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16
SUMMER
“Ican never get the hang of tying these things,” I complain, standing in front of a mirror backstage at the main auditorium in the music building, fiddling with my bowtie.
Right, my bowtie.
The music department gives regular concerts throughout the year to train us in the art of performing on stage. The turnout is usually pretty good, drawing from students, locals, and the good number of classical music lovers who live just a short journey away in Burlington. This is a top-ranked music department, and the concerts are free, so we don’t have a hard time attracting an audience.
I wish I could wear a nice dress or something. Sadly, the department has stuffy rules about attire for performances. Everyone has to wear a tuxedo, the only exception being a concerto, where the star performer—if she’s a girl—can wear a dress instead.
Otherwise, tuxedos all around.
I’d be lying if I said I was the biggest fan.
Tonight, I’m playing violin in Debussy’s Piano Concerto in G Major. Darius Keller, who I’ve had a few classes with, is the star of the show on piano.
The semester’s performance schedule is already released, and I’m thankful that I’m not going to be sharing a stage with Sean this semester.
Would I ever intentional play poorly or screw up my timing just to mess with his performance and make him look bad? No way. I’m far too professional for that.
But would I be tempted to? Well …
Geez, who have I become? A thought like that never would have even peeked into my head before recently. Maybe a certain fake boyfriend is rubbing off on me.
“Summer.”
Chills dance down my spine. The low voice unmistakably belongs to that fake boyfriend himself.
I turn to Hudson—and holy hell.
He’s wearing a button-up plaid shirt, rustic with earthy tones of brown and pales blues and greens. The sleeves are rolled up, showing off his mouth-wateringly thick forearms and the tattoos that cover them. The top two buttons are undone, adding a flair of casual sexiness to the look.
The shirt is tucked in, accentuating the contrast of his wide shoulders and thick chest with his trim waist. Dark blue jeans hug his muscular hips. All he’s missing is a cowboy hat and he could probably ditch hockey and make just as good a living as a cover model for small-town romance novels.
It’s only after I drink in a big gulp of him through my eyes that I realize what’s in his hand. A gorgeous bouquet of flowers, popping with vibrant color. I catch the first notes of its fragrance on my nose, and my heart swoons.
I didn’t even expect Hudson to show up to this performance tonight. I told him about it, but I didn’t say I wanted him to be here.
He came anyway. Not only did he come, but he’s dressed up and came with a big bouquet of flowers. My chest squeezes.
Hudson holds out the bouquet to me. I take it and press it close, my nose filling with even more of its aroma. Just seconds ago the backstage area was atwitter with people running around—between stage crew, students responsible for recording the performance, and other music majors just hanging around, it gets pretty busy back here—but now everyone’s still, their eyes trained on me and the tatted goalie who just handed me flowers.
“Do musicians do the break a leg thing?” Hudson asks, taking a step forward and filling my senses with his presence.
“Good luck is fine,” I answer on a chuckle.
He nods, a lazy smile on his mouth. “Good luck then.”
Suddenly I really wish I were wearing a nice dress instead of this cheap, awkwardly fitting off the rack tuxedo.
“Nice tux,” Hudson says, like he’s reading my mind.
I scrunch up my nose like I’ve caught a whiff of a bad smell. “They make us wear it.”
“It looks good on you.”
Liar. “I look like a freaking penguin.”
