More than ready, actually. At this point, I could probably play this piece in my sleep. Which was good, since I suspected that Drew was behind the locked practice rooms and I wanted nothing more than to show him exactly what he’d tried—and failed—to sabotage.
But before I went out on stage, I had some tasks for my assistant.
“Drew,” I called out sweetly, making sure my voice carried across the backstage area. “Could you come help me with my shoes? I think the strap is twisted.”
His jaw clenched as several professors and other performers turned to watch him make his way toward me. His hazel eyes were filled with disdain as he approached me like I was his personal executioner.
“The strap looks fine,” he muttered, dropping to one knee to examine my performance flats.
My breath caught at the sight of Drew Dumontier kneeling in front of me with his broad shoulders filling out that ridiculous shirt. His hair fell forward as he bent his head, his fingers brushing over the strap in a caress that felttoo tender for someone who was supposed to hate my guts with every ounce of blood that pulsed through his veins.
He looked up at me, and my pulse skipped in a way that had nothing to do with pre-performance nerves.
It was really inconvenient that my archrival had to be so damn attractive.
“Oh, you’re right! But could you adjust it a little? It feels like it might be too loose.” I smiled down at him, making sure my voice stayed bright and sugary sweet in a way that wasn’t me at all. “I’d hate to have my shoe slip during my entrance.”
The muscle in his jaw twitched as he pretended to adjust the perfectly fine strap on my shoes. “There. Happy now, Freckles?”
My spine stiffened at the way he spit out that word, but I didn’t let my face give away that I was bothered. He’d been teasing me about my freckles almost my entire life, and I hated how hearing that word now made a sliver of self-consciousness wiggle its way under my bravado.
“Thank you so much,” I said as he stood. “Oh, and I almost forgot—could you hold my water bottle? And my extra rosin? And my backup bow? And this spare cloth for my strings?”
I kept adding items until his hands were completely full, watching his expression grow darker with each addition. A few other musicians were openly staring now, some trying not to laugh.
It wasn’t every day we had a hockey god as our gofer for our small music recitals.
“Anything else?” he asked through gritted teeth.
“Actually, yes. Could you test my water? Sometimes the bottles get too warm and it affects the taste. Just a tiny sip to make sure it’s okay.”
Drew stared at me like I’d lost my mind. “You want me to taste-test your water.”
“Well, you are my assistant,” I said innocently. It was taking everything in me not to break character and laugh at the expression on his face. “That’s what assistants do, right? Make sure everything is perfect for their performer?”
Drew glanced around at the observers and then shook his head before taking the smallest possible sip.
“It’s fine,” he said flatly.
“Wonderful! Oh, and one more tiny thing—could you adjust my music stand?”
He blinked. “You want me to what?”
“It’s crooked. I can’t carry it out there like that.”
The look he gave me could have melted steel, but he set down the various things I’d handed him on a table nearby. He sighed and reached for the stand, muttering something under his breath.
“Too high,” I said immediately. “Oh, shoot, now it’s too low.”
I bit my lip to hold back my grin as a low rumble came from him. God, this was fun.
I was pretty sure I heard someone chuckle.
“There. Happy now?” His look told me if I pushed him even a millimeter further he’d lose his shit.
“Perfect,” I said, just as Brody stepped forward.
“Harper, you’re on, babes. You all set?”
