Page 39 of Love & Notes

“Yeah.” He lets out a small laugh, shaking his head. “You’re hitting every note perfectly. It’s technical perfection, but there’s absolutely no fire in it, Bow-Peep. You’re so focused on being flawless that you have forgotten to actually feel the piece of music that you are playing.”

“I do feel.” The vulnerability cracks through my voice before I can stop it. “I have to be technically perfect to keep my scholarship. I really can’t mess this up. I have to show up, perform… be disciplined.”

He tilts his head and his gaze drops, very slowly from my hands, to my bow, to my face, to my mouth. Something deep and unreadable creeps into his expression—something that I am not ready for.

“Is that right?” he murmurs, his brow arching slightly. “Discipline. That's what you call it.” His eyes hold mine for a moment too long, the silence in the room turning suffocatingly hot. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks a hell of a lot more like you’re terrified to let go of that tight, perfect little grip, because you’re afraid of what you might actually feel if you did.” He pauses, his voice turning quieter. “And we both know… you’re desperate to find out when you do.”

I freeze, my eyes widening as his gaze burns through my shields. I am suddenly very aware of how small this room is, how heavy the air feels, and how close he is to me.

“Careful, Bow-Peep.” His voice drops as he shifts his weight on the bench. “If you want me to go back to being an arsehole, I can absolutely do that.” The corner of his mouth twitches into a slow, wicked smirk. “If you find this version of me too distracting.”

His accent… It’s effortlessly captivating.

“I didn’t say it was distracting.” I manage, forcing my voice to remain steady.

I am so incredibly distracted.

“Your eyes did.”

Caught. Oh, God. Was I that obvious?

He holds my gaze for what seems like a century, neither of us willing to blink or look away first.

Are we flirting?

The thought sends a jolt of panic through me. This is dangerous. A disaster.

Suddenly, Julian blinks, his movements turning abruptly agitated.

“Let’s take five.”

He slides off the bench before I can even think to respond. He moves across the room so quickly, running a hand aggressively through his hair before gripping the back of his neck. I don’t think I have ever seen him this erratic. It's fascinating to witness—a complete change to the casualness he normally walks around with. He is never in a rush to get anywhere.

Stopping at the door, he pulls a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his leather jacket pocket and flicks a silver lighter.

“You really shouldn’t be lighting that inside the building, Thorne,” I whisper, my voice shaking slightly.

“Vance.” His voice is flat as he looks out to the corridor through the glass panel. “Go get some food. Your stomach has been making bloody noises this entire practice, and it is distracting.”

Bloody. The unhurried Englishness of it.

I have stopped registering most accents. But his, I notice every time.

I hate that I notice.

Before I can open my mouth to respond, he is through the door, and it clicks shut behind him. I stand there for a moment, my violin still in my hand, in absolute shock.

I have absolutely no idea what just happened between us, and judging by the tense way he bolted out of here, I don’t think Julian does either.

Actually, that isn’t entirely true. I have a terrifyingly clear understanding of what just happened, but I don’t quite know what to do with it, which is slightly more inconvenient.

I look down at the sheet music, the black and white notes of Chopin staring back at me. For the last year, Julian Thorne has been predictable. He was safe because he was cruel, and I have gotten pretty damn good at surviving that version of him.

But this version? The one that comes with a completely different set of rules? The one who notices when I am starving and watches my mouth with a slow intensity?

This version is dangerous.

Lethal.