Three Guilty Pleasures (Blindfold Club 6)

Shit.

I pressed my hand flat to my heart, covering the spot where an invisible fist had struck me. “Is that Coldplay?”

His bow ceased, the music stopped, and why the fuck had I said anything? Because that was the last thing I wanted.

“Yeah.” His chest rose and fell quickly, like he was chasing his breath. “I played it at a friend’s wedding.”

With the absence of his music, the store became ordinary. The colors weren’t as rich, and the polish on the violins didn’t gleam as brightly. It was like the sun had disappeared behind a cloud. I still felt it lingering, even after it had gone.

I didn’t want to disrespect the sound that had filled the shop, and my voice was hushed. “That was beautiful.”

He dropped to match my quiet tone. “Thank you.”

The shop owner came over, and the men discussed the setup on the loaner, but I couldn’t listen. My body resonated like one of the strings he’d played, and my mind buzzed with ideas.

I’d come with him to get his cello repaired with the goal of getting to know him better, but now I had an additional goal. I wanted him to play during my audition next month. Live music not only brought out my best side, it made the audience more receptive. With Grant performing alongside me, how could the judges resist sending me on to the next round?

We’d have to practice together. He’d have to play the beautiful song for me over and over again. Maybe there’d be long nights involved . . . The more I thought about it, the more excited I became.

I needed him, and I wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

-10-

Grant

There was a restaurant across the street from the music shop, and once I had all the paperwork filled out for my insurance claim, Tara and I ventured over.

“Do you want to go home and change?” I asked, eying her tight shorts and bare midriff. The long-sleeved costume was dark lace and accentuated her curves. I didn’t mind one bit the way she looked, but I also wanted her to be comfortable. Plus I was hoping for an excuse to drop off the cello at my place, change into different clothes myself, and meet her somewhere.

It’d feel more like a date that way.

She pulled the knot of blonde hair on the top of her head, tightening the loop so it wouldn’t fall. “Nope. I don’t care what people think. It’s their problem, not mine. And I don’t really have time. I’ve got a . . . thing later.”

It was a Friday night, so the restaurant was busy, but the counter at the bar was mostly empty, and

we took three chairs—one for each of us, and one to lean the large black cello case against.

She ordered a gin and tonic, and I ordered beer, and while we waited for the bartender to pour our drinks, Tara’s gaze zeroed in on me. “Do you like performing on your own?”

Naturally, I did. “Solos are usually awarded through competition.”

“Oh, right.” She crossed her arms, leaned on the bar, and smiled knowingly at me. “Your competitive nature.”

“Yes,” I said, answering her question in earnest. “I like performing solos.” It was the way she’d looked at me when I’d played for her that left me completely disarmed. It made me willing to be vulnerable. “I learned early on in my life,” I said, “to take every chance I got to be in the spotlight, otherwise I wouldn’t be seen. I’m the youngest of three kids, and the least successful.”

By a lot. My oldest brother, Joshua, had started his own company, and Pieter was a doctor. Even growing up, I’d struggled for our parents’ attention. I didn’t get the same high marks in school my brothers did. I didn’t beat my father in chess like Pieter, or get into the prestigious Michaelhouse school like Joshua. My brothers cast such big shadows, I rarely got to be in the light.

The bartender set our drinks down in front of us, but Tara ignored hers, her eyes going wide. “I get it. I have two older sisters, and let me tell you, if I ever need to feel inadequate or like I’m wasting my life, I just spend five minutes with them, and problem solved.” She made a face then reached for her drink. “Let’s forget about that. Since you love competition so much, have you heard of the show Dance Dreams?”

I was halfway to taking a sip of my beer but paused. “Uh, can’t say I have.”

“It’s sort of like The Voice, but for dance. People who make it on the show are put into groups, and they compete against each other every week.”

A weird sensation prickled across my neck. It was awareness that she was telling me this for a reason, and I wasn’t sure how I was going to feel about that reason. I also didn’t want to admit that although I worked in television, I rarely watched it. “Oh,” I said, because I had no idea what else to say. “Reality television?”

“Yeah. Before you finish putting on that face of full-blown judgement, I should probably tell you I’m planning to audition for next season.”

My dubiousness faded. “You should. You’re a brilliant dancer.”