Never Got Over You -Whitney G. Page 0,30

I had yet to feel confident enough about next week’s performance in Las Vegas.

Setting my bow against the window, I walked over to my balcony and spotted Sarah Kay climbing over a hedge. She wriggled and writhed against the leaves, nearly losing her shoe, and then she ran toward a parked car on the service road.

I laughed and made a mental note to cover for her if my parents asked where she was.

I pulled out my phone and scrolled down to James’s name, hesitating before hitting call. We’d talked every day since the fair, sometimes more than once, and every single time left me wanting more.

I told him my truths, unfiltered. He never judged, never interrupted, simply listened. He’d sat in the back row of my recitals, leaving before the conductor’s notes, before I could tell him “Thank you for coming,” in person.

For the first time in my life, I felt like I had a friend who wasn’t forced upon me, someone who didn’t focus on my branded last name before getting to know me.

I stared at his name for a few more seconds, wondering if calling him three times in a day was overkill.

“You can call me whenever you want. I’ll answer...”

I hit call without thinking about it anymore.

“Hello, Kate,” he answered on the first ring.

“Um. hey...” I swallowed, instantly turned on by the sound of his deep and husky voice.

“Are you there? Kate?”

“I’m here,” I said.

He laughed. “What are you up to?”

“I was just taking a break and wondering what you were doing.”

“The same thing I was doing when you called me two hours ago.” He was definitely smiling. “Working. Is practice going well?”

“No. I think I might’ve burned my brain and my wrists. I could use a couple hours of stress relief, but I don’t think I can afford it so close to my performance.”

“You should start taking longer breaks, then. I don’t know if it’s normal for an artist to work all day, every day.”

“I already told you that I’m not an artist,” I said. “Artists have choices in what they create. I’m just a pretty puppet, playing under the strings of my parents.”

Silence.

“In that case, I think you should get out of your house for the rest of the day.”

“And do what?”

“Spend the rest of it with me.”

My heart fluttered at the suggestion, the thought of playing another note today was now long gone. “I’ll get one of my drivers to bring me to the halfway point in Reno,” I said. “That way you’ll only have to drive one hour. Well, that and so you won’t be peppered by my parents’ questions.”

“I think they’d only be interested in how much money I make.” He let out a low laugh. “You can have your driver take you to the security tower if you insist on using them. I have no issues with driving the entire way to see you. I’ll leave in half an hour.”

“Okay. See you soon.” I ended the call and took a long shower. I changed clothes tens of times before settling on a pair of light blue jeans and a pale pink sweater.

I made my way down the stone steps just as a white town car was pulling into the circular driveway. Our butler rushed to the back door and opened it for my mother.

“Well, hello there, Kate.” She smiled, her eyes hidden behind a new pair of designer shades. “Are you taking a quick break before your next practice session?”

“No, I’m done for the day. I’m going out with someone to relieve some stress.”

“I don’t remember you asking if you could go out tonight.”

“I didn’t think I needed to.” I shrugged.

“I see,” she said, stepping closer. “Well, we’re days away from our family profile in Vogue, a week and a half away from your performance at the new symphony theater in Las Vegas, and not to mention, weeks from my annual Christmas party. Don’t you think that you need to ask to take time off at a crucial point like this?” She smiled. “You could at least say how long you think you’ll be gone.”

I held back a sigh and looked at my watch. “I’ll be back by three or four.”

“So, this isn’t a half hour or so of stress relief.” She lifted her shades and looked into my eyes. “This sounds like a date. Who is it with?”

“James.”

“James of the Overly Estate, or James of the Madison Estate?”

“No estate. It’s just James. James Garrett.”

“Oh, well that’s slightly disappointing.” She let