Excerpt!
Oh.
Oh no.
He's at the back of the tent, talking to a trumpet player, explaining the performance format. The space is small enough that I can overhear easily. "We're not marching, just playing on the field. No formations. Just this song. We wanted to keep it simple and fun." He's got a baton in one hand, a score in the other. His brown hair is curling a little where it meets his collar. I've had my hands in that hair as he goes down on me, my fingers enjoying the thickness of it, how it anchored me at a time when his tongue gave me wings. His beard catches the light, and I notice his left hand is free and easy around the baton and —
Left hand. No ring. No tan line.
Green flag.
He turns and I get his full profile and his forearms, sleeves already pushed to the elbow. His shirt has a wrinkle across the shoulder blade from being packed. We made love a few feet away from that shirt last night.
He steps onto the podium.
He looks down at the alumni band.
He finds the piccolo section, which is just me.
Our eyes lock.
The expression on his face runs through so many stages in a handful of seconds: recognition, confusion, recognition of what he'd recognized, the horror of seeing someone you know where you did not expect to see them, a flash of lust I like very much, and then, something close to laughter.
I snicker.
He steps off the podium and comes over, face nothing but query. I beat him to it and speak first.
"You never mentioned you were a band director!"
"You never talked about playing piccolo!"
"You emailed me my score. My name didn't ring a bell?"
"You're part of the alumni band. My name didn't ring your bell?"
He’s losing the battle with not smiling. So am I.
"You rang my bell plenty, Jared. Three or four times."
The look on his face is worth every awkward moment of this morning. The chafing. Take your time. The walk of not-quite shame. His voice goes lower, almost a growl. My clit starts playing a note it shouldn't play with clothes on, singing happily.
"Three? Four? Really?"
"Really."
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. Nothing comes out. Last night he had quite a lot to communicate non-verbally, using methods I’m not going to think about right now, in a smallish tent, in front of sixty-five musicians trying not to watch us.
Author bio:
New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Julia Kent writes romantic comedy with an edge. Since 2013, she has sold more than 2.5 million books, with 5 New York Times bestsellers and more than 23 appearances on the USA Today bestseller list. Her books have been translated into French, German, Dutch, and Italian, with more titles releasing in the future.
From single dads to cinnamon roll heroes to new adult rock stars, Julia finds a sensual, goofy joy in every contemporary romance she writes. Unlike Shannon from Shopping for a Billionaire, she did not meet her husband after dropping her phone in a men's room toilet (and he isn't a billionaire she met in a romantic comedy).
She lives in New England with her husband, three children, and a Havanese dog named Walter. She is the only person in the household with the gene required to change empty toilet paper rolls (Walter gets a pass).
She loves to hear from her readers by email at julia@jkentauthor.com, on Twitter @jkentauthor, on Facebook at @jkentauthor, and on Instagram @jkentauthor. Visit her at http://jkentauthor.com
Who accidentally has a one-night stand with her alumni band director?
Yep. Me.
I know what you’re thinking. Whoops! I slipped on some valve oil and accidentally landed on his baton during a rousing chorus of Stars and Stripes Forever.
That’s not quite how it went.
But the alumni band director is really, really skilled with that baton, if you know what I mean.
So what am I supposed to do now, as I walk into the morning’s rehearsal — three feet from the podium because of course I play piccolo — and find the guy I ghosted on this morning … right there, smiling at me like he remembers exactly what tempo I prefer?
He’s perfect. Too perfect.
He’s a widowed dad of two adorable little kids that — oh, by the way — he forgot to mention.
But I also haven’t mentioned the seventeen-year-old I live with, either. He’s not my boyfriend. I’m his guardian. He’s autistic and non-speaking, and he’s been my whole world since I was nineteen.
I want Mr. Band Director. He wants me. Nothing — not the secrecy, not the awkwardness, not the 500 miles between his life and mine — will make this chemistry stop.
Except for three pesky little things: the secrets we’re hiding from each other. Three very human secrets.
I’ve never felt so seen before. He gets me. I get him. But we’re buried in responsibilities and loyalties that get in the way. When I’m with him, I can play. Really play.
And not just music.
He can’t quit his job and move his kids to be close to me. I can’t uproot a fragile teen who needs round-the-clock care and is still mourning his parents. The odds are stacked against us.
But who ever let that get in the way of love?
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New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Julia Kent writes romantic comedy with an edge. Since 2013, she has sold more than 2.5 million books, with 5 New York Times bestsellers and more than 23 appearances on the USA Today bestseller list. Her books have been translated into French, German, Dutch, and Italian, with more titles releasing in the future.
From single dads to cinnamon roll heroes to new adult rock stars, Julia finds a sensual, goofy joy in every contemporary romance she writes. Unlike Shannon from Shopping for a Billionaire, she did not meet her husband after dropping her phone in a men's room toilet (and he isn't a billionaire she met in a romantic comedy).
She lives in New England with her husband, three children, and a Havanese dog named Walter. She is the only person in the household with the gene required to change empty toilet paper rolls (Walter gets a pass).
She loves to hear from her readers by email at julia@jkentauthor.com, on Twitter @jkentauthor, on Facebook at @jkentauthor, and on Instagram @jkentauthor. Visit her at http://jkentauthor.com
