Play Me (7 page)

Jake

Fucking hell. Every
single word out of Ella’s mouth seemed to turn me on, but
watching
her
get fired up, well, damn. I was near ready to go
off. And when I pressed her lips against mine? I was nearly out of my
mind. There was a good chance I wasn’t ever going to be able to
think about classical music again without getting a raging erection.

Her body was flush
against my chest, and though the kiss was soft, my body was anything
but. My hands were curved around her arms but longed to explore the
figure I had seen that first night, clad in that black satin that
seemed to haunt my goddamn dreams. Her lips fit perfectly, her top
lip cushioned between mine, and every single nerve in my body seemed
to fire like a rocket ship.

My hands smoothed down
her back to the top of her ass, and I felt her moan against my mouth
as I lifted her closer. Goddamn she felt good.

But it wasn’t
enough. I angled my mouth, my tongue seeking hers, tangling together.
A moan vibrated through me and I slid a hand up her side, just near
her breast where her nipple was already straining against the
material of her shirt. Oh fuck.

I felt her hands
against my chest, those long fingers burning through my thin shirt
and I realized that I had just grabbed her and kissed her. Some
rational thought began breaking through the overload of sensation
that had hit me hard. What was I doing? You can’t just grab
women and kiss them, I scolded myself. Unless you know without any
doubt that being kissed is exactly what they want at that moment. And
even though I had been thinking about it since the moment I realized
she was single, it had probably come out of nowhere for her.

I let my hands drop
away and stepped back, breaking the kiss, already missing the hot
press of her lips against mine.

I felt drunk, but in
the best possible way. Dizzy and hot and fan-fucking-tastic.

Looking down at Ella, I
searched her face, hoping to find that same elation, but her eyes
were closed, her fingers against her lips. There was a faint smile
there, or so I hoped. She didn’t move and for a moment I didn’t
know what to do.

“I’m
sorry,” I finally said, and her eyes flew open.

“Sorry?”
she asked, and the smile quickly faded. Shit. No, that’s not
what I meant to imply. I was such an idiot. Never say you’re
sorry after a kiss, Jake, what are you? A complete moron?

“I just—I
should have—” Goddamn it, what was I trying to say?

Unfortunately, she
found her words first. “It’s fine,” she said,
though it was clearly not fine. “I really don’t have time
for anything like . . . ” She seemed to be
searching for the right word. “ . . . This
right now.” She made a vague gesture between us.

“But—”
I started to say but she was already backing into her apartment.

“Goodbye Jake,”
she said. “Thanks again for your help with Jeremiah.”

And then she shut the
door in my face. Fuck.

Usually work gave me a
sense of calm and control. The hostesses always said coming back to
the kitchen was like walking into pure chaos, but to me, it was a
finely run machine, everyone doing exactly what was necessary to keep
everything running. Usually I knew exactly what needed to be done and
how to make things work. It was my version of Zen—orders came
in, food came out. Each action had a reaction, each act a result.

But tonight was a
disaster. Somehow my capable kitchen staff had been replaced by a
bunch of amateurs.

“Fuck!” I
swore as the kitchen filled with the horrible, acrid scent of smoke.
“Wake up!” I yelled at my cooks. “Pay attention or
get the hell out of my kitchen.”

“Chef?”
Dakota came over towards me as I fanned away the plume of smoke
rising above the ruined dish. I could only hope there were no critics
dining with us tonight. That was the last thing I needed—a food
critic doing their first write-up on the new chef at Grassfed on the
day when the food was something I wouldn’t feed to my worst
enemy.

“Yes?”

“Don’t you
need to work on the menu for next week?” Dakota asked, a
strained smile on her face. It was the most diplomatic way for her to
say “get the fuck out of the kitchen.” I could see in her
eyes that I had crossed a line and once my anger faded, I knew she
was right. The last thing I should be doing is yelling at my staff,
even if they had been making mistakes. I was usually more
constructive with my criticism. Tonight I was being a picky asshole.
No one wanted to work for a tyrant, and that’s what my bad mood
had turned me into tonight. Once again I thanked my lucky stars that
I had Dakota as my sous chef and not some upstart chef looking to
usurp me. No, Dakota was thinking about me just as much as she was
thinking about the kitchen, and I made a mental note to get her a
nice bottle of wine or something.

