The Prelude (A Musical Interlude Novel) - By Kasonndra Leigh Page 0,20
business dinner.”
“Are you serious? What an arrogant, control freak of a man. It’s no wonder they talk about him the way they do,” I say more to myself than to Hagar.
“Excuse me, Ms. Angelo?”
“Nothing. I was just saying your boss is so very kind to do something like this for me,” I lie, my voice dripping with sarcasm. Hagar doesn’t even notice. He’s too busy watching the way I hold the box. Okay, so I might be hardcore when it comes to men like Alek Dostov and Rafe Martuccio, but I’m dying to see what’s inside. I’m a designer. We love pretty things, and this box just tugs at the muse inside me.
After I’m tucked away in the SUV limo, I rip open the box, gasping when I see the contents. A dress, a golden yellow one made of an expensive silk sits inside of it. I suck my teeth and glance around the limo.
“You must be insane, Mr. Maestro, if you think I’m wearing this anywhere.” Yellow was more of my sister’s thing than mine. My wardrobe consists of black and more black. Sometimes there’s a colorful scarf or two tucked in among the group, but never another color that I wear across my body.
No, I’m not a Goth, or anything. But hell, what designer doesn’t wear black as their staple color?
I find myself obsessing over what made someone like Alek Dostov pick this color. I’m lost in thoughts of over-the-top sexy maestros with accents and mystery tattoos, when Hagar pulls onto Via Mercato, the street where Petre Maslak’s studio sits. I didn’t even notice we’d been moving along so quickly.
Hagar gives me the number to his personal cell and tells me to call him when I’m done. A girl could get super spoiled by this kind of treatment. He offers to keep my box while I’m in yoga class. No way am I parting with this thing. I tuck my gym bag under one arm and carry my gift with me into class.
You’re about to get yourself in trouble, girlfriend.
* * *
Getting through the breathing sessions with my other five classmates proves to be tough. I fall over and wind up on my ass more times than I can count. About five tumbles later, I’ve become the unintentional class jester.
I mean, it’s not every week I get to dance like a ballerina, win a six-figure design deal, and then have one of the most sought after men in the world sending drivers out to pick me up. I think it’s safe to say I’ve earned the chance to be a bit distracted.
After class, Petre approaches me. “You were unfocused today, Erin,” he begins, a concerned frown wrinkling his forehead.
“I have a lot going on. Sorry,” I answer.
“Come with me.” He leads me into his office.
The terra cotta walls and deep red highlights along with the various relics from his trips to Tibet are set up to mimic a Buddhist monastery. I always enjoy coming inside this place. The atmosphere my coach has created gives me a break from the marbleized beauty of the Italian cities I’ve lived inside over the past couple of years.
“Spill your thoughts,” he orders.
I take a seat on a large floor cushion. There are no chairs inside Petre’s office. His desk is even hidden behind a Fuji screen. I debate on just how much I should tell my coach who looks a lot like that old romance novel model named Fabio. But I’m sure Fabio would kill someone if he were forced to wear a loose white uniform like the one Petre gets dolled up in every day.
But Petre is hardly a ladies’ man. Over the past year, he’s coached me through many life changing moments, and listened to every gory detail of the nightmares I still have about the wreck that killed my father and sister five years ago. And he even made a way for me to see my mom more than the four times a year I’m allowed to visit.
My therapist back in the States recommended him to me since I have exceptional needs as she stated in my report. The breathing techniques I’ve learned have also helped my respiratory issues.
“Erin, come back to me. I said let’s talk about what’s bothering you.”
I debate on just how much I should really tell him. “I’m--I wish I could trust people more than I do.”
“Is it that you wish you could trust people more? Or do you wish you could trust yourself to