Chapter Six
He tasted like cinnamon — too bad I was allergic to cinnamon. Good thing I didn’t go into anaphylactic shock from the kiss. That would have been awkward. —Saylor
Saylor
I wasn’t really sure how long I stared at the piano before I was able to function enough to play. Each time I tried to lift my hands, all I could picture were his. They’d had music notes on each knuckle.
Why I’d remember such a ridiculous detail, I had no idea. But it seemed weird that a guy who looked like that was capable of the music that had come from the practice room. What had come out of his mouth when the door was closed was completely the opposite of what he looked like and how he’d acted when I was eavesdropping.
Maybe it was my fault. After all, I’d been salivating over the music like a dog in heat. It was my weakness, my downfall. I hadn’t heard those songs in a long time, they pulled at something deep within me, some untouched part that I longed to unleash but was too afraid to tap into. Funny, because it had nothing to do with the actual song, but the way it was played — with such passion and abandonment that I was immediately jealous.
It was why my music major wasn’t performance, as the asshat had assumed. It was music theory. I wanted to be a professor. I wanted safe. Safe meant I’d have a job, that I’d be able to pay off my ridiculous student loans, and that I wouldn’t fail.
Safe was all I had. Because when you took chances you got hurt and I was so done being hurt. Most people went to college hoping for an adventure — I’d be happy with a diploma and a mug with my alma mater on it. Nothing was more important to me than not having to worry.
Typical for someone who’s been taking care of her family for the past few years. I was all my little brother and my mom had. They were counting on me to make something of myself so that I could, in turn, provide for them.
And it wasn’t even like they were asking a lot. They just wanted me to graduate and find a job that brought in decent enough money so we wouldn’t have to live paycheck to paycheck.
I shook my head. Practice. Mom. Eric. Those were my motivators, not some tattooed, spoiled bad boy who liked attacking innocent girls in music rooms.
Nice. I was a romance novel waiting to happen.
I closed my eyes and placed my hands on the smooth keys and so began my two hour practice session.