Page 51 of Not Another Love Song

There was a pause while she stared at his forearm, which was not reaching for the bill.

“You didn’t eat them,” he said.

Breathing in the rumble of his voice, she said, “It doesn’t matter. They were mine.”

“They were nine dollars.”

She slapped the ten-dollar bill on the snack table. “You tipped a dollar.”

He stopped her before she could head back to her chair.

“Maybe we can get that coffee instead. If you really want to pay me back.”

His brows were high on his forehead, waiting for her answer. She scowled, grabbed a Styrofoam cup from the stack, and turned the coffee carton over, pouring a cup. She thrust it at him. She was just jamming the bill back into her pocket when he stepped into her, blocking her from walking away.

“I shouldn’t have crossed that line,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, I was…” He swallowed, and she watched his throat move. He pushed a hand through his hair, staring down at her. His eyes landed on her lips, and his words drifted away.

She stepped back. Before she…

“Thank you. For the…tacos.”

She returned to her chair, and didn’t look at him for the rest of the rehearsal, resigned not to give him another thought.

Fingertips tracing her arms.

Lips behind her ear.

Hot breath against her hair.

A solid chest behind her.

And an untitled song humming through her blood.

Gwen opened her eyes, her stomach twisting and curling. She pushed her sweating hair off her face, breathing deep as her thighs burned.

Fuck.

Fuck fuck.

She turned to check how much time before her alarm went off, and her thighs pressed together, sizzling through her tingling skin.

Before she could judge herself, she slipped her hand into her pajamas, giving herself two minutes to remember the dream— the memory. And just before she came, she imagined his long, callused fingers turning her face to his, his tongue slipping into her mouth as his fingers rubbed at her.

Gwen stared at the ceiling, breath coming back to her. Then she dragged herself from bed and ran a cold shower.

Gwen thought getting off was supposed to relax a person. But every stranger who bumped her, every train door that closed on her shoulder, every summer raindrop that plummeted onto her person sent her into a craze. By the time she sat in her rehearsal chair, took a deep, Zen breath, and focused on her sheet music, she thought she had herself back in control.

But then 10:01 rolled past, bleeding into 10:05 and 10:10, and still the chair opposite her remained empty. When Xander Thorne finally did push open the door at 10:13, Ray-Bans firmly locked into place, Gwen shook her head and pressed her lips together, turning her eyes back on the page the orchestra was in the middle of.

She listened to several instruments blow and bow out of tune as a chair dragged back, a cello case snapped open, a leather jacket peeled off thick arms, and a pair of sunglasses dropped into the cello case.

At the end of the piece, Nathan cut them off, and said, “Welcome, Mr. Thorne,” in genuine sincerity.

Gwen narrowed her eyes at Nathan. So hesitant with him. Like a dynamic had shifted between them once the Pops lost the grant and they had to crawl back to Xander Thorne.

To his credit, Xander didn’t smirk or take a little bow like he used to. He said nothing. Just continued setting up, dropping the rock stop onto the floor.

“Did you find the place okay?” The dull words slipped out of Gwen’s addled brain and past her lips, a chastising quip.

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