Page 57 of Royally Wed
This couldn’t happen on the day of the wedding. His career would be over. He’d be ruined.
Shit, shit, shit.
Asher stood, resting his cello against his chair. None ofthe musicians around him dared to look at him, either too caught up in the concerto they were playing or afraid his incompetence might be contagious.
Leaving was the last thing he should do. An artist never got up and left the stage in the middle of a performance.Ever. But he needed air... space... anything to calm the chaosswirling inside of him. His next entrance was halfway throughthe program. By Asher’s best estimate, he had twenty minutes to get himself together. He would. He had no choice.
But he sure as hell couldn’t do it here.
“Excuse me,” he murmured to no one in particular as he slid down the aisle and away from the orchestra, trying his best to make himself invisible.
It was a pipe dream, obviously. He could feel Jeremy’s gaze boring into the back of his head,but he didn’t dare turn around.
He’d say he had food poisoning or something and needed to step out.
No one would believe him. Not after the way he’d just played. His only hope would be to nail his solo on the next run-through.
Once he’d made his way out of the nave, his heartbeat began to slow. His hands were damp, and he realized he’d nearly perspired through his dress shirt. He loosened histie, pushed open the Abbey’s heavy wooden door, and stumbled out onto the sidewalk.
How was his stage fright getting worse instead of better? This trip to England was supposed to be a fresh start. A new beginning. But he’d gone and made things worse by falling in lust with the bride.
Deep down, he wasn’t altogether sure his feelings for Amelia were quite that simple. But physical attractionwas all he was willing to admit at the moment, even to himself.
Asher took three deep breaths, inhaling through his nose and exhaling through his mouth. Just as he started to feelbetter, he realized it was raining. A steady gray drizzle fell from the sky. His face was soaked, as was his suit jacket. But at least he could breathe again.
He glanced at his watch. The orchestra was probably halfwaythrough its second movement. He still had time before he needed to be back in his chair. He ducked beneath the closest covered walkway and scrubbed a hand over his face. He needed to get his shit together. If he didn’t, the royal family would probably fly Yo-Yo Ma back to England and beg him to play in his hospital gown.
He hastened his steps when he saw a door marked WC, for water closet, atthe far end of the walkway. With any luck, the bathroom would have a hand dryer in it. If it didn’t, he’d have to slog back inside, dripping all over the church floor.
He opened the door. The room was dark, so he reached for the light switch and flipped it on. His gaze landed immediately on the hand dryer attached to the far wall, and at first his sense of relief was so acute that he failed tonotice the man standing at the counter.
The man’s back was facing Asher, and when he turned his head, Asher froze. It was Holden.
And he wasn’t alone.
