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  Staci Hart

  Copyright © 2018 Staci Hart

  All rights reserved.

  stacihartnovels.com

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover by Quirky Bird

  Photography by Perrywinkle Photography

  Editor: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing

  Proofreading: Love N Books

  Playlist: https://spoti.fi/2N3gvaX

  Pin Board: http://bit.ly/2NEZNnr

  For all the girls

  who think they aren’t enough:

  Nobody storms the castle for the prince.

  Contents

  1. Spit Shine

  2. Proof Positive

  3. Genetics

  4. Super Breezy

  5. Promenade

  6. Cocksure

  7. On Lock

  8. Model Student

  9. Beasts and Brutes

  10. The Taste of Victory

  11. Practical Application

  12. Just Once

  13. For Science

  14. Jump

  15. Steady As She Goes

  16. Everything, Everywhere

  17. Clitosaurus Sex

  18. Hot For Teacher

  19. Bell Curve

  20. Cunninglinguist

  21. The RLC

  22. Because, Of Course.

  23. Someone Like Me

  24. Facts and Figures

  25. Boyfriend Material

  26. Player

  27. Believer

  28. Make a Wish

  29. Pizza Cake

  30. Eat Your Heart Out

  31. Príncipe

  32. To Fall

  33. Every Song, Every Note

  34. Treasure

  35. The Red One

  Epilogue

  Sneak Peek—BOOKED

  Thank you

  Also by Staci Hart

  About the Author

  1

  Spit Shine

  Val

  Sam turned me into a walking contradiction.

  His ability to make me feel simultaneously mortified, stunned, and exhilarated was an act of sorcery I’d come to both look forward to and avoid at all costs.

  In fairness, I didn’t interact with many men, particularly not men who were of the tall, dark, and handsome category. More the short, awkward, and swipe-left category.

  But typically I could maintain at least a tentative sense of normal around the opposite sex. Thing was, Sam was anything but typical.

  I’d felt his presence from the second he entered the orchestra pit for sound check and through every song in Wicked from “No One Mourns the Wicked” to “For Good.”

  It was ridiculous really, just how obsessed with him I was.

  I wished I could have said obsessed was too strong of a word, but there I was, playing on Broadway, and my dream job was the last thing on my mind. I’d spent the last month—ever since I’d secured my chair—daydreaming about Sam. That, and trying not to make an ass out of myself in front of him.

  I’d been failing miserably on both counts, in case you were wondering.

  The pit buzzed with chatter as musicians packed up their things. But above it all, I heard him laugh from behind me, near the enclosed drum booth where his buddy played. The velvety timbre of his voice plucked a string in me, setting it vibrating, humming a note only he could produce.

  On that recognition, I did my level best to turn my focus anywhere but on him.

  I polished off the brass bell of my trumpet, watching the blur of my distorted reflection in the curving metal. Once it gleamed, I pointed the bell at the ground, brought my lips to the mouthpiece, pressed the lever to open my spit valve, and emptied my lungs. The accumulated moisture in the tubes shot out of the little hole in a brilliant, disgusting fan of saliva and DNA.

  The shoe wasn’t there, and then it was, glistening with my spit and stopped dead in front of me. It was a big shoe, the leather of his high-top oxfords dotted with condensation. In a protracted turn, it shifted until its toe pointed at me in accusation, its mate following suit.

  Horror rose in my chest.

  My eyes climbed the length of his long body, cataloging every detail in the hopes it wasn’t him. Because if the face I found at the top was the one I thought it might be, there was a very high likelihood that I would be leaving the theater on a stretcher.

  His legs went on forever, his dark jeans tight enough to see the cords of his calves and thighs, loose enough that they still bunched artfully at his ankles and knees. His narrow waist, his belt punctuating a place my eyes wanted to linger. His torso widened to a broad chest that was still lean but strong—the discs of his pecs were visible under his shirt, the proportion of waist to wings to shoulders mathematically perfect. I mean, if I did math. Which, in that moment, I most definitely did not. I couldn’t have counted bananas unless they were hooked in his belt.

  If he hadn’t already scrambled my wits, the second I laid eyes on his face, my wits would have willingly grabbed a whisk and scrambled themselves.

  Dark. Dark and hard, from the cut of his jaw to his ebony hairline. From his stubbled beard to his strong brow.

  Soft and light, his skin tan and glowing—actually glowing like a commercial for miracle cream that turned you into an immortal. His lips were a dusty rose, thick and luscious—the bow strong, the curve gentle, the corners curled up in amusement.

  But it was his eyes that knocked the air out of my lungs. They were the color of sand, a burnished brown so light, they defied logic, the color contained by a dark ring circling the irises. His lids were edged with lashes so black, so thick, they looked like they were lined with kohl.

  He was far, far above me, figuratively and literally.

