Nocturne(56)

Gregory slowly turned around. “Madeline,” he said through clenched teeth, as if he were trying to prevent himself from throwing up.

Madeline looked between the two of us a few times. Smacking her lips and arching her eyebrow, she finally spoke. “I trust that now that the two of you have gotten that out of your system, there won’t be any problems this semester?” It was less of a question, and, really, more a statement. A requirement. She didn’t wait for our answer before turning on her heels and walking inside, closing the door I’d left open behind her.

Shit. I blew it. I thought for sure Gregory would be incensed that I could have just caused a major problem for the both of us. We were lucky, all things considered, that it was Madeline who happened upon us. And that it had been out here on the porch and not the second floor of her house. I felt my cheeks heat as I nervously looked at him.

“I’m sorry, Gregory,” I cleared my throat, trying to regain some semblance of composure, “I didn’t mean to—”

Gregory’s index finger lifted my chin. “Don’t be.” His thumb gently stroked my cheek, as his eyes danced back and forth across from mine. His tone was gentle, soothing. Reassuring. “It can’t happen again, though, Savannah. Understood?”

I bit my lip and nodded. “Understood.”

The next five seconds held us in space, looking into each other’s eyes at the truths we were going to have to ignore in order to come out of the next year in one piece. With our careers intact. Finally, Gregory let his hand drop from my face, and without another word, he put his hands in his pockets and turned away from me, walking gracefully down the stairs and toward his car.

I watched until he was out of sight. Just standing on the porch in my t-shirt, with the memory of his touch burned into my body.





Gregory


It can’t happen again.

Walking down the narrow hall to the practice rooms, I mentally repeated my command to Savannah from the front porch of Madeline’s house two short weeks ago. She had nodded her understanding through flushed cheeks and those wide brown eyes of hers before responding. I had to repeat it, because I was about to see her for the first time since that morning.

We’d managed to arrange our practice session with a minimum amount of awkwardness. Granted, the exchange was through email, but her language suggested she was ready to forge ahead with the Assobio a Jato piece in preparation for her recital without hesitation. I planned to suggest pieces for her to audition for orchestras. I’d been through and to enough auditions to know what would easily get her a spot.

She would be auditioning for major companies. I would see to it with everything I had. If Nathan Connors could land Chicago—the thought caused me to roll my eyes as I rounded the corner—Savannah could have her pick of orchestras.

I saw the door to the last room on the right was open, and I knew Savannah would be in there. She often left the door open while practicing. Not all the way, but enough that I could hear a bit of her sessions if I happened to pass by, the way one might catch the scent of the tulips as they walked through the Common in the middle of spring.

The sound coming through the space in the door wasn’t her flute, though it was equally as beautiful. It was her voice. She was on her phone. Despite the carefree resonance of her laugh, I felt rising irritation that she wasn’t warming up in preparation for our session.

At the sight of her, I had to immediately suppress my thoughts. Her bare skin, and how it felt under my fingertips. Her hair, damp with sweat, splayed out on the pillow as she arched her head back. The soft heat of her lips as they pressed into mine, breaking every code of conduct I’d established for myself. I had to force my mind away from all of that. This was about the music. This was about our lesson. I reminded myself that her discipline to the craft needed some serious attention.

Savannah sucked in a quick, startled breath as I unceremoniously marched through the door, set down my cello case, and pointedly closed the door behind me.

She smiled when she saw me, and I almost regretted my gruff entrance. “Hey, uh, he’s here. I have to go. Good luck tonight, we’ll talk more later. Love you.”

She shut her phone and leaned over to set it in her bag. Her yellow tank top clung to her body in a way that recalled how she looked without it. Flawless. Sun-kissed skin from her head down her breathtakingly long legs.

Love you? Who is she talking to? Who makes her face light up like that?

“Turn it off first.” I used the same tone with her that I used with all of my first-time students. I knew she wasn’t a student of mine, but she was a student I was working with, and I intended to hold her to the same expectations. Regardless of how her skin felt beneath my lips.

It can’t happen again. Ever.

Her eyes shot to mine as her smile faded. “Sorry.” With blushing cheeks, she turned off her phone before tucking it into her bag. I was the one who was sorry, in that instant.

I hated seeing that smile leave her face.

But we’d been wrong. And I had to be the one to set the expectations and tone of our relationship. It killed me to hurt her. But I couldn’t give her any illusions at all. Our relationship would be professional.

“I expect that when we practice together, Savannah, you’re ready to go at the start of our time. I know I suggested we collaborate on this piece for your recital, but neither of us have an excess of time. I’ve been playing all morning, so I’m warmed up. I expect you to be warmed up, as well.” While this was my normal spiel, and it usually produced the same sheepish response from students, it lit a familiar fire in Savannah’s eyes.