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CHAPTER 3

EMERSON

The massive white guy approaching me right now is broad, thick, and tall enough that I have to crane my neck to see him. The rest of the room fades away until he’s all I can see. It can’t be healthy for one person to be this attractive. It’s indecent, the way he looks in this suit.

I’ve seen a lot of men in suits.

The way this material clings to his shoulders, his watch twinkles at his cuff…the way everything tucks in at his waist and those pants curve around a perfectly round backside…it’s utterly inappropriate.

I take a breath to center myself. I can hear some patrons talking about the men he arrived with. Over his shoulder, I see some approaching them with phones out. I hear the words “hockey players” and realize this trio are professional athletes.

I have less than zero desire to be in the background of someone’s social media swoon over this guy, but actually, he doesn’t appear to notice the buzz.

No, he’s looking at me like I am the celebrity.

“You were amazing,” he says, hands in his pockets awkwardly, like I’m someone to be shy around. My eyes widen in surprise as I drink him in. He is objectively a perfect specimen of the human form. Even his neck has muscles. I guess all our necks have muscles, but his are visible.

“I’m Gunnar,” he informs me after an awkward silence where I just drink water and stare at him. “Can I buy you a drink?”

I close my eyes and swallow the water. My set is technically done. As soon as the manager pays me, I am free as a bird. Refined conservatory girls do not go out for drinks with famous athletes in Las Vegas.

But I came here to escape all those rules, didn’t I?

I’m about to nod yes to the hockey guy when the club manager approaches, fluttering his hands around a turban, the light glinting off the bangle at his wrist. “Emerson?”

I watch Gunnar learn my name and tuck it away with a smirk. I clear my throat and set down the water bottle. “Yep. I’m all set when you are.”

The manager hands out a wad of cash, which should seem insulting but feels right considering the day I’ve had. “You were a real lifesaver for the dinner rush. Can we get your info for our sub list? I’d love to have you in our rotation. That was some really cool stuff you did. I never heard anyone play that sort of music on a cello.”

I thank him, only briefly taking my eyes off Gunnar as he stands by, eavesdropping on this interaction. I settle up with the manager, give him my number, and finally turn to this handsome stranger. “You know what? I’d love a drink. Let me get my cello packed up. We’ll have to bring her with me…”

“Her?” Gunnar follows me onto the stage, watching as I tuck the instrument into my case, securing the bow in the lid and ensuring all my other little parts and pieces are strapped tight.

I run a hand down the curve of the body. “Yeah, her. Look at that shape. No man looks like that.”

He holds out a hand, and I’m not sure if he’s helping me down the stage steps or trying to carry my cello. I slip the strap across my back and descend on my own, smiling. “Where should we go?”

Gunnar finds another bar not too far down the massive halls of the casino resort. This one has cheap well drinks, and I find myself agreeing to do a shot with him before we settle in with what he calls “sipping whiskey.” I wouldn’t know. I have very little experience with alcohol apart from the rare glass of wine at a function, for politeness.

“I loved how you moved with the music while you played,” he tells me. “I felt like I knew what mood was coming based on whether you closed your eyes.”

With his ice blue eyes boring into mine, this man is exploding my ideas of what a hockey player knows about music. The fact that he noticed the emotion and feel of my piece has me tingling everywhere. Nobody else in my universe has ever even commented when I’ve tried an original composition before.

“Thank you for noticing.” I lean forward, elbows on the table, and clink my glass against his. “Not many people do.”

He recoils in surprise. “That can’t be right. Maybe you’re just picking the wrong venues.”

I bark out a laugh. “You have no idea how right you are about that.” I take a bigger sip of the whiskey, feeling its warm spice of it all through my veins. “So why are you here with me and not at some strip club with your team?’

He arches a brow. “How do you know I have a team?”

I wince. Real smooth, Emerson. “I overheard everyone freaking out when you and those other guys came into the bar. You’re hot stuff.”

He sets his drink down and picks up his napkin, dabbing at the corner of his very full lips. I wonder why they’re not scarred. I guess in my mind, hockey players are mauled-up franken-humans. Another pleasant misconception…

“I’m not hot anything, Emerson. Tonight was my first pro game, and I only played because our goalie wrecked his hip. Thanks to me, we lost by three.”

I swirl the ice around in my glass. “I take it losing by three is bad?” I wince at his expression. “I’m not what you’d call a sports fan.”

