I can hear Nathan’s powerful tenor voice as I pass by practice room three, and my lips move into a smile. I resist the urge to interrupt him. Because the campus is so empty right now, I assume the room next door is available, so when I open it to see Rhys Delane of all people behind the piano, scribbling on a blank sheet of staff paper, I freeze in the doorway.

His playing comes to a sudden halt, and he turns those amazing blue-green eyes on me, his expression just as stunned as mine. Although he’s been freshly shaven every time I’ve seen him the last couple weeks, he’s got that sexy, shadowy thing going again—the same way he looked when we first met.

“Your lesson isn’t until Tuesday. So why are you here, Evelyn?”

Chapter Eight

My eyes fall to his full lips as they move, and I immediately wonder how he kisses. Is it slow? Each flick of his tongue torturous, each movement of his body carefully orchestrated. Or is it desperate? Hard and fast, rough.

Biting my tongue, I lift my eyes until they’re level with his.

“I—” Though I should turn around and leave, I take a step inside and hold up my Sight Singing and Dictation books and the frayed sheet music I’ve been going over with Professor Cameron. “I came to practice for next week,” I admit. When his lips part in a silent “ah,” I move closer, until the edge of the piano is jabbing against the side of my body. “I thought you’d be gone all weekend.”

His lips press into a thin line, and I jump when he palms several bass keys. “It didn’t work out. What about you?”

I shouldn’t—God, I know I shouldn’t—but I wonder if his issue is female-related. The thought of it being so makes me a little jealous. “I only left to see my best friend and she had to go back today, so here I am.”

“To practice.” His lips move into a smile that gives me heart palpitations. “You can always go to another room. Or wait until I’m done with this one.” Then, a little softer, he says, “Or I can give you that first lesson.”

The way he says “lesson” pulls my eyes back up to his. From where I’m standing, I take in the sight of him, from the top of his off-black hair to his plain white t-shirt to his jeans. I look at him, and no matter how wrong it is—especially after going home this weekend—there’s no denying that Rhys Delane has some kind of effect on me. And it’s powerful, at that.

When I don’t answer, he stands up and reaches for my books and music, which I quietly hand over to him.

I glance back at the clipboard by the door. “Do I have to sign in?” I whisper as he plays the key my first piece is in.

He shakes his head. “Not tonight.”

***

“You’re going flat again, Evelyn,” Rhys interrupts me two days later, on Tuesday, as we have our first official lesson. When I don’t immediately stop singing, he scoots the piano bench around just a little so that I have a clear view of him. He leans forward to rest his forearms on his knees. I look at him, from the khaki-colored pants to the black Polo shirt that keeps drawing my attention to his broad shoulders and chest and up to his blue-green eyes, which at the moment, are zeroed in on me.

If I thought Professor Cameron was bad about stopping me mid-measure, Rhys Delane is that much harder. We’ve been together for the last twenty minutes and after he had me do a warm-up, he immediately asked me to pull out “Florian’s Song,” even though I’ve never looked at that particular song before today. The first time he stopped me, I’d only been able to sing through the first four measures. This time, I at least made it to the second page of sheet music, but that’s not saying much.

“You know, maybe I’d be able to get through the damn thing if you didn’t keep telling me that.”

“I’d rather you get through it right then at all.”

Already, I’m starting to question any sanity I might have had when I made the decision to put aside my apprehension to work with Rhys. The nearly forty-five minutes we spent in here on Sunday night had lulled me into a false sense of security. Irritated, I shove my hands in the front pockets of my shorts, rock back on my heels, and glare at the bottom of the black music stand for a moment before lifting my narrowed eyes at him. “Alright, we’ve got another ten minutes, let’s do this—” My words catch when he abruptly stands up, his full lips twisted to the side as he examines me closely. “Why the hell are you looking at me like that?”

“I want you to try something for me,” he says. I shift my eyebrow, so he moves in close to me. My body is instantly aware of him, and goose bumps pucker across my skin. Since he’s a few inches taller than my five-foot-eight, I tilt my head back to search his gaze. He points to the knit black beanie holding in my mess of wavy chestnut hair.

“Take the hat off.”

“What? No.” At his insistent nod, I demand, “Why?”

“Because you’re hiding beneath it.”

“Told you, I’m having a—” I gasp when his fingers skim the sides of my face as he carefully plucks the hat off my head.  Before I can protest, he shoves the cap in the back pocket of his khaki pants and starts to walk backwards.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I snap.

“What’s the deal with the hats? You’ve got one for every day.”

“There’s no deal, it’s called frizzy hair,” I shout, trying to reach around him, but he effortlessly blocks my hands. Straightening my back angrily, I run my hands self-consciously through my long strands of hair, my fingers shaking violently. Who the hell does Rhys think he is?

“You had no right to touch me.”

Dragging the piano bench back to its usual spot, he sits down and readjusts his sheet music. “Start from measure one,” he orders, like he didn’t just come over to me and physically remove an article of my clothing. To be honest, I’m still so stunned that I find myself touching my hatless head again just to make sure it actually happened.

When he plays the key the song is in, I give my head a jerky shake and cross my arms tightly over my chest. “You’re going to give me my shit back.”

I’m not the least bit surprised that he ignores my request. “I’ve noticed something about you.” Staring directly at the sheet music, he plays the first chord of “Florian’s Song.”

I release an exasperated noise, and his long fingers spread to play the second and then the third chord. “What would that be?”

“You hide behind all those hats. I was gonna say something about the one you had on Sunday—the red fedora-looking thing—but you showing up here caught me off guard.”

The red fedora-looking thing. Now, I’m caught off guard that he even remembers what I was wearing two days ago. Swallowing the lump that’s pushing its way to the back of my throat, I force myself to focus on the issue at hand. “You still had no right to touch me,” I say again.

“I’m not going to apologize, if that’s what you’re waiting for.” Playing the next few chords, he skims his stunning eyes over the length of my body, from the toes of my black flats to the tiny strip of skin exposed between my skinny jeans and pale pink t-shirt and finally to my face, where he stares into my dark brown eyes.

“You sure are cocky, Rhys.”

“I think you’re more pissed at me taking away your security blanket than the fact I touched you. Here’s my issue with all your fucking hats: If you’re hiding behind them, you’re uncomfortable. If you’re uncomfortable, we get nowhere. Now we can finish.”

Once again, he’s rendered me speechless, and I make a little noise in the back of my throat as I stalk back over to the music stand. He plays the key again, before saying, “You can do this.”

I have to grip the edges of the stand, I’m shaking so much as I power through the piece. I know I don’t nail it—even I can hear all the notes I struggle with—but to my surprise, he doesn’t stop me like before. With my chest heaving up and down, I walk over to the side of the piano. Rhys gives me that look again, the one that feathers over my body and does something warm and uncomfortable to me beneath my skin.