Page 41 of Not Another Love Song

They didn’t talk. He didn’t look at her as they walked.

Surprisingly, he lived on 84th and Park. So she clearly was wrong about him not going north of 72nd.

Not that any of that mattered now, because she was getting in an elevator with Xander Thorne, heading up to the eighth floor. The doors closed, and she looked at their reflections in the steel.

Christ, she looked like an idiot. In leggings and Converse, with a nice top. Why didn’t she wear a dress to lunch today? She usually did. And her hair was tossed up.

The elevator smelled like tacos.

He stood next to her in his dark jeans and gray T-shirt. So tall in the blurred reflection.

“This is a nice building,” she squeaked.

He nodded. “I moved in last year.”

Her head did a strange nod-nod-nod-nod-nod thing, like once wasn’t enough.

The doors opened, and his hand shot out to hold them, so she could walk out first. He led her to the left and pulled out his keys, jingling in the silent hallway. Her throat was dry when the lock clicked, and he held the door open for her again.

She had no clue what she had just signed up for. Xander Thorne holding a civilized conversation with her? Xander Thorne agreeing to “jam” with her?

Her mind whited out for a moment as she realized “jam” might be a cool, hip slang way of saying “hook up” in the music world. That made her stomach tumble in not altogether unpleasing ways.

She entered the apartment. The kitchen to the right, with modern appliances and dark countertops. The living area straight ahead, with leather couches and the largest television Gwen had ever seen mounted on the wall.

A bag crinkled behind her, and she turned to see him place the takeout on the kitchen counter, tossing down his keys.

He looked at her quickly before saying, “This way,” and leading her down a small hall. One door was half closed, and she could make out the edge of a large bed through the crack. She shook the image clear, as he led her into the second room—a music studio.

Gwen gasped silently as the lights flipped on. She saw instruments hanging from the walls, soundproofing foam lining the sides of the room, and a huge desk with screens and microphones in the corner.

“Is this where you record for Thorne and Roses?” she asked, turning over her shoulder to see him still in the doorway.

“No, we go to a studio for that. This is just…” He ran a hand through his hair. “My own.”

She nodded, biting back the rest of her questions.

The Stradivarius sat in the corner of the room, next to the window. Gwen gravitated like a moon toward the cello, not daring to run her fingers over the neck like she wanted to. She eyed the walls. A solitary electric violin among a sea of cellos.

She was about to ask him to take it down, when her eye caught on the cello he played in most Thorne and Roses videos and concerts. The one he had held on the cover of the orchestra magazine. An electric cello that was basically a stick with strings. An angry red color with black markings that he held between his legs while sweating and tossing his hair around.

Now Gwen’s fingers did reach out, stroking the side, fingering the strings to feel their resistance.

She felt him come to stand beside her, and she dropped her hand, blushing. “Sorry.”

“Do you want to play her?”

She turned her head to him, and he looked down. “‘Her?’” she chuckled. “Your electric cello is a female?” She lifted a brow at him.

He looked away, a small blush rising on his pale skin. “Ruby,” he said quietly, taking the cello off the wall and grabbing the bow. “You don’t name your instruments?”

Instrument. Singular.

“I—no.”

He gave her a skeptical look.

“I guess,” she stumbled, rolling her eyes. “I guess I used to call my violin ‘Squeaky.’ But…” She laughed, looking down at the floor. She heard a rumble from his chest that could have been a laugh. “But I don’t…you know”—she gestured—“have an entire room full of girlfriends.”

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