Page 22 of Perfect Notes

Gr8. How’s Mr. Fox?

I trimmed a multitude of stems waiting for him to text. I’d made a mistake. He hadn’t wanted me to know. I’d frightened him away. He’d scared me too, just a little. I’d lain awake in bed the previous night, fretting over my lack of knowledge about the new man in my life. Sometime after midnight, I’d drifted off into a troubled sleep.

My mobile bleeped. After putting the scissors down, I picked the phone up. Bridget was stocktaking in the storeroom.

Missing you. Don’t read too much into Mr. Fox. Just words.

I ruminated. Overthinking things was my specialty. I guessed he might dismiss it as unimportant. I had to believe him.

Sure. See you tomorrow. xxxx.

Kisses. I’d blown him digital kisses. The truth—I wanted more than those kisses. Three days of separation and he occupied my every waking moment. Several times Bridget had nudged my arm to break me out of a daydream. Back at home, a cup of coffee went cold in my hands as I sat like a statue in front of the television, watching a blank screen. I saw his eyes peering out of the walls at me. Those little tufts of dark hair on his chest made me smile as I pictured his naked body. Shutting my eyes, I imagined running my fingers through them. Best of all, his cock. I fantasized about that piece of his anatomy constantly.

I encountered phallic symbols everywhere. The cucumber in the bottom of the refrigerator distracted me each time I opened the door to fetch milk. I hid it under a lettuce.

Pathetic. Needy. Sexually charged and raring to go. The man had cooked me into a state of perpetual lust. Without him, I would overheat and expire.

Wednesday evening, I stepped out and there was the silver BMW on the curbside. He hadn’t rung the doorbell. He might as well have been a taxi driver. Except, when I joined him in his car, his lips collided with mine in our eagerness to connect—a brisk, hard kiss. I savored him for those two seconds. I glowed warmly under my winter coat.

He broke off and squeezed my hand before turning the ignition.

I pursed my lips. “I was thinking. Perhaps, we shouldn’t mention us to anyone in the orchestra.”

“A wise idea,” he agreed with a nod.

Phew. We had a bubble of secrecy about us. I didn’t want it to pop quite yet. Not while I had Stefan’s undivided attention. The mysterious conductor had to reveal more of himself before we talked about commitment.

“Great. I mean, not that I’m ashamed of us, but we’ve only known each other a couple weeks and I don’t want other people to know we’re into each other in a big way.” Shit, what did I mean by that? Of course we were into each other—we’d fucked like crazy on Sunday. “I didn’t explain that well. We are hot for each other, I assume. I mean, I am…” I closed my eyes and shook my head, embarrassed at my stumbling words. Next to me, Stefan chortled softly to himself.

“Mausi, don’t tie yourself in knots. I get it. Best keep to ourselves.”

Stefan made things sound easy. When he conducted, he expected instantaneous success. He’d direct, give an instruction—do it this way, like this—and we, his musicians, would respond accordingly as if nothing else mattered. Our own interpretation wasn’t up for discussion. If he made it harder to play—tough. We were all competent performers and the pieces were within our abilities. Now that I was in a relationship with him, I was about to find out if he extended those expectations to his love life too.

During the practice, we were the epitome of professionalism. Not a stray look or rogue wink passed between us. We ignored each other during the coffee break. I chatted with the other members of the woodwind section. We tried to meet sometimes, a few of us, to play quartets or quintets. Trying to schedule a suitable slot in our combined diaries was nearly impossible.

Afterward I wandered out to his car, ensuring that he’d left before me. Without making a fuss, I opened the car door and slipped into the passenger seat. Stefan greeted me with a smile.

“You played really well this evening.”

“I did, didn’t I?” I’d held it together and hadn’t succumbed to fluffed entries or fumbled the notes.

“Still… You can improve.”

I gaped at him, but he grinned back at me.

“Don’t you want more private tuition?”

A rhetorical question. Of course I did. I was desperate for his personal touch. We said nothing else. My nerves frayed. Would he ask? Did I invite him? The more time we spent together, the more chances I had at cracking him open. His delay in answering my text bugged me.

He pulled up by my house and switched off the engine. He twisted in his seat. A deadpan expression covered his face. I flinched slightly, snatched a breath and waited for him to make the move—any move.

“What’s holding you back?” he asked abruptly.

“You.”

He looked surprised by my proclamation. He shifted in his seat. “Me? You don’t want this?”