Tara flying offstage?
I should have collected my busted cello and put it in its case. I should have looked up the number for Fredrick and Sons on my phone and called to tell them I was coming. But instead I stood beside my chair with my attention on the stage and watched her dance.
It was all I could do.
There was another girl who seemed to be the focus, but my gaze kept returning to Tara. She drew me in. Her narrow waist, her long legs, her flat stomach, and the way she moved . . . I was in awe. And I was probably projecting, but it seemed like she was looking at me as she danced.
Before, the leap she’d done had gone horribly wrong, but there wasn’t a speck of hesitation in her eyes as she attempted it the second time. The girl was fearless. She bounded across the stage, flew high into the air, and dropping perfectly into the other dancers’ hold. It was seamless the way she rolled out of their arms and back onto her feet, transitioning into the next movement.
I watched the performance all the way until the final pose. She was a siren, disarming me, and as soon as I figured out the song was over, I made my way backstage to where I’d stowed my case.
Making the phone call to the music shop wasn’t hard, but putting the damaged neck back into the case was, and I grimaced at the unnatural twang of strings. I tucked the bow into its sleeve, put it away, and then snapped the clasps closed on the case lid.
While I waited for her to finish, I mapped out a course of action. The main objective was to invite her for a drink after the cello
situation had been handled, but I’d also settle for her phone number. Tara was deep in discussion with the short, dark-haired girl who seemed to be in charge, and when she said something, Tara laughed.
I wished I had been standing closer, so I could have heard it.
The group of women dispersed, and she raised her index finger to me, signaling one more minute. It was so she could go grab her bag offstage, and when she reappeared, she had one sneaker on and was hopping her way into the other.
“Okay, I’m ready.” She sounded winded, but . . . happy? She’d enjoyed dancing, and I understood . . .I had definitely enjoyed her dancing. She reached out a hand. “Help me down? I’d like a controlled descent this time.”
It didn’t feel like I was overstepping, since she’d asked for it. I reached up, put my hands on her waist, and lifted as she jumped, guiding her down to the ground. When she landed, we were chest to chest, my hands on her hips. I fought the urge to run the pad of my thumb over the bare skin just above where her shorts ended.
Tara was an absolute smoke show. Her already quick breathing grew more erratic as she stared up at me. I had a twinge of relief. This attraction between us—I wasn’t the only one picking up on it.
But I couldn’t stay here all night with my hands on her waist, no matter how much I wanted to. The shop closed soon, and I had to try out the loaner piece. I reluctantly released her, bent, and grabbed the handle of my case.
“How are we getting there?” she asked. “I don’t have a car. I took the CTA.”
“I don’t either, and as fun as it is to take this beast through the turnstiles, I was going to call a Lyft.”
She nodded and immediately dug out her phone.
I wanted to do the gentlemanly thing and offer to cover the cost, but decided I was okay letting her pay for our ride. It could be what absolved her of her guilt when she found out I’d file an insurance claim, and she was off the hook. Much better to pay a bill for thirty bucks than three thousand.
“Make sure it can seat three,” I said. “The case doesn’t fit in most trunks.”
We walked out of the pavilion and headed toward the rideshare pick-up spot, weaving our way through the tourists collected around The Bean. There must have been a tour group, because it was packed with Asians. It was like running the gauntlet, trying to get through them.
A camera was abruptly thrust toward me. The white guy holding it looked pale and sweaty, like he wasn’t feeling very well. “Do you speak English?”
I blinked. “Yes.”
“Uh, great. Can you help me out, man?” He didn’t wait for me to respond, he just set the camera in my hand and fiddled with the settings knob on top. As soon as he was satisfied, his voice dropped to a hush. “Take a bunch, okay? Thanks.”
I set down my case and tossed a “what’re you gonna do” smile to Tara. She grinned back and turned her attention to the nervous-looking guy. He hurried to join his girlfriend who was posed in front of the large, mirrored sculpture, the Chicago skyline reflected in it.
As I peered at the digital screen on the camera and made sure they were framed right, the guy stuck his hand in his pocket. What was he doing?
“Oh,” Tara said quietly, her tone soft and warm. She gently nudged my shoulder. “Start clicking.”
But the guy wasn’t holding still. Or even looking at the camera—
Ah. Now I understood. I pressed the button, snapping as many pictures as I could before the girlfriend figured out what was happening, before the nervous guy got down on a knee and held up a ring. The shutter on the camera was fast, so I caught each moment. How her face crumbled with happy tears. How she nodded yes, too overcome to say anything after he asked her to marry him. And how he slipped the sparkling ring on her finger.
There was a smattering of applause from the tourists nearby as the newly-engaged couple kissed, and I kept photographing it, all the way until he started walking toward me. He didn’t look nervous now. He looked like he thought he was the luckiest guy in the world.
“Thank you so much,” he said, grinning.
“Of course.” I passed the camera back to him.
“No, for real. I’ve been trying to find someone to take the pictures for the last five minutes, and I needed a guy who’d get what I was doing. You’re the first American couple I’ve seen.”
