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Authors: Katie McCoy

Play Me (8 page)

BOOK: Play Me
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“I doubt you’ll
make it to the next round.” He pulled up in front of my
building. “But if by some miracle you do, we’ll have to
make some changes. Clearly I’ve been coddling you too much.”
He sighed. “I blame myself. It’s obvious you’re
still coping with our break-up and your emotions are affecting your
work.” Turning to me, he gave me a smile. “I know it’s
been hard on you,” he told me. “But you have to
understand why it’s better that we have a professional
relationship only.”

“I understand,”
I said. “And I agree it’s a good thing that we’re
not dating anymore.”

His face darkened and
his smile disappeared. “That’s exactly what I said.”
He faced forward again, a clear indication that the conversation was
over.

“Thank you for
the ride.” I unbuckled my seat belt, but before I could get out
of the car, he turned towards me.

“You should keep
a closer eye on what you’re eating,” he said, his gaze
sweeping over my body, as if he could see right through my black
performance dress. “I think you’ve gained some weight.”
Then he nodded, indicating I needed to get out of the car.

Despite my shaking
hands, I managed to do just that. And without another word, he took
off, leaving me on the curb with my bag of music.

 

Chapter 11

 

Ella

 

I stood there for a
moment, wondering how in the hell Mark could tell that I had broken
from the strict eating regimen he had given me. Then I remembered
that this wasn’t the first time he had made that accusation—it
was just the first time he was right about it. I had always accepted
that Mark knew what was best for me, that all his rules and
instructions were for my benefit—that I was immature and
unfocused and I needed them. He thought that discipline in all
aspects of one’s life would help give you discipline in your
playing. All you needed was the music—everything else could be
stripped away. Everything else was a distraction.

What the hell was wrong
with me? So what if I had eaten something I wasn’t supposed to?
I was a good piano player and I thought I had done well today, even
if he didn’t. I pushed away the doubt that he always seemed to
inspire in me. Just because he was the best instructor in the city
didn’t mean he got to control every aspect of my life. He
wasn’t my boyfriend anymore, and even if he was, he shouldn’t
treat me that way. Right?

Even though he was
already long gone, I impulsively gave the spot where his car had been
the middle finger. It was completely unlike me, but felt oh so good.
Just like going back up to my apartment—the one he hadn’t
wanted me to get—and eating the last of the brownies would
feel.

Then I heard a
now-familiar voice from behind me.

“I’m pretty
sure whoever you were aiming that bird at probably missed it.”

Jake.

I whirled around to
find him, as usual, in another threadbare shirt, his biceps perfectly
displayed as he held a bag of groceries in each arm.

It was the first time I
had seen him since the kiss. The kiss I hadn’t been able to
stop thinking about, even during my performance. Even now, the memory
of his firm lips against my surprised ones, the press of his body
against mine, his hand almost on my breast, heated me from my toes to
my ears. I felt a little tingly, too, in places that weren’t
often tingly. I shifted on my feet, not sure what to do.

“Heading in or
heading out?” he finally asked, gesturing towards the
apartment, giving me an even better view of his arms as they flexed
against the thin cotton barely containing them.

“In,” I
said, my eyes still riveted on his inked skin. I could see a snake
coiled there. I felt like I was Eve and very, very tempted to take
whatever apple he offered.

“Well, I’d
offer to hold the door for you, but I’m afraid I’ll have
to be ungentlemanly and ask you to grab it since my arms are full.”

That startled me out of
my lustful gaze.

“Oh, yes, of
course,” I looked back up at his face, which was split in a
smile, that perfect dimple showing in his cheek. I wanted to press my
finger to it. But instead, I dug my keys out of my purse and fumbled
with the front door to our building. I was usually good with this
kind of thing, but I still wasn’t used to the lock. Or I was
just distracted. Really, really distracted.

“Here.” A
warm hand covered mine. Somehow, Jake managed to balance his
groceries and guide my key into the keyhole—an act that felt
far more intimate than it should—turning it until we heard it
click.

