“That should be up to the panel to decide,” he says. “They wouldn’t open the auditions to everyone if they thought a certain group deserved it more than others.”
“I guess you’re right.”
We stand in silence for a moment before he says, “My advice to you, Amelia—don’t let the outside noise stop you from going after what you really want. I’ve heard you play for three years now and I’ll say, yours is a special talent. Not the kind you get from attending expensive conservatories but the kind you’re born with. Don’t waste this opportunity on doubt.”
I blink up at him, surprised by the sudden praise. “That’s kind of you to say. Thank you.”
I smile despite myself. It’s not like me to seek validation from other people, but dealing with Darla always leaves me doubting myself. It’s been this way since I joined the orchestra three years ago. Darla hated me from the moment she met me and made sure I knew it. As a fourth-generation violinist with enviable family connections and influence, I quickly became a target for Darla’s specific brand of vitriol, and she dragged her group of friends along for the ride.
Thankfully most of my colleagues in the orchestra are above such petty squabbles, and even though Darla is popular, she hasn’t managed to completely ruin the experience for me. This is still my dream job, and people like George make it worth it.
“I’m rooting for you, Amelia.” George gives me a friendly squeeze on the arm before turning to talk to the others.
Once their attention is off me, I grab the moment of peace to read through the notice and sign up for an audition slot before quietly slipping into my seat and readying myself for rehearsal.
I wasn’t trying to downplay my own talents when I told George that there are many talents in the orchestra more likely to get the spot. I’m one of the youngest members, and it seems unlikely that I would beat the likes of Darla and other musicians who have been with the orchestra longer than I have. Still, I know I’ll regret it if I don’t try.
George’s words echo in my head.Yours is a special talent. Not the kind you get from attending expensive conservatories but the kind you’re born with.
I’ve always been conscious of the fact that I didn’t attend elite music programs like most people. When my grandfather started teaching me how to play violin, it was a way for us to bond after the passing of my mother—his daughter—and then my grandmother shortly after that. It quickly became apparent that I had a knack for it, or a “gift” as my grandfather would say. He began to teach me personally, even homeschooling me so I would have as much time as possible to focus on the violin.
When the conductor steps up to the podium to begin the day’s session, I push aside thoughts of auditions and solo performances to focus on the music in front of me, but after rehearsal, as I sit to wait for my bus, I allow myself to daydream of the spotlight and a quiet but eager audience. My grandfather and I used to talk about it all the time. I’ve seen photos in black and white of a period in time when he held the same position. The pride on his face. The awe of it all. I can almost imagine myself with that same look on my own face.
I sigh, closing my eyes, and it’s not until someone taps my shoulder that I open them again. It takes me a second to makesense of where I am. The bus is in front of me, and the last passenger is getting on.
Oh, crap!
I jump to my feet, straightening my bag and violin case before rushing to the bus. I can feel my face burning red as I rush in and grab an empty seat by the window. This time, I don’t allow myself to daydream lest I miss my stop.
I shake my head and focus on the passing scenery, set on shifting my thoughts from the sadness that sets in when I think of the man who raised me. I try to focus on the upcoming audition and the piece I need to prepare. I mentally reorganize my schedule to fit in practice time, and I almost have everything set when the bus arrives at my stop. I grab my things and head out, making the short walk from the bus stop to my building, a modest four-story structure that I’ve lived in ever since Gramps and Gran first took me in when my mother died.
Even as a small child, I was charmed by its red brick that’s softened by the ivy climbing the walls and windowsills. Now, I’m grateful it’s so close to my work—only a twenty-minute bus ride. But there are other personal reasons that make me love the building.
I’m almost at my door when I skid to a halt and stand still, staring at all six feet of delicious muscles…the other reason I’m glad I chose to stay in this apartment after Gramps passed away.
My hot neighbor, who moved in about a year ago.
Hawk is leaning against the door of apartment 3B, keys in his hand, scrolling through his phone. A huge mountain of a man, all broad shoulders and rugged angles, he’s wearing a simple white T-shirt that clings to his muscles and reveals the intricate tattoos that cover his arms. There’s no accounting forthe number of nights I’ve lain in bed wondering just how far those dark lines go.
When he turns, I forget how to breathe.
His eyes are like the summer sky, a piercing and breathtaking blue that steals the air right from my lungs. I’ve never been one to flirt much, but when he looks at me like that, I suddenly realize how a man can make a woman want to giggle and twirl her hair.
And then he smiles.
His lips curve up, a slow, easy smile that does something wild to my insides. His eyes crinkle at the corners, deepening the lines there, and for a second, I forget how to think. Dumbfounded, I stand there staring, completely and utterly captivated by the man I know better than to have any feelings for.
He’s my neighbor.
Years ago, I forbid myself from ever being attracted to two kinds of men. Never men I worked with, for obvious reasons. And never with neighbors. But that was before I met…him.
Hawk.
“Miss Belton.” He says my name in a low rumble that vibrates in the air. My stomach flips and I can feel a blush creeping up my neck, but I’m helpless to do anything about it. “Everything alright?”
“Hmm? Ah, I mean…um…”
Kill me now!
