Page 33 of Not Another Love Song

“Not all of us are so lucky, Xander. Some of us actually need to hold down a job.”

“So it’s Nathan?” he said, as if he suspected as much. “You’ve been here four years and you’re still trying to impress him.”

Irritation simmered in her gut, and the words were out of her before she could think twice. “Maybe it’s your mother I’m most interested in impressing.”

She watched the knowing look drip off his face. His eyes flashed back and forth between hers, and she refused to look away. He hummed low, as though thinking something over, then poured his drink down his throat in a quick toss and signaled for another, facing the bar.

“It was an interesting arrangement. Where did you find it?”

Her throat went dry. “Online, I think.”

Well, it wasn’t a lie.

His lips twitched. Not a smile, and not quite what he’d given her at the first wedding or what was in the video on Instagram. “You were too quick.”

She eyed his strong profile. Full lips. “I know.”

She thought she should make up some excuse for it—say she was nervous and unrehearsed. But he knew all of that. Her eyes caught on his forearms as he took the drink from the bartender, sleeves rolled to his elbows. She should probably say goodbye and thank him for the insults.

Turning back to her, his gaze dug under her skin as he asked, “You started when you were eleven?”

She nodded. With Mabel Rodriguez, she almost said. Your old tutor. She felt like telling him how Mabel’s eyes had widened when she played. About how quickly she’d flown through the children’s lesson books all on her own.

But bragging to Alex Fitzgerald about playing the violin was like bragging to Jesus Christ about walking in waves on a beach.

He glanced over her face, down to her shoulders and back up. She felt it like a caress.

“Over ten years, and you fall to pieces the moment you realize someone is watching you.”

Gwen’s breath caught. The words hit her like a strong burst of wind. She looked away, down into her bubbles.

“Well,” she said, clearing her throat. “Thank you for the unsolicited constructive criticism.” She sent ice through her eyes into his. “Now, if you don’t mind, I need to get back to the party for the organization I actually have a contract with.”

He smiled at her then. Something low and catlike, and nothing like how she wanted him to.

She turned on her heel and marched away from him.

“You shouldn’t be with the Pops,” he murmured, the sound carrying to her.

A fire spun through her veins, and she twirled back to him. “I’m not good enough to play weddings. I’m not good enough to play with the Pops. So tell me, where should I be playing?”

He lifted a brow at her. “Not good enough?”

“You know,” she barreled on, “I auditioned fair and square. I got into the Pops with an audition, and I got first chair with an audition—”

“I know. I was there. Beethoven, Violin Concerto.” He sipped from his glass, watching her. She couldn’t tear her eyes from the way his lips wrapped around the rim, the memory of his shadow in the balcony stirring something in her. “The Beethoven isn’t why they gave you first chair.”

Mabel’s warnings rang in her mind. And Ava’s transparency—a twenty-two-year-old in first chair would be excellent publicity for the Pops.

She planted her hand on her hip and clenched her champagne flute with the other. “The board of directors think I’m good enough. I don’t know why it matters so much to you.”

Gwen spun around again, feeling like she’d said her piece— like she could go home and never think about Xander Thorne again—

“The Pops don’t matter to me.” His voice was just steps behind her, following.

She snorted. “Clearly.” Her champagne sloshed as she pushed open the door to the women’s bathroom. She expected him to grab her arm or say something to keep her, but she crossed to the sinks without incident.

The mirror over the taps revealed her flushed face and neck, her hair falling out of its styling. And Xander Thorne just paces behind her, following her into the women’s restroom.

---