The bow froze. He opened his eyes—a startling, clear grey against his tan. “The neighbors usually request encores.”
He placed her hands on the cello’s neck. Her fingers, still stiff from the injury, trembled. He covered them with his own—warm, rough, steady. “Don’t think. Just feel the vibration.”
He kissed her then—not gently, but with the same raw, off-beat passion as his merengue . It tasted of sea salt and second chances.
She nodded.
She drew the bow across the strings. It screeched, ugly and raw. She flinched. But he didn’t let go. “Again.”
