Lucien nodded. “My parents took me for my birthday last year. It’s amazing,” he gushed. “I can’t wait to go back.”
“And it’s really expensive, right?” a boy named Dexter who played the piano said. “I heard, like, a pack of gum costs five bucks.”
“Yeah, but the energy makes up for it,” Mac piped up. She’d been to New York—for an orchestra camp with Claire, actually. She shoved aside the memories of them running around Times Square in matching I-Heart-NY T-shirts, eating bags of candy at Dylan’s Candy Bar, sneaking onto the stage at Carnegie Hall to see what it felt like, and being chased away by the security guard. “Although you have to ignore the rumors. Not everyone there is a mugger or a pickpocket. And alligators do not live in the sewers.”
Dexter snorted and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, but huge rats live in the subways.”
“True.” Mac grimaced. “And they are pretty gross.”
Everyone made disgusted noises. Mac could feel Claire’s gaze burning into her, but she refused to turn around. She was going to have fun tonight, damn it. And that meant not dragging the past into the present.
A tall, blond boy with broad shoulders and a dimple sauntered over. Mac checked his blazer, but he wasn’t wearing a name tag. “This looks like the fun group,” he said enthusiastically.
Lucien took a sip of his drink. “We were just talking about subway rats. Standard getting-to-know-you conversation.”
The new boy’s eyes immediately locked on Mac. “Subway rats? Ick.”
Mac giggled and resisted the nerdy urge to shove her glasses up her nose. “You afraid?”
The boy grinned. “Of rats? Nah. I grew up on a farm. But I have heard the rodent population in New York City is supersmart. Like, they can do tricks. Fetch, roll over. Speak several languages.”
“Argue with cab drivers?” Mac chimed in.
The guy grinned. “Haggle with the guys who sell fake Gucci bags on Canal Street.”
“Get past the red ropes at clubs,” Mac joked, enjoying herself.
The guy held out his hand. “I’m Oliver. I play piano.”
His palms were velvety soft, but with slight calluses at the fingertips. His touch sent a head-to-toe charge through Mac. “Mackenzie. Cello. Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, too, Mackenzie Cello.” He held her gaze steadily. “I’m always impressed by the way you cellists fling that thing all over the place like it’s nothing. You make it look so easy.”
“We learn that first,” Mac teased. “Cello Flinging 101. Before we even play a note.” She couldn’t believe the words were flying out of her mouth so effortlessly. She’d never been able to flirt this way with Blake. Maybe because she’d always put so much pressure on herself around Blake.
“Aha. So now I know. I always wondered.” He had a nice laugh, Mac thought—full and open, warm. But then, annoyingly, she felt a sad little pull in her chest. He’s not Blake, a tiny voice said in her ear.
She flinched. So what? she thought fiercely. Blake had hurt her. No, she corrected—Blake had screwed her over.
She struggled to refocus on Oliver. He was telling some story about another cellist he knew from his school, a tiny Japanese girl whose instrument was nearly as big as her but who completely dominated the instrument. “And how about you piano guys?” she asked when he finished. “It must take a lot of training to learn to move a piano.”
“Do I look like the kind of guy who would actually move his own piano? There are people who do that for me.” His green eyes twinkled. “That’s why I chose it in the first place—so I could have my minions do all the heavy lifting.”
Mac tried to keep a straight face. “I see. Does Juilliard know? That you’re such a prima donna, I mean.”
Oliver leaned toward her. “No. And let’s keep that between us, shall we?”
Mac placed her hands on her hips, mock stern. “What’s in it for me?”
“Well that remains to be seen, Mackenzie Cello. Doesn’t it?”
“I think so,” she murmured. Oliver smelled clean—like lemons and something salty, reminding her of the sea. It was a totally different smell than Blake’s sugary scent. And that’s a good thing, she reminded herself.
Someone tapped her on the shoulder, and Mac spun around to find herself face-to-face with a middle-aged woman in a brown tweed skirt suit. “Hello, I’m Olga Frank, admissions officer for the Northwest!” the woman bleated, smiling with all her teeth. “Mackenzie Wright! I’ve been looking for you!”
Mackenzie took the woman’s extended hand. “It’s so nice to meet you. Thank you for everything.”