RUSH (City Lights, #3)(23)

“But wait, what happened?” I asked, as we walked back down the street. “Noah’s suddenly okay with me living there?”

Lucien’s smile was tense. “Not quite yet, but I’m sure he’ll come around.”

I bit my lip. “I’m giving up a lot to do this. I mean, it’s stuff I’m happy to give up, but once I do, there’s no going back.”

“Nor will you have to. Noah’s parents have given him an ultimatum which I have just passed on to him: allow a live-in assistant or lose the use of the townhouse.”

“So it’s blackmail. No wonder he’s pissed.”

Lucien’s smile slipped. “It’s for his own good. You are here, my dear, for his own good.”

“But the whole interview was for nothing.”

Lucien stopped and regarded me gravely. “Until or unless Noah learns to live as a blind man, and not as a man who used to be sighted, he will always need an assistant. His parents know this, I know this, and Noah knows this.” He smiled at me and patted my hand. “And I, for one, am thrilled that now that person is you.”

I forced a wan smile and we kept walking. That makes one of us.

*

I mulled everything over on the subway back to Greenwich, and all my apprehensions faded under the anticipation of telling Emily I was moving out. No more late night parties, no more waits for the bathroom, no more carnal alarm clocks. I’d be free of all that, and have plenty of time and money to try to find my music again.

My music.

My violin.

My violin was at Noah’s house.

I had never been without my violin, ever. My parents had worked hard to save up for that violin four years ago, as a going-to-college present. Irrational panic gripped me.

Noah can’t see it. What if he trips over the case and gets mad? He’s already pissed off. What if he SO pissed off he throws it out the window? Or decides to mess around with it and breaks a string?

The chances of Noah doing any of those things were probably slim, but I couldn’t leave my violin there. I had to go back.

“Crap,” I muttered.

The lady sitting next to me nodded. “Mmmhmm. I hear that, honey.”





Chapter Eight


Charlotte

I buzzed the bell at the townhouse, still trying to catch my breath from the run. I waited for Noah to answer. And waited. And waited.

I buzzed again, and then a third time. My finger was poised for a fourth when the intercom came on.

“What?” Noah snapped, anger still ripe in his voice.

I flinched, reluctant for a second dose of Noah’s particular brand of charm, but my violin was in there. I hardly touched it anymore, but even the thought of being without it made me queasy.

“It’s me. Charlotte. I left my violin in your living room.”

“Your what?” And before I could answer, “Why the f*ck did you bring a violin?”

“Lucien asked me to.”

“He must be getting senile.”

I bristled instantly, surprised how fast Lucien had become important to me. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

“Can’t it wait?”

I scrunched up my face. Is this guy for real? “I’ll be two seconds, in and out.”

Another pause. The door buzzed open.

I went in and jogged up the staircase, intending to get my violin and get out—maybe steal a peek at my soon-to-be living quarters. I also expected Noah would be upstairs, not wanting anything more to do with me. Instead, I found him in the living room, sitting on the last three stairs that led up to the third floor, his hands dangling off his knees. His gaze was cast downward and didn’t move when I came up.

“Um, hi,” I said.

I figured I could stare all I wanted while I waited for a reply, and stare I did. My god. He’s like a work of art. A rude, surly, bad-tempered work of art.

Eventually, I realized Noah couldn’t be bothered to reply. I spotted my instrument on the floor by the couch and blue nylon rain jacket on the arm. I scowled. Noah had barked at me to get out and I’d scurried away like a scolded puppy, forgetting everything.

I’m not going to let him get to me again, I declared and then nearly jumped out of my skin when Noah spoke.

“Quite the plan you all concocted.”

“I didn’t know anything about—”

“Don’t embarrass yourself with excuses,” he snarled. “And I thank you and Lucien for the nice fat dose of condescension. For wasting my time with an interview the outcome of which was a foregone conclusion.”

“Funny, I could say the same about you.”

He blinked and his eyes sought me, widening with surprise. “And just how the hell you figure that?”

“You weren’t really interviewing me. You didn’t even ask me any questions, or about my qualifications, or references. Hell, I have my doubts that you even know my name. You just rattled off your list of duties, end of story.”

“Your point?”

I shrugged into my jacket and crossed my arms. “My point is, I don’t think it mattered at all who sat in front of you. It was the same ‘interview’ you’ve done half a dozen times, probably intending that the person quit a few weeks later.”

He smirked. “So far I’m six for six.”