Free Play Me by Katie McCoy Page A

Jake,
standing there in the hallway, waiting, looking at me like I was just
right. His kind of right.
    “Okay,” I
told him. “I’d be happy to lend you my tongue.”
     
    His apartment seemed
much bigger than mine, which was to be expected since there wasn’t
a giant piano in the middle of it. I was surprised by how clean it
was, even the bed was neatly made. A bed which I did my best not to
stare at, even though it looked very, very inviting. Especially if
Jake was doing the inviting.
    But I was being
ridiculous. Coming up here to help him with a recipe was one thing,
getting involved with him, even in just a physical way, was something
else entirely. Something I really couldn’t get entangled in
right now. If I moved to the next round of the competition, I had to
be completely focused. Every moment needed to be focused on
rehearsing, on perfecting my pieces. I needed to get to the final
round. I needed to win this thing.
    However, since I didn’t
know if I had made it to the next round—Mark seemed to think I
hadn’t—one afternoon off from rehearsing couldn’t
hurt. But just this afternoon. Nothing more.
    “Just sit down
and relax,” Jake said as he unloaded the groceries, but I was
captivated by the way his back muscles flexed and stretched,
something I could see clearly through his worn-out shirt. I also
allowed my gaze to drop a little lower to, yep, his perfect ass.
Damn. Was there anything about this guy that wasn’t completely
gorgeous?
    I supposed the cooking
would be the real test.
    “Can I get you
something to drink?” he asked, looking back over his shoulder.
    “Uh.”
Alcohol, I thought, glancing over at his small bar. I never drank,
especially not during the day, but I felt like if I was going to be
someone unlike myself that afternoon, that I might as well be someone
who drank.
    “I’ve got a
bottle of wine,” he offered, pulling one out of the bag.
    “Sure.” I
gave him a small shrug and he grinned.
    With a practiced
gesture he extracted the cork with the help of a wine opener and
grabbed two wine glasses from the shelves next to the stove.
    “Better let it
breath for a moment,” he said, sliding a glass over towards me.
    I waited for him to
turn back to his groceries, counted to ten, and then poured myself a
generous glass of wine. Before he could look back, I took a long
swallow. Unfortunately, I was not accustomed to drinking wine, so I
choked on it and coughed. Wine dribbled onto my shirt. Oh my god. I
quickly wiped at my chin, but the front of my shirt was soaked.
    “You okay?”
Jake was immediately in front of me, a concerned look on his face and
a rag in his hand.
    “Fine,” I
managed to gasp, taking the rag and dabbing at my shirt. “Guess
it’s a good thing I only wear black,” I tried to joke,
though I was sure my face was bright red.
    “And here I
thought it was because you were trying for some sexy nun look.”
Jake winked at me.
    “Sexy nun?”
No one had ever used the word “sexy” to describe me
before. Nun, on the other hand, was a more familiar descriptor.
    “Very sexy.”
    I didn’t know
what to say, so I took another swallow of wine, burying my face in
the glass and making sure not to inhale it.
    Jake began to prepare
his ingredients, his knife flying over the cutting board, chopping
celery and carrots and onions and garlic into perfect, tiny pieces. A
part of me felt bad for agreeing to help him with his new recipe,
since I knew I would be no help when it came to figuring out how his
recipe was. I had just never found food that exciting. It was
something you ate because you had to. And I had never really
understood the whole sexy element of food, like when people in movies
would smear chocolate or whipped cream on each other. It just seemed
kind of messy and gross.
    But watching the
concentration with which Jake cooked, the deft movements of his
hands—which I had noticed had lots of scars on them—was
certainly enough to get me to reconsider my