  “Oh my God,” I breathed, setting down my trumpet and swiping my towel in the same motion. Without thinking, I hit the floor on all fours and mopped at his shoe with my towel. “I am so sorry,” I said as I scrubbed with far more vigor than necessary. “I-I didn’t see you coming, or I never—I mean, I wouldn’t have ever intentionally—”

  He chuckled through closed lips. “A good spit shine never hurt anybody.”

  My cheeks flamed, and I crawled to the side a little so I could get the outside of his shoe. “I can’t believe I did this. I can’t believe I didn’t see you.”

  “Maybe I should wear a bell.”

  A small, singular laugh escaped me.

  Like that would help keep my mind off you.

  He paused. I kept at it, cleaning his shoe off like a maniac.

  “Really, it’s fine. Come here.” A hand dipped into my periphery, a big, wide hand with long fingers.

  There was something about the way he’d told me to come here, like he was going to take me to bed or to France or to heaven. My heart thundered as I reached for his hand. The moment our skin brushed, a zing of awareness shot up my arm and straight to my heart. My fingers slipped into the curve of his wide palm, and when he closed his fingers around my hand, it disappeared.

  He pulled me to stand, squeezing once before letting go.

  I swear to God, I almost hit the deck again, this time in a fit of histrionics.

  I made the mistake of looking up and experienced a momentary lapse in time. His lips were together, tilted in a smirk.

  “Thirty seconds more, and I would have had to pay you for the shine.”

  An awkward laugh crackled out of me. “Please, I probably should be paying you. I’m really sorry. I don’t usually spit on leather shoes. Or any shoes. I don’t usually spit. I mean, aside from my spit valve. Or when I brush my teeth. Or after I puke.”

  Oh my God, stop talking. STOP TALKING NOW.

  I clamped my mouth shut.

  The tilt in his smile angled higher. “No harm done, Val.”

  He knows my name? Holy shit, he knows my name.

  Heat burst across my skin, climbing up my neck and to my cheeks.

  Sam shifted away from me. “See you tomorrow. And maybe watch where you point that,” he said, nodding to my trumpet. “Wouldn’t want to lose you to the shoe shine industry.”

  The laugh that left me was unrecognizable. I lifted my hand lamely. “Bye.”

  Somehow, I found the wherewithal to stop staring at his backside as he walked away. I took my seat to finish disassembling my trumpet, packing the mouthpiece and horn away in its bed of cobalt velvet. And all the while, I sank into that familiar feeling of abject horror and the feverish thrill that accompanied every encounter with him.

  He’d touched my hand. He’d smiled at me. He knew my name.

  And in my book, that was a win regardless of how much drool it had taken me to get there.

  Sam

  I felt her eyes on me while I put my upright bass in its case. The weight of her stare didn’t go unnoticed as I dragged my fingers through my hair when it fell out of place.

  I probably shouldn’t have lifted the massive case with one hand, an action that engaged every muscle in my arm from fingers to shoulder—back, pecs, and abs as a bonus.

  Bu
t I did, and I did it without a shred of shame or remorse.

  It seemed like we never got through a curtain call without Val crossing my path, and every encounter was more unexpected. Once, when she’d walked by, her toe had caught my music stand and taken it down in a hail of sheet music. Just the other day, she’d tripped on my foot and ended up in my lap, thanks to some quick maneuvering on my part. I hadn’t forgotten the feel of her ass seated snugly against my thighs. And I couldn’t help my amusement. I didn’t even try, as innocent as it was.

  Like the asshole I was, I soaked up every ounce of her attention.

  I knew who she was—no one could miss her. A head of curly hair in shades of caramel to chestnut. A heart-shaped face set with big, dark eyes. Lips like a little Cupid’s bow, small and full. Her body, short and stacked, with curves like a roller coaster. I noticed every one even though I wasn’t sure she wanted anyone to—she hid her body under baggy clothes.

  I wondered if she was ashamed. If she thought men didn’t want a body like hers, with curves reminiscent of the mahogany bass I’d just locked away. If so, she had no idea how wrong she was.

  I was an aficionado of women; I admired them, valued them, appreciated them always. And there was a lot to appreciate about Val.

  Ian chuckled, his arms folded as he leaned against the wall beside me, twirling a drumstick in his fingers. “Man, that chick is so into you.”

  I hadn’t realized I was smiling until my lips began to fall. “She’s a cute kid.”

  “A girl with a body like that is no kid.” Ian watched her with a wolfish expression on his face, nothing but teeth and eyes.

  Ian Jackson, asshole extraordinaire. We’d met at a prep school for the gifted and filthy rich when we were fifteen and had been friends ever since, through Juilliard and into Broadway. We were two of a kind in our way. He was as fair as I was dark, with blond hair and cool eyes and a smile that brought girls running like the Pied Piper of Hamelin.

  They didn’t usually figure out they were on their way to their own funerals until it was too late.

