Page 76 of Not Another Love Song

Not her pillow.

Her eyes snapped open, staring at an unfamiliar digital alarm clock reading 8:53 a.m.

The night before swam up from her memories, and she blushed scarlet as her body abruptly turned on.

Was she supposed to stay the night? Was that okay? Was that what people did?

She turned over carefully and looked for Alex. His side of the bed was empty—sheets perfectly folded, as if she’d dreamed the whole thing. Just as she was wondering if that was her cue to get lost, she spotted a glass on the nightstand.

An iced latte. Either homemade or fetched and then poured into a glass for her.

Gwen blinked at it for a few minutes, trying to get her bearings. She slipped out of the sheets, attempted to fold and reset them like he had, and looked for her clothes.

Which were in the studio. Tossed onto the floor. Gwen sighed. She sipped at her perfectly mixed iced vanilla latte and pondered what to do.

A bathrobe hung from a hanger on the back of his bedroom door. She didn’t know if it was meant for her, but she pulled it down and slipped into it anyway.

That’s when she heard it.

A small humming. A faint melody drifting through the cracks in the doorjamb. Gwen pulled the bedroom door open and found the studio door shut. She pressed her ear to it. Something beautiful was happening inside, and Gwen almost felt bad for interrupting.

She opened the door to find Alex sitting at his desk in nothing but his boxer briefs, alternating between typing furiously and pulling her violin up to his chin, dragging the bow across in smooth legatos.

She watched, fascinated by him. He hit the space bar and the music writing program played an electronic violin melody, something distorted and so far from the pure sounds that the strings could make. Alex held her violin under his chin and joined, continuing when the playback ended abruptly, sailing into a melody that finished the phrase.

The violin dropped to his lap, and his fingers flew across the keys, typing notes directly onto the screen.

He must have felt her presence. He turned to the door and jumped up.

“Hey,” he said, placing her violin back in its open case. “Sorry. I should have asked—”

“No, please.” She stopped him, waving a hand. She smiled and said, “What are you working on?”

“I just”—he ran his hand through his hair—“had something in my head this morning.”

She nodded, staring at him—staring at his bare skin, frankly—and said, “Can I hear?”

He blinked at her, like he was about to decline. But then he turned to the computer, clicking. “Yeah. It’s not finished. Or good, yet.”

“No,” she said, fiddling with the tie on the bathrobe. “Can I hear you play it?”

There was that strange reflection in his eyes again, like he could turn off a part of himself with just the mention of the violin.

He reached for her violin with long fingers, taking his time, like maybe she would change her mind if he moved slowly enough.

Looking down at the strings, he said, “On one condition.” A perfect imitation of her own ultimatum last night. He looked up at her under dark lashes, eyes suddenly black. “Take off the robe.”

Gwen swallowed, feeling a chill run across her skin.

Oh, yes, how silly of her to forget. They’d had sex last night. They were now people who had sex. With each other, specifically.

Meeting his eyes, she pulled the tie from around her waist, peeling back the robe and slipping it down her arms. The look in his eyes when she stood across the room fully naked was intoxicating. The way his pupils were blown wide, like he needed to take in every inch of her, set her skin on fire.

He lifted the violin to his chin, and she sat across from him in the spare chair, crossing her legs and trying to find inventive ways to sit that didn’t make her naked.

She knew the moment the first notes played that this was not Fugue No. 2.

A different key. A different tempo. Something lovely and miserable and challenging and hopeful. He pulled the bow across a love song. His fingers framed a yearning sonata. His vibrato pulsed a haunted ballad.

---