After grabbing my violin case from the back seat, I lock the car and head toward the building. Maybe it doesn’t have a sign outside because they don’t want groupies hanging around.
Is that even a thing still? Groupies?
I think of one of the shirtless pictures of Dex I saw on the internet last night and answer my question with conviction: yes, groupies are still a thing, and he probably has hordes of them.
The door is unlocked, which makes me think I am in the right place. Inside, the air is temperate and smells like coffee. The floors are polished, the décor is modern, and the woman sitting behind the front desk has a blowout that probably cost more than my monthly mortgage payment.
“Can I help you?” she says, and then her gaze goes to my violin case. “Oh, you must be Nora.” She glances down at something written on the desk, then stands, revealing a lean body draped in a leather jacket and tastefully ripped jeans. “Ashton told me you’d be coming in today. Follow me please.”
She sets off down the hallway, her Converse gleaming white under the lights, and I follow behind her, wishing I’d worn something, I don’t know, cooler? On second thought, I probably don’t own anything the people in this building would consider cool. My skinny jeans will have to do.
The woman leads me down the hallway, off of which are multiple doors, offices, and studios.
“You can warm up in here,” she says, stepping back and gesturing to an open doorway. “Do you have the music?”
“Uh, no,” I say, clutching the handle on my violin case for dear life.
“I’ll grab the sheet music. One sec.”
She heads back down the hall and ducks into an office, then returns a moment later with sheets in her hand. “Here you go. Ashton should be around in twenty minutes or so.”
I take them from her and smile. “Okay, thanks.”
With that, she sets off back toward the front desk, and I step into the empty room. I’m not sure if it would be considered rude to shut the door, so I push it halfway closed with my boot, leaving it just cracked. After setting my case down, I peel out of my long jacket and drape it over the back of a chair. Then I grab the sheet music and adjust the black metal stand. Once I’ve got it where I want it, I carefully rosin up my bow, remove my violin from its velvet-lined case, and tune the strings.
I glance at the key signature: C major. Common.
With a breath, I lift my bow to the strings and start sight-reading the piece. It’s fast-paced, though nothing I’m not used to. After a couple playthroughs, I feel pretty confident about it. There’s one section, a solo, that’s a bit trickier than the rest of the piece, so I focus my attention on those bars. My brow creases in focus as I shift my fingers across the D and A strings, then slur the notes and draw out a delicate vibrato.
I take a breath and nod. It’s a rather straightforward piece; it won’t be any problem to perform.
The silence is punctuated by clapping, and a jolt goes up my spine. Slowly, I turn to glance over my shoulder.
And my heart nearly stops.
Dex Reid stands in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe with the kind of casual sexiness that I’m pretty sure you have to be born with. He’s wearing acid-washed skinny jeans, a baggy black tee, and a backward hat. His arms are tattooed from the fingertips up, the blackwork so heavily done that I can barely see his pale skin through the ink.
All I can do is stare at him, frozen in place. And he stares back.
I’m not sure how much time passes, but it feels like a lifetime. When I still don’t say anything, Dex laughs.
“Hey.” His voice isn’t as rough as it was on the track I heard last night, but it stills sends a wave of nerves fluttering through my veins.
“H-hi,” I say back. My voice is tiny, timid.
Dex lingers for another moment, his gaze sweeping over me quickly, and when he smiles, I notice his lip ring. He flicks it with his tongue, then pushes off the doorframe and saunters away.
Just like that, he’s gone, and I’m standing in the room alone, my heart thundering in my chest.
A feminine voice says something from down the hall, and I’m still in the same place when a woman pushes through the open door.
“Nora!” she says, holding her arms out for a hug.
I return the odd embrace, then step back and smile.
“I’m Ashton,” she says. “We spoke on the phone yesterday.”
“Oh, right. Nice to meet you.”
Her dark hair is curled, and a stylish blazer hugs her generous curves. The smile she gives me is big and bright, oozing friendliness. Her casual demeanor puts me immediately at ease.
“You ready for the audition?” she asks, and I nod. “Great. Let’s go.”
MY AUDITION GOES SMOOTHLY. I play the piece once, and then they ask to hear the solo on its own. When I’m done, the two women and one man look at one another, smile, and immediately offer me the job. And without much thought, I take it.
“I’m so excited!” Ashton says as she walks me out of the studio. I keep glancing around, looking for any sign of Dex, but I don’t see him. “I swear, I heard you play that Winter solo, and I knew we needed you on this track.”
“Thanks,” I say as we step into the balmy air. I’m still not quite used to how warm it is here during the winter. It must be nearly sixty degrees out today. “I appreciate the opportunity.”
She smiles at me like I just said something cute, or funny, or . . . I don’t know, odd?
“Did you meet Dex?” she asks, and my heart starts its irregular thumping again.
“Tattoos, long blond hair, ripped jeans?”
Ashton laughs. “That’s him.”