  And that was the difference—I was clear about my rules, and he wasn’t. He’d tell a girl he knew it was sudden, he knew it was too soon, but would it be strange if he thought he might love her?

  Anything to close the deal.

  I, on the other hand, had never lied to a woman about what I could be to them. I’d never made promises I didn’t intend to keep.

  I had no problems closing deals either.

  Ian had slept with every eligible member of the orchestra and half of the cast and crew, where I was much more interested in women I didn’t have to see at work.

  Not that I didn’t have the opportunity.

  As if I’d willed them to appear, three flutists walked past us, batting their lashes and fawning.

  “Hi, Sam,” the blonde one sang.

  I swore I heard a collective sigh when I jerked my chin in lieu of a greeting.

  “Hey, ladies,” Ian said.

  They soured in unison and picked up their pace.

  “Seriously,” Ian said, unfazed, “that little trumpet player is a rocket. I bet she’s never even had a boyfriend.”

  My frown deepened. “You don’t know that.”

  “She’s got that look about her. You know what I mean—the good girls, the innocent ones. Pay them a little attention, and they worship you.”

  I shot him a look. “You’re a dick.”

  He laughed, flashing a brilliant smile. “I know. I swear to God, man—when she was on her hands and knees scrubbing your shoe, I thought I was gonna have a heart attack.”

  He hadn’t been the only one.

  Dumbfounded, I’d looked down, my eyes roaming from her curly head down to the curve of her ample ass as she scrubbed. The motion set her body moving toward and away from me in a borderline pornographic wave that reminded me of something much more intimate than a shoe shine.

  “I think I’m gonna go after her,” he said, watching me.

  Something inside me jerked in surprise, but I kept still, kept my voice light. With a laugh, I said, “No, you aren’t.”

  “Honestly, I don’t know why I haven’t before. I shoulda hit on her the second she walked in. After her little display, I wouldn’t mind getting her on all fours so she could spit shine my D.”

  My head swiveled around to eye him. “Assuming she’d be interested.”

  He gave me a look. “Why wouldn’t she be interested?”

  “She’s too smart to fall for your bullshit.”

  His face lit up with humor. “Aw, what’s the matter? You don’t like her, do you?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Of course not.”

  “No, of course not,” he echoed pointedly.

  A pause. “I don’t want her. I just think she’s sweet, too sweet for you. There are plenty of girls out there for you to fuck up, but that one you could fuck up permanently.”

  “Who says I’ll fuck her up? I just want to fuck her. I mean, if you want her, she’s all yours. After the shoe shine, you’ve got dibs.”

  “Thanks,” I said flatly.

  “But if you don’t, I will.”

  My jaw clenched. I tried to smile. “Not a chance, man. No way would she fall for your line.”

  He shrugged, the picture of apathy. “That sounds like a bet to me.”

  I rummaged around in my bag, avoiding his eyes. Because if I looked directly at him, I might actually hit him. “You’re the fucking worst. I’m not putting down bets on some girl.”

  “Not what you said last week about…Charmaine?”

  I stood, scowling. “Charlene. But a girl at a bar with her skirt barely covering her ass is a different story than Val.”

  “Val. Well, well, well. You do like her.”

  “Don’t be an idiot.” It was inexplicable, the irrational bout of anger that sparked in my ribs.

  Very few people could make me feel transparent the way he could.

  In fairness, he wasn’t usually this much of a dick. Competitive, sure. Egomaniacal, absolutely. But we’d grown up together, come into our careers together. We’d played the field together and conquered a mountain of ass in the process.

  In truth, he knew me better than just about anyone. And I knew him.

  Ian watched me with cool, calculating eyes. “That makes things more interesting. You don’t think she’d be interested in me, but you don’t want me to take a shot. You like her. So why not go after her? And don’t say work. That’s a bullshit rule, and you know it.”

  “And you know I won’t do it. Work chicks. Good girls. That’s your thing, not mine.”

  “Well, you know what I think, Sammy boy?” he said with his most winning smile. “Not only do I think she’d happily sleep with me, but now you’ve convinced me you want a piece of her, too.”

  My eyes narrowed.

  “Tell you what,” he offered. “I’ll make you a deal.”

  “You couldn’t just decide not to be a piece of shit?”

  Another laugh, cheery and light. “Where’s the fun in that?”

  I folded my arms but said nothing.

  “I bet you can’t date her for a month. If you do it, if you last an entire month dating Susie Spitshine, I’ll leave her alone. And if you don’t, she’s fair game.”

  A dry laugh burst out of me. “Come the fuck on, Ian.”

  “Come on yourself,” he joked. “Get on my level, Sammy—it’s nice down here in the dirt. Sleep is easy when you have no conscience.” When I didn’t respond, he added, “It’s just a bet. What, are you afraid of losing after the other night?”

  “I won that bet.”

  “Bullshit,” he said on a laugh. “You were supposed to take her home without buying her a drink.”