Page 54 of Not Another Love Song

Xander was more than a name to Alex. It was more than a persona. Xander was the partner Alex hadn’t known he needed all along. Xander reminded Alex that he didn’t need to impress anyone—that he was impressive. And Alex’s performances had soared after that.

Alex felt Xander slipping away from him at specific moments—any physical contact with his mother, an embarrassing memory Sonya and Hazel recalled to a group on a night out, receiving an email in his inbox from Nathan. He would feel the confidence leach from him, like water swirling down a drain. It always took him a few moments to remember where he was, who he was.

And nothing unsettled him in this way like Gwen Jackson. She was exactly the type of girl Alex would have been head over heels for in school, and that made it even harder for him to maintain control of his body and his mind where she was concerned.

She was helping him by turning him down, truly. It was easier to slip back to Xander when Gwen had told him no thank you. He had been drowning in that singular need to be impressive to her, and she’d shoved him right back to the person who didn’t need her validation.

Xander was the only partner Alex needed. He didn’t need Gwen, he just wanted her. And he reminded himself that that was the difference.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Ava was able to secure an interview with the New York Times. For Gwen…and Xander Thorne. The perfect team.

That’s how Gwen found herself sitting on the patio of a small cafe on 68th Street on Saturday morning, waiting in silence for the interviewer to return from picking up his cappuccino at the counter. Waiting with her knees tucked as far into her body as possible. Like she was some kind of human folding chair. Because the alternative…well, the alternative—

Xander’s knee bumped hers as he recrossed his legs.

“Sorry—”

“I’m—yeah.”

Silence again.

He’d ordered an espresso. And the tiny cup looked so silly in his huge hands that she almost laughed whenever he sipped.

His Ray-Bans were on. He was in black again.

And everything about him—from his clothes, to his holier-than-thou attitude, to the way he didn’t acknowledge her except for when their knees touched—made Gwen feel like an idiot in her yellow sundress.

“Thanks for waiting.” Mark, the interviewer, tumbled into the chair opposite them, and Gwen smiled. Friendly. Approachable. One of them should be. Mark would come to the concert that night to review it, and the story would be printed in Sunday’s Times. “So, Gwen!” He waved a hand at her, flipping open his notepad. “You are the youngest violinist to take first chair in New York history.”

“In the western hemisphere,” a voice mumbled next to her.

Both she and Mark looked at Xander as he sipped his comically small cup, content to interrupt.

She looked back at Mark. “That’s what they say,” she offered with a grin.

“You must be excited,” Mark prompted her.

“Absolutely. I’m beyond honored that the Manhattan Pops offered it to me. I’d never envisioned this for myself, so I’m thrilled for this opportunity.”

Gwen had learned by now that all interviews were the same. Same answers, just different phrasing to the questions.

“What did you envision for yourself then?” Mark asked.

She hesitated. Now that wasn’t a question she’d been asked. “I…I guess I’ve always wanted to play solos and be a featured violinist, but I never thought that first chair would be my first step.” She grinned. The body next to her shifted.

“Now, you taught yourself how to play the violin. Almost a child prodigy, is that correct?”

“Oh, no.” She blushed. “I would never call myself a prodigy. I started playing when I was eleven”—Mark wrote something down—“but I had a tutor working with me.”

“Where did you play? High school band?”

“No, my high school didn’t have music classes. I learned at a music store in Queens…” She paused, hating that she was about to clue Xander in on a piece of their shared history, but knowing that Mabel could use a mention in the Times. “Mabel’s Music Shop.” Not allowing herself to see his reaction, she hurried on. “But I used to play at the Union Square subway station. I’d set up at rush hour with my case out for tips.”

She smiled, having learned by now that this was a charming story that people chuckled at, and not something that she tried to forget.

“And what did you use that money for?” Mark asked with a grin.

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