He smiles at that. “I guess that’s another thing I like about you. I don’t feel like I’m on display right now.”

I chuckle and take another big sip. My body is feeling floaty now, my head swirling. “You’re on display for sure. Every woman and half the men who walk by are drinking you in.”

Gunnar leans toward me, sliding his glass away with his massive hand. “You feeling thirsty, Emerson?”

I swat at his hand and smile, taking the final sip of my drink. Leaning forward over the table, I can smell him: lime and cedar, whiskey and cinnamon. I stare into his eyes a bit and see some vulnerability in there. My whiskey-mind remembers his confession about his rough game, so I say, “I’m really sorry your debut was stressful.” I brave running a finger along the back of his hand. “I might not know sports, but I’m very familiar with performance anxiety and the way it feels to overanalyze a bad night.”

I watch him swallow, the beautiful muscles of his throat working, and then his jaw clenches before he nods. “Thanks.” He furrows his brow, the sandy blond fuzz dipping toward those bright eyes. “You’ve played in public before? A lot?”

“Ha!” I reach for his whiskey and down it, surprising both of us. I sit back in my chair as Gunnar signals the server for another round of drinks. I wonder if he’s feeling as buzzed as me, but I doubt it, considering he’s probably got fifty pounds on me. And I’m no slim pixie, much to my mother’s chagrin. “Gunnar, all I’ve ever done is play. My whole damn life was mapped out for me, but nobody ever bothered to ask me if I wanted to stick with that atlas.”

“You don’t want to play the cello?” He crosses his arms and leans back in his seat as well. He has already ditched the suit coat, draping it over the third chair at our table and covering half of my cello case. Gunnar has rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt, revealing muscular forearms that seem unfair. These are not the forearms of a percussionist or viola player. These are the powerful arms of a man who could bench press a viola player.

I shake my brain away from staring and explain, “All I’ve ever wanted to do is play my cello. But I want to play my music, my way.” I sigh. “I was doing that today, actually.”

The server brings our replacement drinks, and Gunnar raises his glass in gratitude. “You sounded incredible. But I already mentioned that.”

“Thank you. Today marks my big mutiny.” He gestures for me to continue, and my words all seem to spill out at once. “My first act of rebellion was pawning my designer shoes to buy myself a cello.”

Gunnar arches a brow, looking so handsome and intrigued. I smile and continue. “I took off my Prada Mary Janes and traded them for that gal over there. My parents were incensed. It’s not a ladylike instrument, especially not when the player has to straddle the great wooden body like a lover.” I watch as Gunnar’s eyes shift at that. His jaw clenches. I have no experience with lovers, but I can tell the word is affecting him. I fiddle with my glass and lean closer, feeling bold. Maybe it’s the liquor. “I was taught violin and flute—dainty instruments befitting the female child of a legendary conductor.”

“Hmm,” he nods. “You have a famous dad in the same industry.” He raises his glass. “Now that's something I can relate to.”

“Yeah.” I smile at him and shrug. “Eventually, someone must have convinced my parents it was okay for me to have a side hobby…as if playing the cello were so very different from making other music. They constantly sneered at me, forced me to use a sound damper when I played in the apartment, but mostly ignored it as long as I went on dates with the appropriate sons of wealthy investors and wore my pearls to quartet performances.”

Gunnar chuckles. “Pearls, eh?”

My phone starts vibrating in my bag again. I have no idea who is trying to reach me. I’m not feeling compelled to check. “Eventually, they’ll find me and drag me back to the stuffy compositions by dead men. But today I just wanted to play my style, my way.”

Gunnar looks alarmed. “Drag you? Who?” He sits up straighter, and I shake my head.

“Probably not physically drag me. But …” I hesitate. This is supposed to be carefree drinks. This guy doesn’t want to hear my whole sad story. But then again, he was honest with me about his day. “I was performing in public this morning at Penn Station. My father saw me and blew a gasket.” I don’t tell Gunnar that the maestro called me worthless trash and an idiot. Even without these details, Gunnar seems upset. “Ordinarily, I sort of take it when he yells at me … but today I figured, I have a college degree now. I am an adult. There’s absolutely no reason I shouldn’t turn around and just board the first train.”

My date smiles, his face blooming with admiration. “That’s kind of awesome. Wait. This was today?”

