Chapter 4
My heart thundered in my chest because ?Qué guapo! Three dimensional Ernesto was exquisite. He turned to Mamá, and the loss of his gaze on me felt like moving from a hot tub to an ice bath.
“Lady Catherine, I’m sorry to intrude,” he said.
I knew that voice from numerous clips and concert videos, but here, in my living room, it was sultrier than ever.
“I’m Ernesto Garcia and I’m a friend of Fred Brown.
I was hoping to borrow Anne for a moment.
” His eyes flickered back to me before returning to Mamá.
“It has to do with the Christmas concert.”
He waited respectfully, his stance relaxed and open, unflinching as she examined him with her steely gaze from her wing-backed green velvet chair.
After what felt like an eternity, she said, “Certainly.” I had no idea how Fred knew him or why he would want to visit me, but I wasn’t about to question a Christmas miracle.
He bowed his head slightly to my mamá, then to the Collinses before turning the full force of his brilliance on me. “I’m sorry to hear about—”
“I’ll show you to the music room,” I said, taking him by the hand and pulling him swiftly to the hall.
Now was my chance to escape before Mamá descended upon the situation with the full force of her attention.
When we’d gone around the corner, my brain caught up to my limbs and I realized I was touching Ernesto Garcia.
I dropped his hand quickly, but not before I picked up on the guitar string calluses on his fingertips.
“Sorry about that,” I said when we were far enough down the hall to be out of earshot.
“My mamá can be a little overbearing—well, a lot overbearing—and so can Pastor Collins if I’m being honest, and I was afraid if we stayed in there any longer we’d never get a chance to talk.
” I took a gasping breath, having extinguished all of my oxygen with my rambling.
The corner of Ernesto’s kissable mouth ticked up. “No need to apologize. My mom can be overbearing as well. I’ve been living on my own since I was seventeen, but she still sends me with homemade pozole every time I go on tour.”
“She sounds amazing.”
“She is.”
We reached the music room and I shut the door behind us before sinking onto the settee where I’d placed my violin. I rested a hand on its case, letting the familiar feel of it ground me because I was dangerously close to melting into a puddle at his feet. “Have a seat,” I said, finding my voice.
Ernesto sat down on a striped chair across from me and clasped his hands together between his knees.
I took a deep breath. I could do this. I could make small talk with my celebrity crush. “So, how do you know Fred?” I asked.
“We play hockey together. Nothing too serious, just a beer league. We’re the Clef Hangers since the team was started by a couple guys who were into music.”
I tried to wipe the shock off of my face.
“It’s a nice outlet,” he said. “I had to miss a season last year when the Grey Doors were on tour, but honestly, I love it as much as I love singing.”
“Do people know about this?” I knew the answer; there was no information about this anywhere on the internet, but I didn’t want to reveal that I was his fangirl.
“No, I play under an alias. It’s nice to have something that I keep separate from all the baggage that comes with a career in the music industry.”
“That would be nice,” I said, thinking of the orchestra and how much it meant to me to have a place to go where I was on equal footing with everyone else.
Ernesto shook his head slightly, sending his short curls bouncing. “You’re probably wondering why I’m even here,” he said. “I just got back from picking Fred up from the police station.”
I glanced toward the door, grateful my mamá couldn’t hear this conversation. “How’s he doing?”
“He’s good. He hasn’t been charged with anything, but the police told him to stick around town for the next couple weeks.
Typical Fred—even after a murder his primary concern was the orchestra.
Apparently, one of the patrons—the Bramwell family—is planning to cancel their donation unless the concert goes on.
I understand if you don’t want to perform anymore after what you experienced this afternoon, but Fred has rescheduled the concert to ten days from now. ”
“I didn’t know Paolo,” I explained, wanting Ernesto to understand.
“I had only met him today, and our interactions weren’t exactly positive.
Being in the building when it happened, finding his body—it was terrible.
And it makes me sad that a life was cut short.
But I’m okay—honestly. I still want to go on with the concert. ”
“I’m glad you’re feeling up to it.” He paused and his cheek tucked with a self-conscious smile. “Fred asked me to fill in and sing Paolo’s part. I’m willing to help out if you’re willing to sing with me.”
My body went all tingly. Me? Sing a duet with Ernesto Garcia!
