It was more statement from me than question. “But you didn’t?”
He massaged the back of his neck, probably so I wouldn’t see the faint bashfulness in his expression. I almost didn’t because his thick bicep was sexy and distracting. “Well, I did at first, mostly to spite them. Th
en my tutor told me I was awful.”
I gave him a skeptical look. “And this made you like it?”
“I’m competitive by nature, so I had to prove him wrong. Once that was done, I found out I could compete for first chair.” He shrugged. “There was always some new challenge. I was doomed.”
I laughed. “Poor rugby. It lost out to the cello.”
“No, I still do that. Actually, I’ve got a match next weekend in Detroit.”
“Oh,” I said. Oh, yes, my body said. I knew nothing about the sport, other than the sexy-as-fuck men were built like brutes and just my type. “You play professionally?”
“No, it’s Division One. That’s a step down from professional.” He forced a casual tone, but I heard the longing beneath. “I enjoy it very much, but I’m not meant to play at that level.”
Meaning no matter how much he’d wanted to, it hadn’t happened for him. Well, I knew all about that, didn’t I? I shifted subtly closer to him in my seat, wanting to be near.
“It’s the same with me and ballet,” I admitted. “I tried for a while to make a career out of it, but it wasn’t in the cards.”
His eyes turned warm in understanding. “What do you do?”
I knew the question was coming, and yet I still wasn’t prepared. Instead, I stalled. “You mean, when I’m not landing on hot cello guys?”
Surprise glanced through his face at my unexpected compliment, and the warmth in his expression heated further. It made the air in the car go thin.
The rest of society told me I should be, but I wasn’t ashamed of what I did. It was the oldest profession, after all. I wasn’t stupid. I’d had the conversation enough times with a potential partner to know exactly how it was going to go, down to the moment everything ended.
I wanted one night of . . . possibility. One evening free of the other person’s hang-ups and judgement clouding their perception of me. I could take my pleasure now and feel guilty about it later.
“High-end sales,” I said. It wasn’t a lie. “You?”
“I’m a line producer on Channel Five, the morning news.” He leaned back in his seat and cast an arm on the window sill, looking comfortable and confident and very inviting. “It sounds a lot better than it is. I went to school to be a journalist. This was the closest media job I could get.”
“Do you do on-air stuff?”
“No. I plan the segments, the focus pieces, those sorts of things.”
“Do you like it?”
“Well enough. I don’t like getting up early, but otherwise, yeah. I’m never going to be a morning person.” A smile hinted at the corner of his lips. “It’s not as enjoyable as, say, a hot dancer falling on me.”
I grinned.
But the car ride was much too short.
The shop was on the corner, and violins hung in rows in the windows. I stood on the curb, peering up at the sign overhead that looked original to the building, while Grant pulled his cello case from the front seat.
The door had an actual bell on it, and it rang pleasantly when we went inside. Warm, lacquered wood was all around because every square inch of the music shop had some sort of string instrument. The place seemed empty, but at the bell, a man appeared from a door near the back.
He had to be ninety, but he was a spry looking thing, and absolutely adorable. “Broken cello?” That was the matter-of-fact greeting he gave Grant. “Put it on the counter so I can take a look at it.”
He wore glasses on a chain around his neck, and while Grant did as asked, the man cleaned the lenses on his shirt and slipped them on. I wandered toward the back of the store, half listening as I looked at the rack of sheet music.
The shop owner made a tsk-tsk sound. “What a shame, this is a beauty. You got insurance on it?”
“Yes, sir.”