Player(9)

Seriously, don’t be a baby. Maybe I could just try talking to him. Talking couldn’t hurt.

I could bite my tongue. That would hurt.

Or I could say something dumb, which would hurt my ego.

Ugh. There has to be an easier way.

I mean, I don’t have to talk to him. I don’t have to ask him out.

Right. Let’s just skip it. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe the next day.

Maybe on the 24th of never.

The director held her baton up, slowly raising her hands, her face open as she brought up the final crescendo, held it, and brought us to a close. There was a moment of shocking silence created by us just as much as the music had been. Goosebumps ran a path up my arms, as they always did.

The crowd above us roared their applause, and we launched into the music for the curtain call. Those final minutes were controlled chaos—the cast taking their bows, the audience clapping and cheering, the orchestra zipping through our final number. And then it was done.

The pit hummed with energy and noise, kept close by the low ceiling. Keys clicked, papers shuffled, gentle taps against wood, and an occasional string of notes from one instrument or another.

They were some of my favorite sounds in the whole world.

I sighed with contentment, gathering up my music, not realizing that, for a moment, I’d forgotten all about Sam.

Until he walked right past me, close enough to catch a hint of spice I imagined belonged to him. His head was turned as he said something to that douchebag Ian Jackson, drumsticks stuffed in his back pocket as they headed across the pit. The lights under the stage had come on, casting hard shadows across Sam’s body. His back was a topographical map of masculinity, with hills and curves and valleys that made no sense to my female mind. I wondered absently what it looked like naked. I bet it was smooth and tan, sculpted in muscles, like his forearms and biceps and triceps. All the ’ceps, covered by smooth, tan skin. Big, juicy, muscly ’ceps.

Yeah, I should definitely ask him out.

His bass was shaped like a woman, tucked under his arm like it was nothing; the neck rested in the curve of his, his arm slung over the ribs, his fingers hooked in the notch at the waist. The instrument was propped against his narrow hip as he walked across the room, thirty pounds under his arm that appeared to apply no strain beyond the tension in his arms and shoulder and that back.

No, I definitely cannot ask him out.

I sighed, slipping my music folder into my bag, and began the process of putting my trumpet away. I made sure I took a good look around before emptying my spit valve. Sam stood at the other side of the pit, watching me with smoldering eyes and a twitch of a smile on his lips. Ian was saying something from behind him, but Sam didn’t seem to be listening.

My pulse doubled. I snapped my attention back to my instrument. He was probably laughing at me. Reminding himself of the time my sweater had caught on the back of a chair when I passed and almost ripped the neck clean down the sleeve. Maybe he was making sure I’d finished with my saliva so he could safely pass me, nothing more.

I polished the bell of my horn, watching the blob of my curly head in the brass, and in the middle of my internal talk-down, another blob appeared next to mine.

My eyes moved. My head followed.

And to my absolute surprise, there he was, my crush and the object of my obsession.

“Hey, Val.”

“Hey, Sam.” The words were a disbelieving croak.

His smile widened.

I was staring at his mouth, my brain on emergency function. Which was why I lacked the control to stop myself from blurting out, “We should go on a date.”

The only surprise that registered on his face was the uptick of one dark brow, the one that notched in the thickest part. I didn’t give him time to speak before I burst into high-pitched, tremulous laughter that was at least three decibels too loud.

“That’s not what I meant. I mean, coffee could be a date to some people, I guess, but you’re not some people. I mean, you’re people, but not like regular people, but I thought we could get coffee because my friend has a book blog, but she was wondering about string musicians, and I thought, Hey, Sam could answer those questions better than me, so I thought we could have coffee and—” I took a breath. My heart and stomach swapped places. I swallowed the only moisture in my cottonmouth in a sticky lump. “We definitely shouldn’t go on a date. Like, at all. That would be crazy.” Another laugh, this one as insane as the accompanying thought of Sam agreeing to leave the building in my presence without a bodyguard.

I imagined his responses.

I was wondering if you could sign this restraining order.

You’ve got a little drool on your face, right there.

I only have coffee with stalkers on Tuesdays.

His eyes sparked with amusement. “I have a better idea.”

I blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“I’m playing at Sway tomorrow night with my band. Come to the show.”

This time when I laughed, it actually sounded like me. “Wait, you’re in a band? Like…rockabilly?”

“Swing.”

“Is there dancing?” I asked hopefully.

Something in his face changed, and it upped his hotness by at least fifteen percent. “You dance?”

“I don’t know how to swing dance, but I love to dance.”

His smile tilted, and a sliver of his teeth showed. They were, to no one’s surprise, brilliantly white and in perfect alignment. “I’d love to teach you how to dance. The show starts at eleven tomorrow night. Tell me you’ll be there.”