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.
“I’ve been ready.” She gestured to her flute, set on its stand, that I’d failed to notice upon entering the room. “And I’m warmed up. Anything else, Gregory, or shall we tune and get on with it?”
She arched her eyebrow to accentuate her challenging tone.
That kind of attitude should have infuriated me—a student speaking to me in such a self-righteous tone. But, Savannah was no longer just a student. Not after that night. What she was, though, I had no clear idea.
I thought maybe we should reiterate the boundaries conversation we had after pulling away from our kiss on Madeline’s porch. A kiss, thankfully, gone unmentioned to me by Madeline or James. It wasn’t really a boundaries conversation, though; it was more a declaration that it could simply never happen again. Not while she was still a student.
“Who was that on the phone?” I asked, despite myself, as I took my cello out of its case.
She sighed and glanced at me out of the corner of her eye. “Nathan.”
I cleared my throat. “Connors? I thought he wasn’t your boyfriend.” I couldn’t stop the words from coming out of my mouth.
“He’s not.” She grinned and shook her head just slightly.
“But you said love you when you hung up.”
“Because I love him, Gregory. He’s my friend.” She shrugged, brought her flute to her lips, and ran through a scale, seeming to study my reaction the entire time. “What?” she asked when she finished.
“You two were awfully … close in my class last semester. And all around town, if I remember correctly.”
“I told you he’s not my boyfriend.” She chuckled and shifted the music on her stand once more. “Are you ready? The first twelve notes are all you.”
But she loved him? This woman made no sense.
“Does he tell you he loves you, too?”
She swallowed hard. “Yes. We’ve been friends since we were, like, ten, Gregory. We grew up together. He … can we play, please?” Bemused, she shook her head again.
“Certainly, let’s tune. C?” She nodded and I had just set my bow across the strings when she stopped me.
“And, what do you care if he’s my boyfriend anyway? What was it you said? Your instructions ... it can’t happen again.” She said the words in a stentorian tone, mocking me.
I’d foolishly hoped we could make it through one practice without discussing the night we’d spent together.
“Sav—”
“Don’t.” She put up her hand and straightened her posture. “Let’s just play, okay? You start.”