She looks how I feel, shadows pressed under her eyes like thumbprints and her hair fraying free from its low ponytail. We’ve been here for over four hours now, trading on and off. At one point, I had to wake Marigold up for her turn, because she’d fallen asleepon the floor, slumped against the wall and surrounded by sheet music.
We’re both exhausted, and the pressure isn’t going to let up anytime soon.
Not that my traitorous body pays much attention to how tired my brain is.
I’dthoughtthe biggest impediment to me winning Stockholm would be my musicality. It never occurred to me to worry about Marigold’s sleep-tousled hair when I wake her up from a nap to take her turn at the keyboard, or the sweet scent of her perfume when she leans past me to examine my sheet music as I play.
And there’s no escape from the constant throb ofwantthat pervades every second of every day, because we practice together every chance we get—at the Opera House but also in the hotel, me working through Chopin while Marigold lounges—very distractingly—on my bed, scribbling away on her score, oblivious to the way I keep missing notes from thinking about her thighs.
But there’s been no time. And I haven’t wanted to push the matter, because sex should be pretty far down the priority list right now.
Not that this knowledge stops my body from wanting.
“I think it’s down to us, Xinyan, Naoki Yoshida, and Iza Krajnc,” Marigold says as she unpacks our bag of doner kebab, passing one of the foil-wrapped sandwiches over to me. “So when you think about it, it’s not really us against forty other people. The actual competitive pool is a lot smaller.”
Marigold takes a huge bite of her own kebab, eyes falling shut in bliss, like it’s the first time she’s had food in twenty years. I decide not to point out the smear of white sauce on her cheek. Thinking back, I’m not sure either of us remembered to eat lunch.
“That sounds right,” I say. “Zijian Chen is probably a contender, too.”
“He’s like eight years old. It personally offends me to imagine him beating me, so no, I’m pretending he doesn’t exist.”
“He’s sixteen, I think.”
“Like I said!”
I give her a Face, but I’m smiling as I take a bite of my own sandwich. “Man. We really need to make doner kebab more of a thing in New York. Why is this not a thing?”
“It exists. I’ve seen it before.”
“Yeah, likeonce.And not anywhere near Parker.”
“True.” She finally notices the sauce on her cheek and swipes it away, sucking the residue off her finger. Which, of course, does indecent things in the pit of my stomach.
“Would be worth it just to watch you make a mess of yourself again,” I say, unable to help myself after all, and she makes a face at me.
“Dick.”
“Slob,” I shoot back.
“You like me this way.”
And god help me, but I do. “Bit.”
“Just a bit?” One corner of her mouth quirks up.
“Okay, more than a bit. A smidge.”
“A smidge is definitely less than a bit.”
I make a skeptical face. “Is it? Pretty sure it goes bit, smidge, slice, lump, hunk.”
At least it earns me a laugh. “What the hell does it mean to like someone a slice?”
“Exactly what it sounds like! You have positive feelings for that person that are more than a little, less than a lot. Just a nice medium amount. Like a perfect slice of apple pie.”
“Somebody needs to put your brain in a vat and study it.”
But she’s smiling at me like she likes me more than a smidge. More than a slice, even. Something warm curls up in my chest andsmolders there. I’m abruptly hyperaware of everything my body is touching, from the warm kebab in my hand to the hard floor I’m sitting on and the scratchy feel of the industrial-grade carpet beneath my other hand.
