The bow froze. He opened his eyes—a startling, clear grey against his tan. “The neighbors usually request encores.”
“Stop,” she said.
He played not Bach, but a merengue —a raw, joyful, messy rhythm that was the opposite of everything her classical training had demanded. He played off-beat, sliding notes into places they didn’t belong, making the cello laugh. And then, impossibly, he began to sing, a gravelly, untrained voice that spoke of lost lovers and salt spray.
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