Three Guilty Pleasures (Blindfold Club 6)

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.