Her tone was pure amusement. “You do know that piece I performed today wasn’t supposed to be interactive, right?” She leaned over, gently nudging me in my chest with her shoulder. “But thanks.”
It was strange how comfortable she was. Not just in what she was wearing, or what she said, but how friendly her gestures were. I’d been in the States for ten years, and it still struck me how different the culture could be. American women often felt . . . distant.
But perhaps I’d been dating the wrong women.
“I haven’t told anyone,” she said, like the thought just occurred to her, “that I’m planning to audition. You’re the first.”
“Why’s that?”
Her soft eyebrows pulled together, creating a crease between them. “I don’t know. Maybe because telling people makes it harder. It makes it real.” She ran a fingertip absentmindedly along the rim of her glass. “Pretty much everyone who auditions is going to be straight out of high school or in college. I’m twenty-eight. The cutoff age is thirty.” Her blue eyes were full of hesitation. “I don’t want to be one of those fools who’s delusional about their chances.”
“Tara, there’s no way. When you were dancing, I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”
She laughed softly. “That’s because you want to get in my pants.”
I struggled not to drop my beer. Since she’d offered it . . . “Well, you might not be wrong about that.” Her directness wasn’t just a huge turn-on, it took the guessing out on whether she was interested. “But you were the best one up on that stage, and if you don’t know that, you’re crazy.”
“You’re sweet, but those kids are going to give me some stiff competition. The guy who won last year? He walked away from a principal spot in the New York City ballet.” She swiveled her seat until her knee was subtly against my thigh. “Any chance you want to help me?”
My dick stirred, which was ridiculous. She was barely touching me, and not in a sexual way. I struggled to keep my tone even. “Help how?”
“The Coldplay song you played . . . ‘The Scientist.’ I was already planning to use it for my audition.” She blinked her big eyes at me, and they were filled with hope. “If you played it live, it’d give me an advantage. I’d stand out from all the other hopefuls.”
I couldn’t process what she was asking. “You want me to go on a reality TV show with you?”
“No, I want you to compete with me on a reality TV show.”
I delivered a tight smile. “I see what you did there.”
“Oh, Grant.” Her expression was devious, and she set a hand on my knee. “You’re not the only one allowed to use manipulation to get what they want.”
Her touch filled my body with static.
It wasn’t the first time a woman had come on to me with an agenda. I was a handsome guy, who played rugby and had an accent the girls declared sexy. I was a status to claim in college. Even Morgan had me questioning her motives about our relationship since I had some control over how much on-air time she got.
But this was a first—a woman who wanted me for my ability to play the cello.
It was strangely refreshing.
My parents would be horrified at the thought of me being on reality television, and that helped pique my interest.
“Full disclosure,” she said, “there’s no guarantee my audition would make it on TV. They could just use a highlight, or not show it, or I might not even make it that far in the rounds.”
“How many rounds are there?”
“Last time they came to Chicago for casting, they started with groups. I guess they lump all the dance genres together, they pick the music, and everyone dances at the same time, freestyle. If the producers like what they see, then there’s an interview. And from that, the top thirty or so are selected for solos. Those are filmed in front of the judges.”
Her hand was still on my knee, heating through my jeans, and she gave me a squeeze.
“One of the kids at my friend’s studio auditioned last year. She said fifteen hundred dancers showed up, but I bet this year there’ll be more.”
Just based on math, the odds weren’t in Tara’s favor, but I’d seen her dance. It’d be a crime if she wasn’t in the top, and the idea I could help get her there was appealing, enough so that I considered saying yes without all the details. “When is it?”
“It’s like a month away. October fourteenth.”
I pulled out my phone, scrolled to my calendar. “That’s a Saturday.” She could tell from my tone that was a problem, and I elaborated. “It’s rugby season. I have a match at three.”
It hurt to see her crestfallen, but there was no way I was going to miss a match. I played sick or injured, or whatever obstacle was thrown at me. I couldn’t play to win if I wasn’t there. Plus, if one of the other players said he couldn’t make it because he was auditioning for some TV show, I’d lose my shit.