Page 28

CHAPTER 27

EMERSON

I hate leaving Gunnar in New York for the second Fury game of that series, but everything happening with my parents has me so shaken up that I know coming back to Pittsburgh is the right choice. Home…

I told Gunnar that I needed to go home. It makes no sense to me that I’ve mentally classified the apartment in Lawrenceville as “home,” yet every time I even think about that space, I feel a warm, safe glow. Gunnar lived there only a few months prior to me moving in, so we have truly been creating it as a home together. The moment he thinks of something I might like or need, he orders it, and it appears. Cozy blankets on the couch, apple slicers, and even a toilet paper subscription…it all arrives with no strings attached, without comment.

I try to make him comfortable, too, cleaning up when he cooks (if he lets me) and making sure the fridge is stocked with his favorite lean protein. Somehow, this ruse, intended to help him play the game he loves, has turned into something very meaningful and real.

I take a car from the airport directly to Scale Up, and Omar appears relieved to see me walk in the door. Roughly forty young kids swarm in between the music rooms, loudly tooting on out-of-tune instruments while waiting for the previous hour’s lessons to somehow wrap up amidst the chaos.

I halt in my tracks as a young viola player spies me and starts running my way. “Miss Emerson!” The girl’s name is Ilan, and the plastic beads on her braids clack as she hurries to me.

“Walking feet with your instrument,” I tell her, keeping my voice calm and low.

“Oh. Right.” She bites her lip and slows her pace, pausing in front of me and bouncing up and down. “I got a dress for the concert! It’s purple!”

“Oh, that sounds gorgeous.” I squat so we are eye to eye. “And you can move your arms easily wearing it? It’s not too tight?”

She grins and nods, explaining that her mother has the little concert wardrobe card I made for the kids, explaining what to look for in performance clothes. I absolutely love that Scale Up doesn’t require all black. The music school partnered with a local boutique so the kids can benefit from a sliding scale fee structure for attire. It’s been so fun emailing back and forth with the youth buyer, talking about designs that might help or hinder a young trombone player differently from a flutist.

“Ilan, have you tuned your instrument yet? Want to show me your stuff?”

She takes a deep breath. “The pegs are so hard to turn.”

I nod. “Maybe we can manage the fine-tuning dials near the bridge. Let’s hear what you’ve got.”

We stand to the side as she plucks the strings. She pauses and plucks again. “Sharp?” I nod, and she grins, adjusting the metal dial on her C string. Ilan tunes the instrument on her own, pausing to check with me a few times but never requiring help.

“I’m so proud of you. You’ve learned to do that so well, despite all this background noise.” Ilan beams at her instrument as the earlier ensemble musicians file out of their rooms. The halls are chaotic for a few minutes, with Lucia directing traffic like an elite conductor.

Once all the children are in their classrooms, she rushes toward me. “We thought you wouldn’t be back for a few days! Is everything all right?” She rubs my upper arm, her expression etched with concern.

I wave a hand. “There was some drama with my parents. I thought it would do me good to get back here and focus on the kids.”

Lucia’s brows furrow, but she nods her head. “Okay. Well, obviously, we are thrilled to have you here. What do you want to work on today?”

My mouth drops open. “Oh, whatever you need the most help with. Really! I’m on cloud nine just being here.” And it’s true. I might not be earning a salary, and who even knows if my name appears anywhere on any documentation for this place. There’s no prestige. There are no critics raving about me in any capacity. Yet, I’ve never felt better.

Lucia grins. “I want you to focus on the thing that makes your heart soar, Emerson. Go on, tell me.”

I take a deep breath and shake my shoulders. “Cello lessons. I’d love to help teach cello.”

Lucia turns her head toward the room, emitting some deep squawks. “Go on, then, girl!”

Two hours later, I’m soaring. I’ve taught a dozen children to rosin their bows, perfect their grip on the neck of their instruments, and play a pizzicato version of Hot Cross Buns. My fingers are tingling, itching to make music as I hop aboard the bus home. I’ve never felt so inspired, so needed, and so valued.

This is my calling, I just know it.

The apartment feels empty without Gunnar, but he’ll be in late tonight. I should check the game on TV, but I need to play my cello. It’s been too long.

I rush into the spare room, smiling at the glow of our new sconces illuminating Gunnar’s most valued medals and trophies along two of the walls while my sheet music and supplies fill the others. I never made it to my parents’ house to retrieve my stash, but between the Scale Up library and my meager savings, I’ve managed to gather what I need to create a proper home music studio. Apart from the soundproofing, but Gunnar doesn’t seem to mind.

