Page 10 of Not Another Love Song

Placing her sheet music on the stand and clicking open her violin case, she moved to prepare her bow next, reaching for the circle of amber rosin.

“Where did you study?”

Gwen froze in her chair, bent at the waist, arm stretching toward her case. She turned to look up at him. He was still in no hurry to leave. In fact, it seemed he wasn’t done with yesterday’s interrogation. He’d leaned back to sit on the narrow windowsill, the neck of the cello in one hand, the bow in the other, resting across his thighs.

She sat up and began applying the sticky rosin. “I didn’t.” She swallowed. “I mean, I had a violin tutor, but I didn’t go to school.”

It felt lovely for him to rub that in, especially after her conversation with Mabel yesterday. Absolutely fantastic.

When she glanced at him, his brows were pinched together and his mouth was frowning, watching her drag the rosin across the bow. After a moment under his inspection, she reconsidered everything she knew about her rosin technique. He took a breath to say something, and abruptly stopped. He switched his bow to his other hand and ran his fingers through his hair in a frustrated way.

Gwen remembered very suddenly that this was not just her co-worker who was currently irritating her. This was the front man of her favorite band of the last five years. She knew the way he ran his fingers through his hair. Intimately. She cleared her throat and turned to her music before he could see the color rising in her cheeks and jaw.

“Are you working on the Bernstein medley?” he said. She heard him finally step away from the window and toward his cello case.

“Yes.” She started flipping her pages so she was ready to play the moment the door closed behind him.

His footsteps creaked on the old wooden floors. Her skin felt itchy and hot.

“Is it any good?” he asked, his voice vibrating low.

She turned over her shoulder and narrowed her eyes at him. “You haven’t opened it yet?”

He shook his head, watching her. He’d stopped less than five feet from her chair, standing in front of his case.

“There’s something exciting about sight-reading,” he said. “Don’t you agree?” He lifted his brows at her, like they had something in common—like it had been her choice to sight-read for the cello yesterday.

She scoffed. “As section leader? Really? You sight-read at the first rehearsal?”

“Sometimes.” He shrugged.

Gwen envied that arrogance. The idea that he had no one to impress—the confidence in his own skill. She didn’t remember a time when she wasn’t working twice as hard, running twice as fast.

“Do you want to work on it together?” he asked.

She blinked at him, trying to make sense of the words. Her body went into momentary shock, refusing to pull in oxygen. He wanted to play the Bernstein with her? Xander Thorne? And her?

“No,” she said quickly, voice cracking on the one word.

He tilted his head, eyes assessing her. “Why not?”

A laugh puffed out of her. Playing cello poorly in front of him had been hard enough. She didn’t know if she could take failing a second time. “I…I booked this room for myself. To rehearse. I’d love if I could do that for even a portion of the time I paid for, Xander.”

He held her eyes for a moment too long, then nodded and finally bent down to put his cello away. She faced her music stand again, ignoring the sounds of him packing up.

“Feel free to get started,” he said.

“I can wait.”

She absolutely was not playing anything while he was still in the room.

His shadow passed her, and she kept her eyes on the sheet music. She glanced up when he was at the door, and he nodded at her before leaving.

She dropped her head to her chest and took a deep breath, listening to his footsteps move down the hallway. Her skin was buzzing. There was no way she’d be able to concentrate now.

Had Xander Thorne really just asked her to play with him? And had she really said no? Gwen ran her hands over her face, wondering what could have possibly inspired him to want that. Remembering his commentary from the day before, she thought maybe he would have found little ways to dig at her, to imply she could be better.

She jumped up and walked around her chair a few times, shaking out her arms. Reaching for her phone, she played her stress-reducing song—which, unfortunately, was Xander Thorne playing “Benedictus” by Karl Jenkins. Regardless, it worked.

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