“We play hockey together. Nothing too serious, just a beer league. We’re the Clef Hangers since the team was started by a couple guys who were into music.”
I tried to wipe the shock off of my face.
“It’s a nice outlet,” he said. “I had to miss a season last year when the Grey Doors were on tour, but honestly, I love it as much as I love singing.”
“Do people know about this?” I knew the answer; there was no information about this anywhere on the internet, but I didn’t want to reveal that I was his fangirl.
“No, I play under an alias. It’s nice to have something that I keep separate from all the baggage that comes with a career in the music industry.”
“That would be nice,” I said, thinking of the orchestra and how much it meant to me to have a place to go where I was on equal footing with everyone else.
Ernesto shook his head slightly, sending his short curls bouncing. “You’re probably wondering why I’m even here,” he said. “I just got back from picking Fred up from the police station.”
I glanced toward the door, grateful my mamá couldn’t hear this conversation. “How’s he doing?”
“He’s good. He hasn’t been charged with anything, but the police told him to stick around town for the next couple weeks. Typical Fred—even after a murder his primary concern was the orchestra. Apparently, one of the patrons—the Bramwell family—is planning to cancel their donation unless the concert goes on. I understand if you don’t want to perform anymore after what you experienced this afternoon, but Fred has rescheduled the concert to ten days from now.”
“I didn’t know Paolo,” I explained, wanting Ernesto to understand. “I had only met him today, and our interactions weren’t exactly positive. Being in the building when it happened,finding his body—it was terrible. And it makes me sad that a life was cut short. But I’m okay—honestly. I still want to go on with the concert.”
“I’m glad you’re feeling up to it.” He paused and his cheek tucked with a self-conscious smile. “Fred asked me to fill in and sing Paolo’s part. I’m willing to help out if you’re willing to sing with me.”
My body went all tingly.Me? Sing a duet withErnesto Garcia!
He cleared his throat. “Of course, if you have someone else you’d rather sing with, I would totally understand. I did take singing lessons as a child so I’ve got some classical foundation, but most of my experience has been alternative—”
“You’re the only one I want,” I blurted. My cheeks heated. “I mean, yes, I’d love to sing with you.”
His face lit up with a smile that put the one on the poster to shame. It was genuine and wide, and created crinkles in the corners of his eyes. Warmth spread through my entire body at the sight of it.
“I’m glad,” he said. And even though he was famous and gorgeous and talented and had no reason to want to sing with me, I believed him.
“Do you need a copy of the sheet music?” I asked.
“No, Fred already sent me one. He also gave me your number, but I’ll text you mine.”
My inner teenager shrieked in excitement at the idea of getting Ernesto Garcia’s phone number, but I tried to play it cool as I pulled out my phone, which lit up with a notification as he texted me one word.
Ernesto
I saved his number and might have swooned, but my stomach chose that moment to grumble loudly.
“I’m interrupting your dinner,” Ernesto said, mortifyingly confirming that he had, in fact, heard my stomach growl.
“You’re fine; I’m glad you came. I’m in no hurry to go back in there.”
“Then let’s put it off as long as we can. I know the best taco man—he’s got a truck in the parking lot across from Tea and Tarot. Want to go grab some food?”
For a moment, I thought my soul might have floated clean out of my body. “That sounds amazing,” I breathed. “But will you have to worry about fans mobbing you?”
“We’re not quite big enough that we can’t go unnoticed if we’re careful. In some parts of Seattle or LA, I might have to worry about that. But Austen Heights is different. Maybe it’s because most of its population are Marked by magic, but people here tend to give us space. It’s why the band decided to move here a couple months ago.”
I tried not to stare as his smile lifted on one side. The cameras hadn’t ever caughtthatsmile either, and I tried to commit it to memory as we walked down the hall. We passed by the living room, where my mamá was still speaking quietly with the Collinses. “I have to work through some details for the concert,” I called vaguely as I passed by. “I’ll see you in a couple hours.”
Mamá looked as if she’d ask more questions, but I waved and continued walking. We went out through the front doors, and Ernesto led me over to his sleek, blacked-out sports car. Of course, even his vehicle would be sexy. The Christmas lights from the house cast him in a warm glow as he opened the door for me. I slipped inside, grateful to get out of the biting December air. I hadn’t wanted to grab the coat that wasn’t mine, and I definitely wasn’t going all the way up to my room to get another.
He turned up the heat and the seat warmers, and soon I was comfortable. Or at least my temperature was comfortable. InsideI was still trembling with nerves and excitement, my fingertips tingly. And though I might pay for it later with a headache and fatigue, I let my senses loose so I could experience every moment of this fully.
“How long have you played in the orchestra?” Ernesto asked as he drove down the lane. His voice was deep and smooth and sent little shivers along my spine.
