Page 43 of Dream Girl Drama

Sig had gone to Darien last night to retrieve her lucky blouse.

Six, maybe seven hours of driving. More if there was traffic. And all that after she’d told him they should start dating other people. Not to mention, he’d only finished competing in a little something called a professional hockey game.

Chloe’s heart pumped so fast, so furiously, she worried the tempo might be dangerous.

Why did he continue to give her reasons to be in love with him when it hurt so badly?

A lucky blouse was such a silly, superstitious thing, but he’d recognized it was important toher. Sig took her seriously. He listened to her. He delivered. Every single time. A rock-solid presence in her life that never failed her. Ever. Meanwhile, she continuously asked for advice, groceries, and extra rent money.

Chloe crept forward toward the blouse and picked it up, finding the front pocket slightly raised. She tucked her fingers inside of the silk and removed a folded note.

I’m sorry, dream girl.

Go knock them dead.

A wounded sound left her, accompanied by a whoosh of breath and she simply spun into motion, unbuttoning the black-and-white blouse, putting it on, and refastening the buttons at top speed. It was either move as fast as possible or stand stationary for the rest of her life, bleeding internally over what he’d done. The gesture, the note, his scent, the fact that he’d been in her bedroom while she wasn’t home. The fact that he’d called her dream girl, a nickname he’d started calling her the night they met.

If she didn’t move, move, move and get out of her apartment, she’d lie down and die, because love was meant to be a glorious thing, but sometimes she wondered if loving someone and not being able to acknowledge and act on it could suffocate her to death.

A few minutes later, Chloe was dressed. She tossed the mail out of her purse onto the table, shouldered her purse, and tapped down the stairs in a low pair of heels, all while calling an Uber. Any other afternoon, she would take public transportation, but she was already going to be late at this point and any delays would cause her to miss the meeting entirely.

Thankfully, she’d managed to beat the brutality of Boston’s rush hour and within ten minutes, she pulled up in front of a corner residential building in Beacon Hill. The awning readThe Tudor. Um, what? Was she in the right place? She’d expected a music school or a Berklee-owned rehearsal space, but that’s not what this was.

Chloe triple-checked the address listed in the email from her conservatory instructor and climbed out of the Uber with a murmured thank you to the driver. A doorman asked for her name, verified she was on the visitor list, guided her to the elevator, and hit the button for the penthouse—and okay, even having only a fleeting concept of money, Chloe knew the top floor in this building had to be wildly expensive. Apart from being the first chair harpist with the Boston Symphony Orchestra, whowasthis mentor?

The elevator doors opened to reveal a pretty Chinese woman who appeared to be in her early forties kneeling in front of a grand piano. She was willowy and elegant—and she was slamming a high heel against the gleaming hardwood floor with enough force to summon a demon from the pits of hell.

“You’re late, Chloe Clifford.” She pointed the heel at Chloe. “You better hope you have the talent to make up for it.”

Chloe almost swallowed her chin. “I guess you’ll have to be the judge of that.”

“Oh, I will.” The woman stood up and, walking toward Chloe with an extended arm, realized she was still holding the highheel—a Louboutin, by the way—and dropped it so she could shake Chloe’s hand. “As of now, I’m your judge, jury, and executioner.”

“Oh dear.”

“‘Oh dear’ is right. I’m Grace Shen, and you’re mine now.” She ended the incredibly firm handshake, turned on a heel, and stalked past the grand piano. “The harp is this way.”

Chloe hustled after her. “What is your grievance with the Louboutin?”

“It belonged to my girlfriend. She sent me a WhatsApp message from Berlin just before you arrived. She decided to take a position with the Philharmonic.” Grace shot her a too-sweet smile over her shoulder. “And one beneath a cellist, as well. Acellist,” she repeated with a groan. “Four strings? Not exactly brain surgery, is it?”

“Well...”

“Now, forty-seven strings and seven pedals?” Grace stopped on a dime, turned, and gestured to one of the most beautiful harps Chloe had ever seen in her life, made even more majestic due to its position in front of a panoramic view of Boston. “That’s a little more like it, right?”

“Yes,” Chloe breathed, dropping her purse, her fingers already beginning to tingle. “Holy Connecticut, this is an antique. Youplaythis?”

“That is its purpose. To be played.”

“But—”

“Look at your fingers. They’re shaking with anticipation. If this were sitting in the Smithsonian, you still wouldn’t be able to walk past this instrument without playing it.”

“Yes, but I would fully expect to serve jail time.” Chloe ran the tip of her index finger down the gilded column of the world’s most beautiful harp, marveling over the leafy motif that appeared to be hand-painted. “It would be worth it.”

“Funny. Have you been to jail?”

“Not yet.”

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