Three Guilty Pleasures (Blindfold Club 6)

We took the tiny, ancient service elevator up to the top balcony floor, and I’d swear we walked a mile to the end of the hall. The thick carpet swallowed up our footsteps, and the softly lit hallway was empty. Well, except for the large, rolling equipment case with the production company’s logo on its front.

“It’s not much space,” Grant said, disappearing behind the huge box, “but it’s quiet.” He reappeared, his cello, bow, and something metal in his hand. “I can use my mute, which works pretty well at keeping it quiet. At least, my neighbors haven’t complained about my late-night practices yet.”

Why the hell would they complain? I could listen to him play for a hundred years and never get tired of it.

“This is great,” I said. The hallway was narrow, but it was long and the ceiling high. I saw the folding chair he’d borrowed and set it in the center for him.

“The mute fucks with my strings, so I’ll need to retune before we go on stage.”

“Oh,” I said.

His comment reminded me of what was going to happen and sent me into a spiral. I would be fine once we reported in for the solo, because then it would feel too late to back out. I could only focus forward at that point. But currently the panicked side of my brain was coming up with ways to abort the whole thing.

Even though I wanted it so badly, I was terrified.

Abruptly I was right back in the Chicago Ballet Company’s rehearsal studio from three years ago, and all I could see was the director and his disapproving face as I stumbled out of a series of Fouetté turns. That stumble had been the moment I knew it was over.

“Tara.” Grant’s voice was sharp.

I blinked, disoriented. His cello was lying on the ground and his arms were around me. “What?”

“Look at me,” he commanded. I did, and his eyes teemed with worry. He held me tighter as I struggled to step back. “No. Breathe.”

Because I was so out of breath, I was verging on hyperventilating.

-27-

Tara

When I couldn’t escape, I went the opposite direction and clung to Grant for dear life. He was solid and firm, keeping me steady, and as I sipped air into my body, I regained control.

“You’re all right,” he reassured. “I’m here. You’re fine. Everything’s fine.”

“This is so stupid,” I

whispered to him. “I want this. Fuck, I want it so much, and once I get on that stage, I know I’ll be okay. So, I don’t know why I’m acting like this.”

He stroked a hand down the back of my neck, tickling the tendrils of hair that wouldn’t be tamed into my bun. “It’s all right. If you can recognize it’s just anxiety, it can help you work through it.” His voice was soothing. “I looked up some stress relief ideas earlier—”

“Have I been this bad all day?” I drew back just enough so I could look at him.

He looked sheepish. “No. I, uh, looked them up for me.”

Grant was nervous too? It made me feel so much better. “Oh my God,” unexpected laughter burst from me, “I love you.”

We both froze. I’d meant to say, “I love that,” but the anxiety had fried my brain. My eyes went so wide, I wondered if they’d fall out.

“Um,” I blurted, “that came out wrong. Pretend I didn’t say it. I have no idea what I’m doing right now.”

What was that flicker in his eyes? Had he . . . liked hearing that I loved him? Because surely he thought it was too soon, and it’d make him want to put distance between us.

Great. This fuck-up gave me something else to worry about. “Okay,” I added, “what are some other ways to fight our anxiety?”

A shift went through him. I didn’t believe he was nervous, because the man in front of me looked like he had plenty of confidence. His tone was heavy, right on the edge of seduction. “I can think of one.”

Oh.

There was so much adrenaline in my body, the need instantly became overwhelming. Crushing. I didn’t resist as he took me by the hand and pulled us behind the equipment cart. He put his foot on the side of his open cello case and pushed it out of the way. As it slid across the carpet, the lid slammed shut with a thud.