I nod. “Yeah. The train went to the airport, and the airplane went here.” I finish my second glass of whiskey. Or is it my third? My speech is a little slower now, but so are my thoughts, and for that, I am grateful.

Gunnar laughs and takes a big swig of his drink, his eyes a bit glassy. I suppose he was drinking a little before introducing himself, and well, the two of us seem somewhat less than sober. “So, what comes next, Em?” He leans forward on his elbows, his face an inch from mine.

I purse my lips. “I have no idea.” I lean closer to him. “What do you think I should do?”

Gunnar laughs and rubs the stubble on his cheek. “You could wait for that manager to call you. It seemed like you had a job offer there.”

I shake my head. “No one wants to stay in Vegas. I certainly don’t.”

Nodding, he taps his fingers on the table. “I know I’m biased, but Pittsburgh is pretty nice. We have a symphony.”

“A symphony is the last thing I want right now. No, thank you.” When the server stops by offering glowing test tubes of neon liquid, my stomach protests, but my whiskey-fueled brain gets excited, and I clap my hands.

Gunnar pulls out some cash and procures two tubes, and we smile at one another over the blue drinks. “You could come and stay with me, though, while you figure out what’s next. I have a big place, and I hate living alone.”

I glance over at my cello. “You don’t want me as a roommate.”

His brows shoot up as he downs the drink. I follow suit and cough at the sickly sweet berry flavor. He says, “Don’t tell me what I want, Emerson.”

I clutch at my heart, hearing those words. “Oh, god, I’m acting like my father. You’re absolutely right. I have no idea what you want.”

He plucks the test tube from my hand and holds my fingers in his much-bigger, rough palms, as if I might be somehow included amongst the things Gunnar wants. His voice is like honey. “I’m serious, though. I hate living alone. I have a spare room, and Pittsburgh’s a pretty cool city.”

I smile at his offer. “I’ve only been to the ballet, years ago. I…” I don’t want to admit that I performed in the pit because my father told me it was an important experience for my Juilliard application. I don’t want to discuss doing the right thing all the time. “Tell me what’s cool about it.” I grab another tube from a server walking past and tip it down the hatch. Why stop making bad decisions now?

Gunnar smiles. “We have three rivers, for starters. You can ride a bike along the river all the way to D.C. if you want. Not that I ever went that far. And there’s a bar near my place that used to be a brass foundry, and then it was a funeral home. And there’s a space museum.”

I laugh, surprised by his list. “I wasn’t expecting that array of highlights.”

He leans back in his seat, palms turned up. “What? You think I just care about bashing my brothers off the boards?”

I shrug. “I know it takes a lot of practice and dedication to be professional at something.” I feel my tongue struggling to form all the words. “I’m glad you get to make time for that stuff.”

He reaches for my hand. His skin feels like it's on fire, for sure. I glance down to check, wondering if there’s a pharmacy nearby for my burns. But it’s just two hands touching on the table. “Come back with me tomorrow. You need a place to stay while you figure things out. I need a roommate.”

I frown. “Why do you hate living alone?”

Gunnar grins and shrugs. “I’m the middle of four kids. I’ve never even had my bedroom until now, and it’s weird. Too quiet.”

“That’s a lot of family.” He nods. I withdraw my hand and place it on my lap. “Say I come to Pittsburgh and crash at your place. What’s in it for you?”

He jerks his head, a carefree gesture. “I get to know I helped a talented woman find her way.”

The flush on my cheeks is unexpected, and I bring my palms up to feel my heated skin. “I would feel bad taking advantage,” I tell him. “I’d be a bad roommate.”

“We should just get married, then. You’d make a great wife.” Gunnar laughs, and his blue eyes light up in the dim room. I don’t know how many tubes we drank or how much sipping whiskey. He leans closer, closer, until his breath tickles my skin. “Fuck it, right?”

I laugh, but he isn’t laughing. He’s staring at me, his blue eyes a bit out, thumb stroking mine. I feel every swipe of that digit deep in my core, like the vibrations of my instrument, only more sensual. I’ve never been very sexual, nor have I ever felt a burning physical desire. What he’s suggesting feels ludicrous, impulsive, and utterly ridiculous. It's the exact opposite of what a refined, upper east side prodigy would do instead of showing up for her audition at the New York Symphony. I’ve had enough alcohol to know my family will explode in rage, yet not so much that it dampens my enjoyment of that thought. “Yeah,” I tell him. “Fuck it.”