I spent the rest of the
night in my office, not doing menus as Dakota had suggested, but
trying to figure out exactly how to make amends to Ella in a
completely altruistic way. After that kiss, as innocent and simple as
it had been, I was hooked. There was a serious spark there and I was
not a man who ignored a spark. And there was no doubt in my mind that
Ella had felt it too. The flush of her cheeks, the smile on her lips
(fuck, those lips)—there had been serious sparks flying. The
problem, of course, was how skittish she was. Yes, I had royally
fucked up when I opened my mouth and
apologized
(yeah, good
going Jake, you colossal moron), but she hadn’t even given me a
chance to explain.

But I had gotten myself
out of worse misunderstandings than this. Hadn’t I? Yes, yes I
had. But the way I usually did it—with food—was probably
not going to work this time. I couldn’t understand it. I had
met women who were afraid of food, sure (fuck the diet industry) and
women who had incredibly specific palates, but never someone who just
didn’t seem to see the point of food.

There came a gentle
knock at the door.

“Come in,”
I called out and Dakota entered.

“Hey,” she
said and without needing to be invited, came and sat down on the edge
of my desk. “So, what happened?”

“I kissed Ella,”
I told her and her eyes lit up.

“I knew you two
had potential,” she crowed and gave herself a little pat on the
back.

“Well, you might
have to convince her of that.” I tossed my pen onto the
desktop. “She is not interested.”

“I can’t
believe that.” Dakota crossed her arms. “Has there ever
been a woman who could say no to you?”

“Besides you?”
I asked and she quirked an eyebrow at me. “No.”

“So what
happened?”

I told her, ending with
the detail that was the most appalling to me.

“The only thing
she likes to eat is chicken noodle soup. From a can!” I threw
up my hands. “So I can’t even seduce her with food.”
That was my number one, fail-safe seduction plan. I had entranced
many a woman with my skills in the kitchen. As well as my skills in
other areas.

“Well . . . ”
Dakota had a pensive look on her face. “Just because she has
specific preferences does not mean that cooking for her is
off-limits. You just have to figure out why she likes what she likes.
You can do that.”

“I am not heating
up a pre-made bowl of soup,” I told her. “Even I have my
limits.” Though, if I was honest with myself, the thought of
feeding Ella, her luscious lips parting, the lovely line of her
throat as she swallowed followed by a satisfied sigh, well, fuck,
okay, I was having less and less of a problem with canned soup.

“You just need to
go slow with her,” Dakota said. “You remember what I said
about you and letting things breathe and how you totally suck at
that? Well, this is going to be your master class, buddy. Let her
breathe. Don’t rush into anything. Spend some time with her
where you’re not arguing or kissing.”

But those were two of
my favorite things, I thought, even though I knew that Dakota was
right. Dammit. I needed dumber friends, so I could at least have the
upper hand once in a while. But as I sat there, trying to figure out
my next step, I realized I was way more out of practice than I
thought. My work had completely taken over my life and now I was
paying the cost.

“Okay,” I
sighed. “But what else is there?”

Dakota smiled. “Make
her some chicken soup, of course.”

Ella

I stood in the wings,
watching the performer before me, my skin itchy and sweat dripping
down my back. Breathe, I told myself, trying to count my breaths,
trying to calm myself. But I was already hurtling towards a panic
attack and I knew that I would just have to keep telling myself that
it would all be over soon.

Just go on stage and
play. That’s all you have to do. You’ve played this piece
a million times. You can do this.

But the logical part of
my mind was no match for my nerves, which were screaming bloody
murder at me. Every single time I performed for others, this
happened. I felt lightheaded, and all I wanted to do was go home and
crawl into bed. My hands were damp, and I knew I was probably as
white as a ghost. My heart was pounding out of control, my whole
internal rhythm shot to hell. I glanced over at Mark, but he was
looking at his phone.

