Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
What was he so worried about? It was just a cello lesson. Amani was a complete stranger. Why did he want the man to forgive him so much?
Why did his approval matter at all?
It’s selfish, that’s what this is. It’s selfish, and I just want him to forgive me so I won’t have to feel bad about offending him. That’s all apologizing ever is. I should cancel this right now.
But he couldn’t.
Not when he remembered the darkness, the heaviness in Amani’s voice as he said, I still have bills to pay.
He wouldn’t make this any harder for Amani than it had to be. Wouldn’t retract an offer, when he didn’t renege on his commitments. Victor Newcomb kept his promises, period. They’d do their lessons, he’d pay Amani, and Amani would go back to his life. Vic would just be a means to an end, and he was all right with that.
He was.
But when the front desk buzzed to let him know he had a visitor, his heart jumped and rolled and tumbled through its next few beats before settling. He rubbed sweaty palms against his jeans, then buzzed Amani in and entered the lock code on the elevator that opened directly into his apartment. Seconds passed in an agony, before a soft chime warned—and the doors slid open to reveal Amani, standing there with his expression impassive, a large cello case almost as tall as he was propped against his thigh.
Seeing him inside the cavernous elevator only made Vic realize how small he really was, when Amani carried himself with a quiet force of presence that could topple mountains with a whisper rather than a scream. It was something about his poise, the proud tilt of his chin, the way half-lidded cat’s eyes in tawny, lustrously soft amber carried such weight, such command. He couldn’t be more than five foot three, five foot four, but he carried himself with the strength of giants and the elegance of royalty.
That elegance drew him forward on a liquid stride as he stepped off the elevator with his cello case dangling by one hand, the other shrugging him out of a thick Navy peacoat; underneath he wore a sleeveless caftan tunic today, pale gray like smoke against skin as rich and gleaming as polished teak, the edges embroidered in silver, the hem falling almost to his knees and yet the sides slit up so high that a glimpse of dark skin showed above the waist of the loose, flowing white linen trousers that swished against the floor with every graceful, swirling stride. He glanced about the massive, terraced single-room space of the penthouse with unreadable eyes, delicately tucking his unbound hair behind his ear, before settling that cool gaze on Vic.
“Mr. Newcomb,” he said tonelessly, yet there was something different about the way he said Vic’s name, a shift in inflection and tone, a subtle rolling accent that turned the simple syllables of Mr. Newcomb into music of silk and sand. “This is where you live?”
“You sound different,” he blurted out, then winced and shut his damned mouth.
What was wrong with him?
“Ah?” Amani arched a brow. “Oh.” Then he shrugged diffidently, looking away, gaze trained distantly on the far wall of the apartment, where nothing but glass and slender steel framing separated them from the darkness and the cold wind of a New York November night, the moon high and chill and pale and round. “I only bother muting my accent at work. The owners don’t like it if the clients complain they can’t understand us, or that we don’t speak English.” He delivered the information with toneless disinterest, yet still that hypnotic music of inflection made every word soft and rich. “My mother and I have both learned how to make our voices sound more…well. You know.”
“That’s…shitty,” Vic said, wrinkling his brow. “Your voice sounds…real, like this. Like this is the real you.” Fuck, words were just coming out of him like he had no filter, and they didn’t stop until he’d said, “It’s lovely. Like every word is singing.”
“Flattery won’t get you a discount.”
It’s not flattery, he wanted to protest, but he shut his damned mouth and bit his tongue and kept his thoughts to himself because he was already stepping in it again, when he had no idea what Amani dealt with that would make him feel forced to silence that music to please other people.
But after a quiet moment, Amani favored him with a brief, albeit detached smile, almost wistful. “Though that’s not something I hear often. Most of the time accents like mine are derided. People only fawn over men with accents like yours.”
“But I don’t have an accent.”
“To you, you don’t.” Amani made a soft, amused sound. “Now show me your instrument.”
Vic opened his mouth.
Shut it again.
And just turned and walked away, the back of his neck burning because he couldn’t forget that Amani had already seen his instrument up close and personal, standing at full mast with only a towel preserving even the slightest hint of decency.