Player(2)

“Thirty seconds more, and I would have had to pay you for the shine.”

An awkward laugh crackled out of me. “Please, I probably should be paying you. I’m really sorry. I don’t usually spit on leather shoes. Or any shoes. I don’t usually spit. I mean, aside from my spit valve. Or when I brush my teeth. Or after I puke.”

Oh my God, stop talking. STOP TALKING NOW.

I clamped my mouth shut.

The tilt in his smile angled higher. “No harm done, Val.”

He knows my name? Holy shit, he knows my name.

Heat burst across my skin, climbing up my neck and to my cheeks.

Sam shifted away from me. “See you tomorrow. And maybe watch where you point that,” he said, nodding to my trumpet. “Wouldn’t want to lose you to the shoe shine industry.”

The laugh that left me was unrecognizable. I lifted my hand lamely. “Bye.”

Somehow, I found the wherewithal to stop staring at his backside as he walked away. I took my seat to finish disassembling my trumpet, packing the mouthpiece and horn away in its bed of cobalt velvet. And all the while, I sank into that familiar feeling of abject horror and the feverish thrill that accompanied every encounter with him.

He’d touched my hand. He’d smiled at me. He knew my name.

And in my book, that was a win regardless of how much drool it had taken me to get there.



Sam

I felt her eyes on me while I put my upright bass in its case. The weight of her stare didn’t go unnoticed as I dragged my fingers through my hair when it fell out of place.

I probably shouldn’t have lifted the massive case with one hand, an action that engaged every muscle in my arm from fingers to shoulder—back, pecs, and abs as a bonus.

But I did, and I did it without a shred of shame or remorse.

It seemed like we never got through a curtain call without Val crossing my path, and every encounter was more unexpected. Once, when she’d walked by, her toe had caught my music stand and taken it down in a hail of sheet music. Just the other day, she’d tripped on my foot and ended up in my lap, thanks to some quick maneuvering on my part. I hadn’t forgotten the feel of her ass seated snugly against my thighs. And I couldn’t help my amusement. I didn’t even try, as innocent as it was.

Like the asshole I was, I soaked up every ounce of her attention.

I knew who she was—no one could miss her. A head of curly hair in shades of caramel to chestnut. A heart-shaped face set with big, dark eyes. Lips like a little Cupid’s bow, small and full. Her body, short and stacked, with curves like a roller coaster. I noticed every one even though I wasn’t sure she wanted anyone to—she hid her body under baggy clothes.

I wondered if she was ashamed. If she thought men didn’t want a body like hers, with curves reminiscent of the mahogany bass I’d just locked away. If so, she had no idea how wrong she was.

I was an aficionado of women; I admired them, valued them, appreciated them always. And there was a lot to appreciate about Val.

Ian chuckled, his arms folded as he leaned against the wall beside me, twirling a drumstick in his fingers. “Man, that chick is so into you.”

I hadn’t realized I was smiling until my lips began to fall. “She’s a cute kid.”

“A girl with a body like that is no kid.” Ian watched her with a wolfish expression on his face, nothing but teeth and eyes.

Ian Jackson, asshole extraordinaire. We’d met at a prep school for the gifted and filthy rich when we were fifteen and had been friends ever since, through Juilliard and into Broadway. We were two of a kind in our way. He was as fair as I was dark, with blond hair and cool eyes and a smile that brought girls running like the Pied Piper of Hamelin.

They didn’t usually figure out they were on their way to their own funerals until it was too late.

And that was the difference—I was clear about my rules, and he wasn’t. He’d tell a girl he knew it was sudden, he knew it was too soon, but would it be strange if he thought he might love her?

Anything to close the deal.

I, on the other hand, had never lied to a woman about what I could be to them. I’d never made promises I didn’t intend to keep.

I had no problems closing deals either.

Ian had slept with every eligible member of the orchestra and half of the cast and crew, where I was much more interested in women I didn’t have to see at work.

Not that I didn’t have the opportunity.

As if I’d willed them to appear, three flutists walked past us, batting their lashes and fawning.

“Hi, Sam,” the blonde one sang.

I swore I heard a collective sigh when I jerked my chin in lieu of a greeting.

“Hey, ladies,” Ian said.

They soured in unison and picked up their pace.

“Seriously,” Ian said, unfazed, “that little trumpet player is a rocket. I bet she’s never even had a boyfriend.”

My frown deepened. “You don’t know that.”

“She’s got that look about her. You know what I mean—the good girls, the innocent ones. Pay them a little attention, and they worship you.”

I shot him a look. “You’re a dick.”

He laughed, flashing a brilliant smile. “I know. I swear to God, man—when she was on her hands and knees scrubbing your shoe, I thought I was gonna have a heart attack.”