“Congratulations,” Tara said.
“Thanks!”
I picked up my cello case as the guy strode to his fiancée, excited to see how the pictures had turned out.
“Are you?” Tara asked as we resumed walking, this time at a faster clip.
“Am I what?”
“American?” She said it casually, as if she were merely curious.
“Yeah.” I chuckled. “Much to my family’s disappointment.”
“Meaning?”
We came down the concrete steps leading toward noisy Michigan Avenue as I thought about how to answer. “My family has always looked down on Americans.”
Her expression went guarded. “Oh, yeah? For what?”
“This is my South African family, not me. I’ve always been the outsider compared to them. I’m the black sheep.” We’d reached the curb, but when I said that, she glanced up from her phone in surprise. Was that recognition lighting her eyes?
My wealthy and white South African parents had spent their entire lives at the top of the class hierarchy. Their status was so engrained in their personalities, they were unbearable.
I hesitated before answering. “They think Americans lack culture, that they’re unrefined.”
Tara raised one perfectly arched eyebrow. “I’m sure that’s true for some people. But I also know people with a dollar to their name who have more class than people in the penthouses on Lake Shore Drive.”
I couldn’t agree more. It was just one of the many reasons I’d left Johannesburg.
She gestured toward the black SUV with the purple Lyft light on the dashboard. “That’s us.”
I needed to keep it light and steer the conversation away from my family. “You know someone who has a penthouse on Lake Shore Drive?”
She pulled open the car door and gave me an enigmatic smile. “Actually, I know several.”
-9-
Tara
Our Lyft driver was amused when Grant put his cello in the passenger seat and buckled it in, and I was pleased about it too. It meant Grant and I would ride together in the back seat and it’d give us time to get to know each other better. Although the drive wouldn’t take long.
“South Africa, huh?” I said. “I’m sorry, I would have guessed New Zealand.”
A smile tugged across his lips. “That’s at least better than guessing Ireland.”
“Wait, is that real? Someone thought your accent sounded Irish?”
“Oh, I get all the bloody awful guesses. Australian the most, which . . . all right. They’re similar. But I don’t understand when people ask if I’m Scottish or Irish, or . . . from New Jersey.”
I snorted. “New Jersey, oh my God.”
The car pulled out into traffic, and I fiddled with the strap of my seatbelt. How was I going to play this? God, I hadn’t flirted in so long, I was sure to be terrible.
“So,” I drawled, then corrected to not sound like a fool, “you don’t look like a guy who plays cello. How’d that happen?”
His expression hinted he’d told this story many times, but still enjoyed it. “Growing up, my parents despised rugby. All sports, really. Me—being the black sheep—of course it was all I wanted to do. So, I struck a deal. They’d let me go out for rugby if I took up the cello.” His blue eyes gleamed. “I was sure I’d fucking hate it.”
It was more statement from me than question. “But you didn’t?”
He massaged the back of his neck, probably so I wouldn’t see the faint bashfulness in his expression. I almost didn’t because his thick bicep was sexy and distracting. “Well, I did at first, mostly to spite them. Th
en my tutor told me I was awful.”
I gave him a skeptical look. “And this made you like it?”
“I’m competitive by nature, so I had to prove him wrong. Once that was done, I found out I could compete for first chair.” He shrugged. “There was always some new challenge. I was doomed.”
I laughed. “Poor rugby. It lost out to the cello.”
“No, I still do that. Actually, I’ve got a match next weekend in Detroit.”
“Oh,” I said. Oh, yes, my body said. I knew nothing about the sport, other than the sexy-as-fuck men were built like brutes and just my type. “You play professionally?”
“No, it’s Division One. That’s a step down from professional.” He forced a casual tone, but I heard the longing beneath. “I enjoy it very much, but I’m not meant to play at that level.”
Meaning no matter how much he’d wanted to, it hadn’t happened for him. Well, I knew all about that, didn’t I? I shifted subtly closer to him in my seat, wanting to be near.
“It’s the same with me and ballet,” I admitted. “I tried for a while to make a career out of it, but it wasn’t in the cards.”
His eyes turned warm in understanding. “What do you do?”
I knew the question was coming, and yet I still wasn’t prepared. Instead, I stalled. “You mean, when I’m not landing on hot cello guys?”
Surprise glanced through his face at my unexpected compliment, and the warmth in his expression heated further. It made the air in the car go thin.
The rest of society told me I should be, but I wasn’t ashamed of what I did. It was the oldest profession, after all. I wasn’t stupid. I’d had the conversation enough times with a potential partner to know exactly how it was going to go, down to the moment everything ended.
I wanted one night of . . . possibility. One evening free of the other person’s hang-ups and judgement clouding their perception of me. I could take my pleasure now and feel guilty about it later.
“High-end sales,” I said. It wasn’t a lie. “You?”
“I’m a line producer on Channel Five, the morning news.” He leaned back in his seat and cast an arm on the window sill, looking comfortable and confident and very inviting. “It sounds a lot better than it is. I went to school to be a journalist. This was the closest media job I could get.”