Just get on stage. Get
on stage. Get to the piano.

I wanted to throw up.

The pianist on stage
finished her piece, stood and bowed. Oh god. My turn. I gulped in
huge breaths of air as the contestant exited the stage. She gave me a
smile, but had a concerned look on her face. I probably looked as
terrible as I felt.

They called my name and
Mark finally looked up from his phone.

“Don’t mess
up the fifth stanza,” he told me.

Great pep talk.

I plastered a smile on
my face and tried to ignore all the voices in my head that were
telling me to run away. Keeping my eyes on the piano, I walked onto
the stage and took a seat.

The moment my fingers
touched the keys, I lost myself in the music. I had practiced this
piece—Chopin Sonatas, Opus 35—for so long and so hard
that my adrenaline kicked in and I was practically on autopilot. I
played the way that Mark had taught me. Focused on the music, only
the music. Then, unbidden, the memory of Jake’s kiss broke
through the concentration and the fear. But instead of stumbling
through the song at the thought of Jake’s lips against mine, I
played on, the memory now part of the melody, flowing into the song
like it belonged there. That had never happened before. But I didn’t
have time to dwell on it.

When I finished, there
was polite applause, as was standard from the judges. The whole
performance was a blur in my mind—and their purposefully blank
faces gave me no idea how I had performed. I stood and bowed, my
hands now damp. During the performance, I forgot everything. The
second it ended, however, my nerves returned, and I now looked over
at Mark standing in the wings, hoping his expression would give me an
indication of how I had done.

His handsome face was
twisted in a frown and my stomach, already uneasy, gave another
sickening jolt.

I bowed once more to
the judges and made my way off stage, where the next contestant was
waiting to go on. I tried to give her a comforting smile, like the
contestant before me had done, but she was looking past me, towards
the piano. Towards safety and familiarity.

Mark didn’t say
anything, though, just turned on his heels as I approached, forcing
me to follow him. After all, he wasn’t just my instructor, he
was also my ride home. I packed up my music and the rest of my things
and went out to the parking lot where he was now leaning against the
car. There was still half a day left of performances for this round
of the competition—we wouldn’t find out until tomorrow
who was continuing on to the next level, but it seemed pretty clear
that Mark thought I was done after my showing today.

The air in the car was
thick with tension. I didn’t want to be the first to say
anything, but my shoulders were practically bunched up under my ears.

“Are you pleased
with yourself?” Mark finally said, but when I glanced up at
him, he wasn’t even looking at me, his eyes firmly on the road,
even though we were at a stoplight.

I knew better than to
answer.

All I wanted was to get
home and take a nice long bath and then play some Mozart. And eat
some chicken noodle soup. And maybe a brownie.

Jake had left a box of
them outside my door and even though I knew I shouldn’t have, I
took a small nibble of one before I left for the competition. That
nibble, unfortunately, had turned into a full-on bite, and then
before I knew it, with Mark waiting outside in the car, honking at
me, I had eaten half the box. I had never thought myself to be a
brownie person but there was something about these—they weren’t
cakey like the brownies I had had before. They were rich and
fudge-like with a hint of salt, giving it a perfect balance of
flavor. And I ate almost all of them. No wonder I had felt sick on
the way to the performance and no wonder I felt sick now.

“Your
performance was sloppy and emotional,” Mark told me, his voice
thick with disappointment. “It’s like all the work I’ve
done with you has gone completely out the window. You’re back
to being the same amateur I agreed to work with—which means
this experiment has been a waste of my time.”

My heart dropped into
my brownie-filled stomach. I hated disappointing Mark. He had been
trying, for months, to get me to focus on the music, on the notes,
and I had let myself be taken away by the emotion of the moment. Any
enjoyment I had gained from playing that afternoon was immediately
gone. All the hopes I had of actually winning this competition faded
away. If Mark didn’t think I was good enough, then I wasn’t.
Disappointed tears welled in my eyes, but I wasn’t going to let
them fall.