Page 4 of Love & Notes

I catch his eyes for a fraction of a second. One second too long.

I quickly snap my gaze back to my notebook, staring at the page with an intensity that doesn’t seem to work. I can still feel the weight of his focused attention pressing against the side of my face, and I'm frustratingly aware of every step he takes down the sloped aisle.

“Miss Vance.” Professor Mathias’s voice cuts through the hall as I look up at him. He is peering over the silver rims of his spectacles. “Do we have your undivided attention?”

Shit.

I offer him a smile that communicates he did not in fact have my attention. My face betrays me before anything else—like it always does. I can feel Julian’s smirk without looking at him and can tell that he is absolutely savouring this embarrassing shaming.

Mathias turns towards the aisle. “Mr Thorne.” He allows a second. “How kind of you to join us. Only twenty minutes late today, it’s quite the improvement. At this rate you may actually witness a complete lecture before you graduate.”

Julian doesn’t flinch. He continues walking down the aisle, radiating the particular composure that being called out for his actions is absolutely normal, and a perfectly ordinary Tuesday. Which, in fairness, it probably is.

“Don’t mention it, Professor.” His voice is low and unhurried—completely unbothered.

His gaze travels across the room and lands on me as he states, “playing the piano isn’t the only way I express myself, creatively.”

The implication hangs in the air. Two girls in the front row giggle. Mathias’s face transitions through several colours before settling on a shade of plum, perfectly matching the curtains hanging from the high glass windows.

Julian doesn’t wait for a response as he continues walking down the aisle with the casual ease of a man who has nowhere important to be and knows it. He scans the room for a seat, deliberately stopping to stretch his arms and yawn. It is so theatrical that it leaves no doubt he is clearly mocking this lecture and everyone in it. After his Oscar-winning performance, he continues his arrogant stride through the seats, finding the only one left in the crowded hall. The one right next to me.

Of course. Absolutely fantastic.

I lock my gaze on the board at the front of the room with a ferocity that is probably alarming, borderline psychotic. I do not blink. I nod along to Mathias’s lecture on harmonic dissonance as though it is the most riveting thing I have ever heard, which it is not, but it is significantly better than acknowledging what is about to happen.

“The clash of these unresolved notes creates harmonic dissonance.” Mathias continues, his patience clearly wearing thin. “It acts as an instinctual alert that builds psychological tension and creates an undeniable demand for resolution.” His words fade into the back of my mind as a wave of irony takes over.

He may as well be lecturing the class on my pure hatred for Julian Thorne—though resolution is the last thing I want with him. I want him to disappear entirely.

The floorboards announce him before he arrives. His heavy boots, slow and deliberate, make their presence known. He ensures that the screech of the chair is loud enough to add further disruption to the lecture, as he pulls it out and drops into the seat beside me.

The scent of him hits me immediately: a mixture of expensive tobacco, cold October air, and something underneath that is warm and slightly dangerous. He looks exactly like someone who has spent his night where he shouldn’t have been, but he smells absolutely intoxicating.

I grip my pen tighter as I stare at Professor Mathias.

Don’t look at him. Keep looking ahead.

“Morning, Bow-Peep.” He invades my space as he leans.

Bow-Peep.

For the last year he has been calling me that, always in the same mocking way, and every single time it produces the same volatile effect. The furious heat rushes straight up my neck. He knows exactly what he is doing. He is taking one of the only things I love, my hair bow, and deliberately turning it into a punchline. It infuriates me to my absolute core that he can derail me with such a stupid nickname, and it annoys me even more that my body continues to react to it and fail me in this way.

I say nothing. I grip my pen hard enough that the metal clip leaves a mark on my palm and I stare at the board, not allowing myself to give him the reaction that he craves.

Not today, Julian Thorne.

He shifts in the seat beside me, the leather of his jacket creaking as he turns to face me. “It’s sitting a little crooked today.”

Before I can process what is happening, his long fingers cross the invisible boundary between us as he reaches out and flicks the edge of the silk bow on my head. He moves it with a deliberateness that tilts it crooked, and then settles back into his seat, clearly pleased with himself. What an absolute child.

“Oh,” he sneers. “Not so perfect after all.”

I grit my teeth. The muscle in my jaw twitches with the effort of not reacting, as my hands scream to reach up and fix it—or punch him, but I will not give him the satisfaction. I won't let him see that an interaction this small has completely undone me.

“Mr. Thorne.” Mathias has clearly had enough of this entire debacle. His face, now fully committed to the plum shade, angles towards Julian. “If you’re quite finished with your creative performance, perhaps we could return to the curriculum? Or would you prefer to take the podium and lecture us all on the art of being a nuisance?”

Julian leans back in his chair as it groans under the weight of him—and his attitude. He pulls up his sleeves exposing the ink winding up his forearm. Piano keys curling toward his wrist, music scores threading between roses and winding up toward his elbow. I've never looked at them for long enough to properly study them, though I can’t say I haven’t ever been intrigued by them. I continue looking at the board, but I allow my gaze to drift sideways for a fraction of a second, tracing the dark ink quickly before he can notice me looking at him.