His laughs, a low rumble vibrating between us, and his blond stubbled jaw catches my attention. He’s got a grown-up Justin Timberlake thing going for him and after Gavin slamming my dress, it feels nice to have someone be interested in actually having a conversation with me.
“But fiddles are beer-proof?”
Since he seems genuinely interested, I give him a real answer.
“I think what he really meant was, violins need to be kept in pristine condition. But with the type of music played on fiddles, it’s the dents and the dings in the wood that give it a unique sound.” He nods appreciatively so I continue my tutorial. “The main thing that makes them different is the type of music that’s played on them. Classical music is played on the violin whereas when you’re playing something more folksy, it’s considered a fiddle.” We step closer together so that I can speak without shouting. “Both have four strings, though there are differences in the setup—meaning the changeable parts, like tuners and the bridge. I like my bridge flatter, for instance, than most of the traditional violinists did at the school I attended in Houston.”
“A flat bridge, got it,” he says cheekily.
“It’d be easier to explain if I had Oz with me and could show you exactly what I’m talking about.”
Brian side-eyes me. “Oz?” He takes a sip of beer and I grin.
“My fiddle. Yes, I named him. And no, you better not spill beer on him.”
I tense a little in anticipation of his asking me why I named him Oz. I really don’t want to go into detail about my parents and how playing brought color back to my world, but I don’t want to lie or be rude, either.
Turns out, Brian doesn’t get the chance to ask any more about Oz or even Houston, because strong fingers wrap my upper arms and tug before he says another word.
“Time to go.” Glancing up at the livid expression on Gavin’s face, I assume I’ve messed up and lost track of time. Looking over at the stage, however, I see that Cold September is still playing.
“Excuse me a moment,” I say to Brian before Gavin practically drags me over to the darkened area beside the stage. I nearly trip over chairs in my path as his momentum propels me forward. Over Gavin’s shoulder I see Dallas and Mandy chatting animatedly with an older gentleman who reminds me a little of Papa. Or maybe I’m just homesick.
Once we’re out of sight of the audience, I jerk out of Gavin’s grasp.
“What the hell, Gav? That felt a lot like a possessive boyfriend move and since you’re neither possessive nor my boyfriend, care to tell me why you just pulled me away from an adult conversation like I was an errant child?”
“Adult conversations don’t involve staring at your tits. And believe me, he was doing a hell of a lot more of that than listening to what you had to say.”
“You’re something else,” I say with a shake of my head. “If I had ever in my life dared interrupt you with one of your groupies, I can only imagine how pissed you would’ve been.”
Gavin scoffs as if I’ve said something inane. “I wouldn’t have been pissed at all.”
“How in the ever-loving hell would I possibly know that?” I don’t know why this conversation is making me so angry, but it is. The hot lights above feel like laser beams melting my jacket to my skin. “I mean, last night I finally got it—what’s so great that you feel the need to share it with the women who come asking for it. But Jesus, Gavin. How many of them have been paraded in front of me and I never said a word? That was a strictly professional conversation you just interrupted to act like a crazed caveman.”
“Exactly. You never said a word,” he says, tugging at the collar of his shirt. “And you know as well as I do that last night wasn’t . . . wasn’t like . . . . whatever.”
“Oh, yeah? Well that clears it up. Glad we had this talk.” I start to turn around and walk away because the last thing any record label executive wants to see at a talent showcase is band members arguing, but Gavin catches my wrist and pulls me to him.
“Wait a damn second. I need you to hear me, okay?”