Sweeter than Fiction: A Taylor Swift Fic

Chapter 7: This Night Is Sparkling

It took me awhile to figure out where I recognized him from. Well, where I recognized the half of his upper body that I could see from my vantage point. 

I’d been sitting next to Ben, the Nashville Symphony PR guy, five rows back from the stage as the orchestra ran through rehearsal for tomorrow night’s Christmas concert. As a thank-you for my recent gift, Ben had invited me to watch rehearsal and then tag along to their holiday party. And, despite having been a little bit jet-lagged this past week, now I was thrilled that I’d bucked up and said yes. It was fascinating to watch these musicians, these artists, at work — it was like a parallel to my music world, but different in so many ways. I was reminded of the time we’d recorded the orchestral part of “Haunted,” and that viola player had kindly indulged me and let me tinker with his instrument.

So my eyes naturally were drawn to the strings section . . . and to one viola player in particular. From the way the musicians were seated, I could only see part of his head — dark hair with a bit of a wave — and his left side. But it was mesmerizing watching his intensity, and skill. Even among all those players, he stood out. And there was something familiar about him that I couldn’t quite put my finger on — something about his movements, the shape of his shoulder? Sensing my interest (but thankfully not able to read my “hot shoulder” thoughts), Dan leaned over and whispered that he was the newest addition to the NSO, the second chair viola player, a real catch for the orchestra. A local wunderkind who’d gone away to study and just come home to Nashville, less than a year ago.

During a break between songs, the first chair player pushed her seat back to reveal New Guy pulling off his sweater, and there he was in all his T-shirted glory: Impossibly Hot Running Guy. My jaw nearly hit the floor. The arms, that shoulder, that dark hair . . . I knew what that guy looked like in his gym shorts. I had texted my friends about IHRG. He was, like, a thing.

“Sorry, Ben, what did you say the new viola player’s name was?” I tried to look merely interested in a vague musician-y, professional way.

“Callum. Real good guy, and a stunning musician.”

Stunning was right. I’d been running the same route in Nashville ever since I’d moved into my place, but it had only been in the past six months or so that I’d been seeing him on the trail. Not everyone looks good all sweaty and in running clothes (e.g., me), but this guy? He was tall and lean and he ran with purpose, his strides long, his green eyes focused ahead — like he knew just where he was going and how to get there. No tripping on twigs for that guy. (I totally had that area covered, anyway.) His dark wavy hair would get a bit curly at the nape of his neck. . . . I realized I was picturing this poor stranger sweaty and sleeveless when I should’ve been appreciating the music and, um, the reason for the season and all that. Lump of coal for me! But I needed a moment to appreciate the fact that I was in the same room as Incredibly Hot Running Guy, and that he was no longer just the stuff of idle fancy.

And now I stood in the crowded private room of the bar where the staff party was well underway. A band was playing upbeat country and Christmas songs; white twinkly lights made everything merry and bright, while a couple — a percussionist and an oboe player, if I wasn’t mistaken — were kissing and laughing underneath the mistletoe. A few women who worked in the front office, each decked out in a more over-the-top and awesome Christmas sweater than the next, were thanking me profusely (and maybe a little drunkenly?) for my donation. I hoped they didn’t notice that my eyes kept flitting to across the room where Callum was standing with the symphony’s president Alan. Really, it would be rude of me not to go over and say hi, right?

After posing for a selfie or two with the ladies, I made my way across the room, smoothing the skirt of my mauve dress down and standing up a little straighter. Alan greeted me warmly, drawing me into the circle of their conversation. I faced Callum and looked up into his eyes — I’d peg him at about two inches taller than me in these short heels, not bad. I held out my hand, mustering my confidence and busted out my tried and true opening line.