I ease my violin into the back, then slip into the driver’s seat. Dex gets in on the other side, and as I start up the car and head for the exit, he looks over at me.
“You were great tonight,” he says, all playfulness gone from his voice.
His compliment makes my stomach flutter, and I focus even harder on the road to keep from getting flustered.
“Thanks. That night Ashton saw me play, our first chair wasn’t there, so I got to step in as concertmistress.” My lips pull into a smile just thinking about it. “She’s retiring after this season, so we’ll have a new first chair next season.”
Beside me, Dex shifts in his seat to face me. “Is that what you want? To be the concertmistress?”
He asks it so casually, as if it isn’t the thing I’ve yearned for all these years, the thing that feels like it’s right at my fingertips and yet still out of my grasp.
My voice is small as I say, “Yeah.”
“How do you do it?”
We pull up to a red light, and I look over at him. Is he really asking me about my dream right now? His face is serious, and he’s staring at me, waiting for my answer.
“Well, I have to audition for it, but it’s more than that.” My hands tighten on the steering wheel.
“More how?” he presses.
“You have to be a leader, someone the orchestra can look up to. The concertmistress—or concertmaster—is only one step down from our conductor. They lead rehearsals, communicate with all the sections, assist with bowing patterns . . .” It feels heavy just saying it all out loud, and I sigh. “If it were based on technical skill alone, I could do it, but all that other stuff . . . I don’t know.”
“So . . . you’re afraid?”
His blatant question makes me narrow my eyes at him. Dex stares right back, blue eyes sharp as they damn near tear into my soul.
“N-no,” I say, but even as the word passes my lips, I know it’s a lie.
I’m not just scared; I’m terrified.
“I’m not a leader,” I say quietly, my shoulders drooping. “The orchestra needs someone outgoing, charismatic . . . Someone like you.”
He laughs, but it doesn’t have much humor in it. “That’s just one type of leadership, Nora.”
Hearing him say my name sends a spark across my skin, and I stare hard at the brake lights in front of us, trying not to physically react.
“Sometimes quiet leaders demand even more respect, and they’re damn well worthy of it.” He reaches toward me slowly, and his fingers brush my cheek, making goose bumps rise on my arms. “The orchestra would be lucky to have you. You should audition.”
With his fingertips now trailing down the side of my neck, it takes all my effort and focus not to melt into a puddle in my front seat. When I don’t respond, Dex presses harder.
“Promise me.”
I glance over at him. “What?”
“Promise me you’ll audition.”
He’s looking at me with such focus, such intensity, that I almost get lost in his eyes.
“Well?” he asks, his voice low.
“Okay.” It’s just a whisper, but it feels dangerous on my lips. “I promise.”
Dex’s serious expression morphs into a smile, and he steals his hand back and rights himself in his seat just as a car horn blares behind me.
I jolt forward, realizing the light is green, and try to wrap my head around what I’ve done.
I promised Dex I’ll audition for the concertmistress role, and just the thought of it makes a stone of dread sit heavily in my stomach.
chapter 14
MY PLAN WAS TO DROP Dex off somewhere—his house, Michael’s place, I didn’t know—but before I could ask where to take him, he said he wanted to buy us dinner to celebrate. When I asked what he wanted to celebrate, he said, “You.”
Now we’re sitting on the floor in my living room, eating takeout from the vegan Chinese restaurant I love so much and drinking a six-pack of Sapporo.
I’m sitting cross-legged, a container of lo mein beside me and a bottle in my hand, and watching Dex eat vegan crab cheese wontons while leaning back against my couch is making me feel like I’m in some sort of alternate reality. Margot keeps walking alongside him, pressing herself against his arm and meowing for bites of food. He lets her lick a bit of the wonton filling off his finger, then laughs when she tries to swipe it out of his hand.
“Margot,” I warn, acting like she ever listens to me, and she gives me a serious side-eye before strutting out of the living room. My gaze flicks to Dex. “Sorry, she’s . . . demanding.”
What I don’t tell him is that Margot pretty much runs this place, and I’m mostly around to feed her, clean her box, and give her cuddles when she deems it appropriate—not like I’d have it any other way. She’s the best friend I have.
“I like her,” he says before lifting a bottle to his lips and finishing the rest of his beer. I watch his throat bob and wonder what it would be like to press my lips against the skin behind his ear.
The thought makes heat burn through me, and Dex must see something cross over my face, because his expression changes, becomes less playful and more . . . aggressive. He holds my gaze, making tingles start in my belly and work their way lower.
“Come here,” he says, holding out a hand.
Those two words might as well be a spell, because they wrap around me, and I put my beer down without a second thought. The alcohol buzzing through my veins gives me courage, and I crawl toward him across the living room floor, holding his gaze, relishing the tick of muscle along his stubbled jaw.
