Page 111 of Not Another Love Song

“You called Lorenz?” Gwen said, knowing already that it was true. “You gave him the heads-up that I was coming to LA?”

Nathan’s jaw clicked. “Listen, Gwen—”

Her stomach dropped. She felt like a resolution had been reached in a song that had gone on for too long.

Ava stepped forward. “Gwen, darling. Why would he? They don’t see eye-to-eye on anything.”

“Except how much more money they’d make as long as Alex and I stay on opposite sides of the country,” she said.

Nathan sighed. “Gwen, you’re so very young. I know that when your heart is broken, you would throw away everything to just have it feel right again. The only thing Lorenz and I have in common is the desire to keep both of our protégés focused and to avoid distractions.”

Gwen heard a quiet gasp from Ava.

Lifting her head, she stepped into Nathan. “I’m not your protégé. You will need to find someone else to sell your tickets, Nathan.”

She turned on her heel just as the door to the stage opened, admitting the rest of the orchestra for their intermission. She stopped at Ava, who looked like she might be sick. Gwen held out her violin to her.

“You’ll have to play act two. And you can have the chair back,” she added. “I don’t want it anymore. I’m not sure I ever did.”

She grabbed her bag from her locker and walked out into the December air, taking a cab uptown to Washington Heights.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Jacob was at Declan’s parents’ house for the holidays. Gwen had been invited to join them in Connecticut, but she had declined so she could go to Mabel’s for Christmas dinner. After Thanksgiving had gone so poorly, it was high time she spent a holiday with Mabel.

She got home to the empty apartment with their sad little plastic tree, and immediately opened Jacob’s laptop to write her resignation letter. She kept it short and simple and sent it off with a click before she could think any further about it.

She cried in the shower, the song she’d played still humming along her skin. Alex’s song, really. She had only written something to accompany him. And he’d wanted her to. She fell into a fitful sleep, not allowing herself to check her phone until the next day.

At five in the morning she read through the notifications she had. A few of the magazines and blogs that regularly covered the Pops had published stories on last night’s disaster. It seemed Nathan was able to spin it when Ava joined him onstage for act two as a “Christmas surprise.” But the writers did scratch their heads over Gwen’s disappearance.

Someone had filmed her playing the love song accompaniment on their phone and posted it. One of the bloggers linked to it in their article, saying, “Gwen Jackson has finally found her voice.” The X thread was full of mixed reviews, some people saying that clearly Xander Thorne had broken her heart, and the other half bemoaning her overly dramatic performance. She closed the app, not wanting to watch the video of herself.

She had six missed calls from Nathan last night after the show, and a frantic return email that begged her to come into the office on the twenty-sixth to discuss. There was one text from Ava that read, Please let me know you got home safe. That’s all I care about.

Gwen swallowed. It sounded earnest enough. She replied in the affirmative.

She got up, washed her face, brushed her teeth, and was just pulling down the ingredients for the cookies she was baking for Mabel when a pounding came from her front door. She jumped, and the flour puffed up around her face.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

She glanced at the clock on her microwave. It was six-thirty in the morning. On Christmas Day. Gwen moved quickly to pull the door open—

Alex leaned into the doorway, his hands on the frame. The room spun, and before she could decide if he was real, he demanded, “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

His eyes roved over her as she stood mute.

He barreled past her into her apartment and searched the small space before turning back to her. “Is Jacob all right? Where is he?” He dragged a hand through his hair and bit the inside of his cheek.

“He’s—he’s in Connecticut. It’s Christmas,” she reminded him meekly, shutting the door. “How long have you been in New York?”

“Forty-five minutes.”

She took him in—a Henley and a leather jacket, ripped jeans. California clothes. He just got off the plane. “What—?”

“Gwen, what happened? What’s wrong?” He stepped into her, and she could smell him, drown in him. “Why didn’t you finish act two?”

“I quit the Pops.” It slipped out of her like butter, like the easiest words in the English language. “You were right about Nathan.”

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