He cleared his throat. “Of course, if you have someone else you’d rather sing with, I would totally understand. I did take singing lessons as a child so I’ve got some classical foundation, but most of my experience has been alternative—”
“You’re the only one I want,” I blurted. My cheeks heated. “I mean, yes, I’d love to sing with you.”
His face lit up with a smile that put the one on the poster to shame. It was genuine and wide, and created crinkles in the corners of his eyes. Warmth spread through my entire body at the sight of it.
“I’m glad,” he said. And even though he was famous and gorgeous and talented and had no reason to want to sing with me, I believed him.
“Do you need a copy of the sheet music?” I asked.
“No, Fred already sent me one. He also gave me your number, but I’ll text you mine.”
My inner teenager shrieked in excitement at the idea of getting Ernesto Garcia’s phone number, but I tried to play it cool as I pulled out my phone, which lit up with a notification as he texted me one word.
Ernesto
I saved his number and might have swooned, but my stomach chose that moment to grumble loudly.
“I’m interrupting your dinner,” Ernesto said, mortifyingly confirming that he had, in fact, heard my stomach growl.
“You’re fine; I’m glad you came. I’m in no hurry to go back in there.”
“Then let’s put it off as long as we can. I know the best taco man—he’s got a truck in the parking lot across from Tea and Tarot. Want to go grab some food?”
For a moment, I thought my soul might have floated clean out of my body. “That sounds amazing,” I breathed. “But will you have to worry about fans mobbing you?”
“We’re not quite big enough that we can’t go unnoticed if we’re careful.
In some parts of Seattle or LA, I might have to worry about that.
But Austen Heights is different. Maybe it’s because most of its population are Marked by magic, but people here tend to give us space.
It’s why the band decided to move here a couple months ago. ”
I tried not to stare as his smile lifted on one side.
The cameras hadn’t ever caught that smile either, and I tried to commit it to memory as we walked down the hall.
We passed by the living room, where my mamá was still speaking quietly with the Collinses.
“I have to work through some details for the concert,” I called vaguely as I passed by. “I’ll see you in a couple hours.”
Mamá looked as if she’d ask more questions, but I waved and continued walking.
We went out through the front doors, and Ernesto led me over to his sleek, blacked-out sports car.
Of course, even his vehicle would be sexy.
The Christmas lights from the house cast him in a warm glow as he opened the door for me.
I slipped inside, grateful to get out of the biting December air.
I hadn’t wanted to grab the coat that wasn’t mine, and I definitely wasn’t going all the way up to my room to get another.
He turned up the heat and the seat warmers, and soon I was comfortable.
Or at least my temperature was comfortable.
Inside I was still trembling with nerves and excitement, my fingertips tingly.
And though I might pay for it later with a headache and fatigue, I let my senses loose so I could experience every moment of this fully.
“How long have you played in the orchestra?” Ernesto asked as he drove down the lane. His voice was deep and smooth and sent little shivers along my spine.
“Since I was fourteen, but I started playing the violin when I was three.”
“Wow, I didn’t start playing the guitar until I was sixteen. Of course I’ll never be as good as Wickham, no matter how long I practice.” He rubbed the back of his head a little self-consciously, a gesture I had never seen in all the clips of him I’d viewed.
“I’ve met Wickham,” I said, trying to bridge the gap between famous rockstar and community violinist. “He and my cousin Darcy were friends as kids and he used to come around sometimes. I haven’t seen him in years, though, so he probably wouldn’t even remember me.”
“I doubt he’d forget you,” Ernesto said, glancing at me with those dark eyes.
I tried not to grin like a fool at his praise.
“Do you spend a lot of time practicing?” he asked, then grimaced. “Sorry, that’s such a stupid question. You can tell I don’t do this very often.”
My nerves faded away at the sound of his. “I don’t either. And it’s not a stupid question at all. I practice for three to five hours a day, depending on what I’m working on.”
He let out a low whistle. “I only log about an hour a day, more if I’m writing. I know all of our songs so well that it doesn’t take a lot to keep them fresh.”
“Are you working on anything new?” I asked.
He tensed and I immediately regretted the question. I wasn’t some reporter here to cover his music career. “Sorry, scratch that. I didn’t mean to pry.”