Page 114 of All Twerk, No Play

“So you’re the reason for all these cute little sundresses?” Connor asked Kate, tapping my bicep. “I couldn’t believe it when she came into work wearing a sleeveless dress and I realized she’d been hiding these guns.”

Part of me wished for a cardigan to cover up, but then I remembered the previous night, when Cruz had kissed every single freckle on my body … and my body heated so much that if I had worn long sleeves, I would sweat right through them.

“Turns out, dating a personal trainer has its perks,” I said. After two months of running and a month of daily boot camp, my weight was the same, but my muscles looked defined and toned in a way I never thought I would want.

Because Cruz had done the impossible: convinced me to do group fitness.

“I do like a million sun salutations, and I can’t get that definition,” Mallory whined from Kate’s other side.

“You could if you stopped drinking so many margaritas,” Kate said.

“Not a price I’m willing to pay,” Mallory replied, flagging down the waitress as the lights dimmed. Excitement scraped across my skin as the small curtain opened and the band took the stage, and the bar buzzed with anticipation. Cruz, calm and confident, spun his drumsticks between his long fingers as he settled on his stool, shooting a quick grin to our table. His beard had grown back but he trimmed it shorter than before so I could still see that dimple in his cheek, and I swear I caught a collective swoon from the tables behind us.

“Hey everybody, thanks for coming out tonight. We’re Your Local Phantom,” Stacy said. Without further ado, Cruz counted them in then moved smoothly around the drum kit, his smile one of focused delight.

They played through a dozen songs, the crowd growing in size and intensity with each one. Stacy sang her heart out, Rodriguez thumped along on the bass, Scott the guitarist worked through the riffs—though not looking nearly as sexy as Cruz did when he played guitar. And through it all, my boyfriend was the rhythmic backbone of the band.

“How is he so talented on drumsandguitar?” Connor mused with obvious lust in his voice directed at my boyfriend … and I couldn’t blame him.

Kate answered, “When I was annoyed at cross-training, he told me that Dave Grohl played every instrument on the first Foo Fighters album and he wanted to be able to do the same.”

“That explains the piano,” I said, and Kate tilted her head. “He suggested I buy one, now he plays it more than I do. He asked me to teach him, but I’m classically trained so I started with scales and arpeggios, the way I learned. But no matter what I play—”

“He sings something else over the top, right?” she said, and I laughed at her accuracy: The Beatles over Beethoven, Pearl Jam over Chopin, and Olivia Rodrigo over Brahms. I would have been annoyed by the humming if it were intentional, but music was such a part of him that when he heard a chord progression, the complementary song appeared in his throat. I could no longer attempt Rachmaninoff without hearing Soundgarden’s ‘Black Hole Sun.’

When we both had free nights, he brought his guitar upstairs to my apartment. I’d given him the password to my computer so he could print sheet music in my office, and he pulled up a chair next to my piano bench. Most times he would sing, but sometimes he’d convince me to lead while he harmonized. When the song finished, or sometimes before, he put down his guitar and used those talented fingers to strum his favorite instrument: my body.

While this was my first time hearing him play drums, I could verify his excellent rhythm.

When another song ended, I tried not to gawk as Cruz reached for a towel to wipe his face and neck—god, that towel was drenched and his muscles still glistened with sweat. He gulped down water, his Adam’s apple bobbing with every swallow.

Stacy announced a set break while Cruz played a solo number, and my heartbeat quickened. The last time we’d come here, he’d been called up on stage without notice and helped me save face from a date gone horribly wrong. With time to plan, what would he do?

The pub was full of enthusiastic listeners enjoying the full band’s set, but when Cruz reached for Scott’s acoustic guitar, the conversations quieted and the energetic simmer rose to an electric buzz. Did he notice how the audience seemed to sit up straighter in anticipation, or was he too amped up on the musical adrenaline—and maybe suffering short-term drum-related hearing loss—to notice that the crowd had been waiting for him?

And did he know what a turn-on that was for me—knowing how many of the people watching wanted to take him home, but he’d be in my bed tonight?

“I’d like to dedicate this next song,” he announced into the microphone, his toasted brown eyes never leaving my face, “to my beautiful, brilliant, ambitious girlfriend.”

My eyebrows shot up. His smug smile said,Yeah, you can’t stop me drawing attention to you.I pursed my lips in a look that made grown men’s balls shrivel during legal negotiations. He flashed back a cocky smile, seeing right through my bluster.

"But I thought he didn't date …" came a woman's disappointed groan from a few tables behind ours.

“She’s a piano virtuoso, yet somehow doesn’t play any Billy Joel, which is a tragedy … so I learned my favorite Billy song on guitar for her.” When I recognized the song, my breath caught.

Vienna. The song he kissed against my neck on our first night together to help me relax.

But now, instead of seducing me privately, he sang it in public, knowing it would set me aflame with desire. The lyrics echoed my life: hiding my fear behind my ambition and planning so far ahead that I missed all the beauty right in front of me.

But you know what? Fuck that. A gorgeous man was serenading me about living in the moment, so I let the song settle into my bones. He was the most talented musician I'd ever met, and I embraced his soothing voice … until the bridge.

He spoke over the strummed chords, wearing a playful smirk. “So that girlfriend I mentioned? I wanted to drag her up here to play with me … but you’re in luck, baby, because there’s no piano here.”

I released a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. I’d grown comfortable with him in the comfort of my home. But even behind the safety of a piano, playing on a stage would make me feel like a lonely girl again, wondering why my mom missed my recital.

When the song ended, I applauded loudly, sporting a proud smile. His eyes drifted over my face in a soft caress.

“Holy shit,” Connor whispered. “If you don’t take him home tonight, I will.”

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