“There you go,”
he said and I could hear the smile in his voice. I was afraid to turn
around, but I could feel his breath ruffling the strands of hair that
had come loose during my performance. The building’s hallway
was small but I didn’t feel crowded. In fact, if anything, I
wanted to get closer. Much, much closer.

Which is what made me
move away. Mark might not have been right about my eating habits, but
he did have a point about letting my emotions get in the way. If I
hadn’t been careful, I could have let the memory of Jake’s
kiss interrupt my playing, ruining my chances in the competition. A
competition I desperately needed to win.

Somehow, I managed to
wrestle the door open and press my back against it to hold it open
while Jake made his way inside. Not, of course, without his arm
brushing against my breasts. We were close enough that it could have
easily been an accident, but I had a feeling that when it came to a
guy like Jake, there were no accidents in situations like these.

I was surprised to find
that I didn’t mind. In fact, my body really didn’t mind,
my nipples springing to attention. Luckily, the heavy draping of the
dress I was wearing disguised them well, but I couldn’t help
the way my body felt—soft and hot. I had never felt this way
before.

Inside the building, I
turned to go into my apartment, to dump a cold glass of water over my
head and eat the rest of those brownies while trying not to think of
how good it felt for some random guy to accidentally, but probably
not, touch my breasts. But Jake stopped me.

“Are you busy
right now?” he asked.

Yes, I thought. “No,”
I stupidly said.

He grinned. That damned
dimple winked at me like it knew exactly what I was thinking. That I
would be happy to busy myself with the removal of his shirt and
examination of his tattoos. What was happening to me? This wasn’t
like me at all.

“Well, I was
thinking of trying out a new recipe for the restaurant,” he
told me, still balancing his groceries, which looked pretty heavy. He
barely seemed to be breaking a sweat, though, the flex of his muscles
the only indication of the bags’ weight.

“I was wondering
if I could borrow your tongue.” He looked down at my mouth and
I felt my insides turn to Jell-O. His grin was innocent, but the look
in his eyes was anything but.

“My tongue?”
I managed to sputter.

“To taste test
the soup,” he concluded.

I should say no, I
thought. There was no way I’d be of any help to him—I was
a moron when it came to food. But then I thought of those brownies.
Twenty-four hours ago I had made the claim that I just didn’t
like sweets. But Jake’s brownies had seduced me, and a part of
me, a very specific below the waist part of me, was kind of sort of
hoping it would be the baker of those brownies that would do the
seducing next.

But I was not the kind
of girl that did stuff like this. I never ate brownies. I never
kissed strangers. And I certainly never wanted to keep kissing
strangers.. This was all a terrible idea. I really should say no, go
back into my apartment, and practice until music was the only thing
on my mind.

Then I thought about
what Mark had said. About gaining weight. About being too emotional.
About all the ways I was wrong. For once I just wanted to be right.

I looked at Jake,
standing there in the hallway, waiting, looking at me like I was just
right. His kind of right.

“Okay,” I
told him. “I’d be happy to lend you my tongue.”

 

His apartment seemed
much bigger than mine, which was to be expected since there wasn’t
a giant piano in the middle of it. I was surprised by how clean it
was, even the bed was neatly made. A bed which I did my best not to
stare at, even though it looked very, very inviting. Especially if
Jake was doing the inviting.

But I was being
ridiculous. Coming up here to help him with a recipe was one thing,
getting involved with him, even in just a physical way, was something
else entirely. Something I really couldn’t get entangled in
right now. If I moved to the next round of the competition, I had to
be completely focused. Every moment needed to be focused on
rehearsing, on perfecting my pieces. I needed to get to the final
round. I needed to win this thing.

However, since I didn’t
know if I had made it to the next round—Mark seemed to think I
hadn’t—one afternoon off from rehearsing couldn’t
hurt. But just this afternoon. Nothing more.

“Just sit down
and relax,” Jake said as he unloaded the groceries, but I was
captivated by the way his back muscles flexed and stretched,
something I could see clearly through his worn-out shirt. I also
allowed my gaze to drop a little lower to, yep, his perfect ass.
Damn. Was there anything about this guy that wasn’t completely
gorgeous?

