Page 66 of Serving the Maestro

What had happened? My mind spun back to the last clear memory at the bar.

I had gone to the bathroom as soon as we came to the bar. Then I’d gone back out there to sit and talk with Roger for a few minutes.

I’d planned on getting a glass of wine, but he’d already ordered drinks, and he was smiling as I took a seat.

The smile had brought back nice memories, so I’d relaxed a little, sipping the drink as he asked about my job.

Then...nothing.

I didn’t remember finishing the drink or how many more I’d had after that. My head was hammering, though. I must have gotten wasted. Had I made a move on Roger?

Still shivering, I lifted my face to the spray of hot water. It sluiced down over me, washing away Roger’s scent, my sweat, and the tears that had started to fall without me noticing.

Throat tight against a wave that promised even more, I sagged against the wall and wrapped my arms around my middle, holding on tight.

That wave of tears came, and I couldn’t fight it. I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to.

I cried. I cried for a long, long time and wished Trent was here to hold me.

TWENTY-THREE

TRENT

I was up well before nine and already on the phone when Stephen tried to call the first time. Ignoring the familiar click, I listened to the crap music playing while I sat on hold with the airline.

I’d made up my mind. I was going to talk to Jazz. Stephen had been right to call me out the way he had. I couldn’t think about going the next month wondering if Jazz cared about me, much less the rest of my life.

I was gritting my teeth and suffering through endless waits and awful music as the customer service rep tried to find a flight that would get me to New York by tomorrow.

Stephen’s pragmatic voice echoed in my ears when I fell face down on the bed last night. It was the first thing I thought of when I woke at six, my body still semi-accustomed to New York time despite being back in LA for days.

Do you really want to spend the rest of your life regretting the fact that you were too chicken shit to ask this woman if she felt anything for you?

I already knew she felt something.

I’d seen it in her eyes, in the rich, blue-ish purple that could hold so much emotion.

The last time we’d made love.

Made love.

What a strange concept.

I was thirty-three years old, and until Jazz, I hadn’t really made love to a woman before. I’d had sex—wild, hot sex, yeah. And the best sex, the hottest sex, had been with Jazz.

We both felt something. But I had no idea if Jazz wanted to do anything about it.

The only thing I knew was that Stephen was right—I was chickenshit. The thought of going to see her and risking rejection left me feeling cold all over.

The dismal music broke off.

“Mr. Dixson?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you for still holding. My manager is still looking at possible options. Can you continue to hold?”

I clenched my teeth and tried not to snarl. “Yes.”

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