Page 221 of The Nanny and the Heartthrob

Her heart swelled in her chest.

It had to be the four-letter word she’d sworn she’d never utter to another musician.

Butterflies tickled her belly.

Pull it together.

She nodded. “Yes…we’ve heard great things about New Beats.”

“And the show must go on,” Damien remarked in a pleasing drawl. “A little dust-up won’t stop us from sampling these chocolate macarons and choosing a winner.”

“Michel Laurent,” Donna continued, “since we’re highlighting your remarkable music program and celebrating your French cuisine, why don’t you lead your teachers in judging which team made the best macarons.”

Michel Laurent. Why did that sound so familiar?

With their backs to her, the four volunteer instructors descended on the table sporting two trays of the tiny delicacies. She took a moment to survey her surroundings. A piano, a few acoustic guitars, several stools, and a drum kit sat silently in the shadows near the back of the stage. She squinted and studied the crowd, then almost fell over when she spied the nanny matchmaker, Madelyn Malone, among the young people packed into the hall.

What was she doing here?

Checking up on them?

She wasn’t their nanny matchmaker.

She’d made it abundantly clear she couldn’t work with Landon.

Perhaps she had an interest in music. She had visited with her grandmother, which was still quite odd and didn’t make much sense.

“The choice is easy,” Monsieur Laurent announced. At the sound of the man’s voice, she forgot about Madelyn’s surprise appearance and stared at the man. “We agree,” the Frenchman continued. “While both trays of macarons are delicious, the macarons on the blue tray arec’est magnifique.”

“That’s us, Harper. We won!” Landon exclaimed, but she couldn’t concentrate on his words or that they’d won. The crowd clapped as she took in the Frenchman’s slender build and put together why this man seemed so familiar.

She knew him.

“Mishy?” she blurted as the crowd in the concert hall died down, and a slew of memories coupled with sensations flooded her mind.

An empty symphony hall cast in an ethereal blue hue.

Lemon-scented wood polish mingling with the papery comforting aroma of old sheet music.

The hollow, pleasing pop of a mallet striking the circle of timpani drums followed by a cascade of shimmery chimes.

Her foot, tapping out not a naughty word but a thumping, rollicking rhythm that worked its way through the floor from the soles of her feet to the tips of her little fingers.

“Mishy, how I loved that you used to call me that,” Michel Laurent said in the same elegant French accent she remembered. “I wondered if you would recognize me, Harper Barbara.”

“Us, actually,” another instructor, a woman with her hair pulled into a tight silver bun, added in a smooth Italian accent—another accent she recognized.

She gazed down the line of adults. “Mishy, Maria Magdalena, Hans, and Yusuf?”

“You know the instructors?” Landon asked with a crease to his brow.

“We’ve known Harper Barbara since she hid in the symphony’s percussion closet and knocked every chime off the wall,” Mishy, no, Michel Laurent, the acclaimed percussionist, said with a wide grin.

“No, no,” corrected the woman, Maria Magdalena Bianchi, a world-renowned violinist. “We’ve known Harper Barbara since she decided to take my violin strings and lace her tiny shoes with them. Remember what you told me after you did that?” the woman asked, raising a jet-black eyebrow.

Oh, she remembered.

It all came back to her. The instructors’ faces had unlocked a door to her past.

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