I supposed the cooking
would be the real test.

“Can I get you
something to drink?” he asked, looking back over his shoulder.

“Uh.”
Alcohol, I thought, glancing over at his small bar. I never drank,
especially not during the day, but I felt like if I was going to be
someone unlike myself that afternoon, that I might as well be someone
who drank.

“I’ve got a
bottle of wine,” he offered, pulling one out of the bag.

“Sure.” I
gave him a small shrug and he grinned.

With a practiced
gesture he extracted the cork with the help of a wine opener and
grabbed two wine glasses from the shelves next to the stove.

“Better let it
breath for a moment,” he said, sliding a glass over towards me.

I waited for him to
turn back to his groceries, counted to ten, and then poured myself a
generous glass of wine. Before he could look back, I took a long
swallow. Unfortunately, I was not accustomed to drinking wine, so I
choked on it and coughed. Wine dribbled onto my shirt. Oh my god. I
quickly wiped at my chin, but the front of my shirt was soaked.

“You okay?”
Jake was immediately in front of me, a concerned look on his face and
a rag in his hand.

“Fine,” I
managed to gasp, taking the rag and dabbing at my shirt. “Guess
it’s a good thing I only wear black,” I tried to joke,
though I was sure my face was bright red.

“And here I
thought it was because you were trying for some sexy nun look.”
Jake winked at me.

“Sexy nun?”
No one had ever used the word “sexy” to describe me
before. Nun, on the other hand, was a more familiar descriptor.

“Very sexy.”

I didn’t know
what to say, so I took another swallow of wine, burying my face in
the glass and making sure not to inhale it.

Jake began to prepare
his ingredients, his knife flying over the cutting board, chopping
celery and carrots and onions and garlic into perfect, tiny pieces. A
part of me felt bad for agreeing to help him with his new recipe,
since I knew I would be no help when it came to figuring out how his
recipe was. I had just never found food that exciting. It was
something you ate because you had to. And I had never really
understood the whole sexy element of food, like when people in movies
would smear chocolate or whipped cream on each other. It just seemed
kind of messy and gross.

But watching the
concentration with which Jake cooked, the deft movements of his
hands—which I had noticed had lots of scars on them—was
certainly enough to get me to reconsider my previous belief that food
and cooking wasn’t sexy at all. Or maybe it was just Jake.
Whatever he did would be sexy, probably. Like his own symphony, with
his kitchen as the instrument and the food as the melody.

“So . . . ”
I didn’t want to interrupt his process, causing him to cut off
a finger or something, but I felt a little weird just sitting there
with my now half empty wine glass. Was it warm in here? I pressed a
hand to my throat. “What are you making?”

He gave me a grin over
his shoulder. “Chicken soup,” he said. “Your
favorite, right?”

Oh. He had been
listening. That was good, right?

“How long have
you been a chef?” I didn’t really know much about the
cooking world—was that a weird question? If someone asked me
how long I had been a musician, I wouldn’t really know how to
answer. Forever, I supposed. Was it the same with chefs?

“I graduated from
culinary school about five years ago,” Jake told me. “But
I’ve always liked to cook.”

“Oh,” I
took another sip of wine and found that my glass was now empty.
Before I could do anything, Jake was already pouring me another
glass. A large pot was sitting on the stove and the rest of the
kitchen seemed as spotless as when I had entered.

“How is
everything clean already?” I asked, thinking of the mess my
sister always made when she tried to cook at my parents’ house.

“Habit.”
Jake wiped his hands on a rag and took a swig of his own glass of
wine. “That’s one of the first things they teach you—the
importance of a clear work station. You clean as you go, basically.”

“Is that why your
apartment is so clean?” I asked and he grinned.

“I guess.”
He peered into the pot bubbling and steaming on the stove. Then he
glanced up and gave me a wicked grin. “So,” he started,
“are you ready to lend me your tongue?”

I took a long drink of
wine. This was a terrible idea.

BOOK: Play Me
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