I take a seat on the bench and begin to play, tuning my instrument carefully and working through a series of warm-ups that the children used today at Scale Up. Then I begin playing one of my own compositions—the piece I was working on the night I met Gunnar.

I work through it a dozen times, perfecting the bridge and leaning into the melody. When I open my eyes, my bow hovering over the strings, allowing the final note to echo through the room. I see my husband standing in the doorway. His face is an unreadable blend of sadness and wonder, and when he realizes I’ve finished, he rushes toward me, sinking to his knees.

Shirtless and barefoot, Gunnar is about as close to perfection as possible in a pair of gray sweatpants. “Salty, you are so fucking talented,” he says by way of greeting. His hands are on my leg as he kneels at my side, staring into my face. “I could listen to you play for hours.”

I smile at him, realizing something as I say it. “I was playing for you. I wrote that song for you.”

His eyes go wide, and the pressure of his hand on my leg increases. “You wrote that for me? Really?”

I nod. “Yes. I just didn’t know it.”

He reaches for the cello and then pauses, hand in the air, looking to me for permission. “Will you show me? How it works?”

A surge of joy zips through my body. “Oh, I’d love that. Here, you sit.” I leap to my feet, the neck of the instrument in one hand. I pat the bench, and Gunnar takes a seat, looking at me quizzically. He is tense everywhere, and I think I see a bruise blooming on one pectoral. I suppose that’s part of the job in professional hockey.

Gunnar hesitates to take the instrument from me. I walk behind him, reaching over his shoulder with my mouth near his ear. Now that I’ve worked out all the pent-up music in my body, I’m starting to want to do other things … with Gunnar. “Spread your legs around the instrument,” I tell him. He looks over his shoulder but does as I ask. I nod. “Now grip the neck with your left hand.”

He wiggles the fingers of his right hand, and I place my hand over his, guiding him toward the strings. “We’re going to pluck the strings. You can be firm. It won’t hurt them.”

He looks at me and gives a feeble flick. Nothing really happens. I nod, and Gunnar gives the D string a good tug. He grins as the sound echoes through the room. “Hey!” He plucks it again. “How much does this guy cost, anyway?” Another pluck.

I explain from my place behind him, “First of all, she’s a lady. Look at her curves.”

“Okay, fair.” He plucks a different string.

“Second,” I place my hands on his shoulders, leaning over to whisper, feeling a little sultry, especially as I inhale the scent of his soap, deodorant, and the fresh Gunnar scent I’ve missed all day. “This cello would cost $13,000 new.”

“Thirteen G? Jesus, Salty.” He jumps to his feet. “You can’t let me fuck around with this. I’ll break it. I’m a caveman.”

I laugh. “You won’t break it. You were doing great. Surely, you have expensive gear, too. It’s made well, I promise.”

He shakes his head and extends the cello toward me. “Please, babe. Take it back from me.”

I slide the cello from his grasp, and he sits on the bench, shaking his head. I bite my lip, inspired, and settle myself between his legs. He sucks in a breath as I wriggle my ass back against his crotch and I feel the heavy length of him thicken against my lower back. “I can still show you things,” I tell him.

He nods, his mouth very close to my ear, his breath tickling my hair. “See how I rest her against my shoulder?” Another nod as I rest my own head against his. “Her neck settles perfectly between my thumb and forefinger, and I can curve my hand around, placing my fingers exactly where they need to be along her length.”

Catching on to my unspoken game, Gunnar cups the back of my neck in one of his hands, his fingers trailing sparks along my jaw. I slowly pluck out a few notes, reaching down toward the bridge and telling him, “This tiny piece of maple is vital. It’s so fine, so strong, holding up the strings to make the perfect sound.” As I pluck the strings, Gunnar slides his hands along my sides, fingers wrapping around to pinch my nipples when they harden into peaks inside my shirt.

“Salty, this is so fucking hot.” I nod, agreeing. He nuzzles his scruffy jaw along my neck, and nothing has ever felt better. I pluck a chord of appreciation. “I’m so hard for you.”

I wriggle my hips to let him know I’m very aware of that reality. My body sings under his attention. I don’t know if it’s because he’s a particularly good lover or if I was just placed on this earth to respond to him, but heat builds in my core. I start to fidget as my legs spread around the cello, and Gunnar wraps his palms around my thighs.

I wish I could see how we look together, him spread behind me, me wrapped around this instrument, leaning back against his warm chest. “Gunnar.” His name is a whisper, as close to a prayer as I know. “Make love to me.”