Shouldn't Want You (Cataclysm Book 2)

by Jerica MacMillan

  I shake my head and meet her eyes again. I could write a song about those eyes. But that’ll have to wait until later. When I get home. “I’m Jonathan, by the way.”

  Her smile pulls wider. “Gabby.”

  “Nice to meet you, Gabby. I couldn’t help noticing that you have a little bit of an accent.”

  She gasps. “I do not!”

  Nodding, I hold her gaze. “You do. Where are you from?”

  She looks disgruntled now and mutters, “Denton, Texas.”

  “Ah. That explains it.”

  She shakes her head, still denying her accent, and sits back in her chair with her arms crossed. “I don’t have an accent. I’m from the Metroplex. Not …” she waves a hand around, “Hickville, East Texas.”

  My shoulders shake with suppressed laughter at how irritated she is that I commented on her accent. “You might be from the Metroplex, whatever that means. But you do have an accent. It’s subtle and adorable as hell.”

  Her eyes widen at that, her irritation falling away, replaced by surprise at my last comment.

  I didn’t mean to say that out loud. It slipped out. But there’s no calling the words back, and in my experience, it’s better to stand behind what you’ve said. Don’t apologize, don’t show weakness.

  Confusion flickers across her expression before she puts on a neutral expression and says, “Um, thank you?”

  “You’re welcome.” I say it firmly and reach for my coffee, hoping that’ll give me time to find my way back to more neutral territory. She is adorable. Her accent, the way she wrinkles her nose, her uncertainty in the face of an unexpected compliment. But her eyes hypnotize me, and her lips …

  Before I can think any more about her lips, she says, “Well, I should get back to my homework …” Her eyes are on her papers again, and she’s picking up her pencil.

  A spike of panic shoots through me. I don’t want this conversation to be over. I want her to keep talking. And if she starts doing homework, I’ll have to start reading, and then she’ll finish, and I know with absolute certainty that she’ll quietly pack her things and leave without giving me another opening to talk to her or get her number or agree to see me again after this. That would be awful. To never see her again or hear that laugh or look at her eyes again.

  But I need to play it cool. Not desperate and weird. Channeling all the charm I’ve gained over the years and all the training and practice at keeping my cool in front of people, I give her a smile, and ask a question I’m sure will get her talking again. “So are you going to be a music teacher?”

  Her eyes fly up to mine, her brows coming down. She sets her pencil back down, assessing me with suddenly cool eyes. “No. That’s not the plan. I’m violin performance.”

  I glance at her left hand, but her fingers are curled in. I rub the pad of my thumb over the rough callouses on my own left hand, the result of years of playing the guitar, and nod. “That’s cool. If I’d majored in music, I’d want to do performance too.”

  Her eyes widen, surprised and interested. “Really? What do you play?”

  “Guitar.”

  She leans her face on her hand. “How come you didn’t major in music? Your comment makes it sound like you thought about it.”

  I shrug, twisting the paper sleeve around my coffee cup. “I did. But my background is more in popular music.” That’s an understatement, but I don’t like announcing who I am. Who I used to be. Especially not to people who I just met. “The music department here only has classical guitar. It’s different enough to not be appealing. And the faculty looks down on popular music. I don’t need a side of condescension with my education, so I went with English.”

  She moves her lips back and forth, like she’s debating what to say to that. I give her my practiced smile, the one that I’ve flashed in front of cameras and audiences alike, hoping to distract her. I don’t want to get into a debate on the relative merits of popular music versus classical music right now. That seems like another good way to ruin an enjoyable conversation. Maybe later, when we know each other better, we can spar about that. For now, though, I want to know more about her. “So who are your favorite composers?”

  Her eyes, which have been moving over my face, a frown of concentration wrinkling her forehead, meet mine again. “Pardon?”

  I let my eyes examine her face now, too. “You’re a music major. Violin performance. You must have a favorite composer.” Sitting back in my chair, I take another sip of my coffee.

  Her lips quirk into a small smile, her eyes still studying my face. “Are you sure you want to ask that question? I have opinions. With a capital O.”

  Chuckling, I nod. “Hit me. I’d love to hear all your Opinions.”

  She gives me a look that says you asked for it, and starts in on her feelings about Mozart, Tchaikovsky, Beethoven, and a few other names I don’t recognize. She’s playing a Mozart concerto, which she likes, but doesn’t enjoy his orchestral works. She prefers the romantics for orchestra.

  “But oh my God,” she gushes, and I shift in my seat at the moan of pleasure in her voice, trying to slow the blood from rushing south at the sound. “The first time I heard the Bach Sonatas and Partitas for Unaccompanied Violin, I just lay on my bed in musical heaven. They’re gorgeous.”

  “I don’t think I’ve heard those.”

  “You have to listen to them. Go on YouTube and search. Make sure you find someone good, like Joshua Bell or Hillary Hahn. Better yet, find the old videos of Jascha Heifetz. Especially the D minor Chaconne. That was his hallmark piece. It’s so beautiful.” She digs through her bag and tears a corner off a piece of paper, picking up her pencil and scribbling something, then passing it to me. “Here. I wrote it down so you can find them.”

  My fingers brush hers as I take the scrap of paper, sending a jolt skittering up my arm. My eyes meet hers, and she sucks in a breath.

  She shakes it off faster than I do, her eyes dropping to her homework again. She picks up her phone and pushes a button to glance at the time. “Oh, crap. I have a class soon. I guess I’ll have to finish my homework later.” Meeting my eyes again, she offers me a quick smile. “It was nice talking to you. Sorry if I bored you by going on and on about music stuff. But, well … you asked.”

  Standing, she sets her backpack on her seat and gathers her papers and textbook, stuffing them inside. I stand too, not ready for this to end. “You didn’t write your number down.”

  She slows as she puts the straps on her shoulders, a crooked smile on her face. “I’m sorry?”

  Nodding, I pull out a pen of my own. “How else will I have someone to discuss the wonder that is the,” I stop to read the name of the piece she talked about, “Sonatas and Partitas for Unaccompanied Violin if I don’t have your number?”

  The other half of her mouth has lifted, and she’s giving me a wide smile now. My answering smile is just as genuine. She takes the pen, bending to write her name and number on the scrap of paper.

  As she’s handing it back to me, a voice interrupts us. “Well, lookie here. If it isn’t our favorite little freshman and our favorite former boyband star. They look cozy, don’t you think, Julia?”

  I have to stifle my groan of irritation. I know these two girls. We’ve had classes together and have a few friends in common. And unfortunately, they know about my days as the guitarist for Brash, the band I was in with my brothers that had a brief moment of fame several years ago.

  Gabby looks at them, her brows pulled together in confusion. “Oh, hey, Emma. Hey, Julia.”

  I look between Gabby and the other two. “You guys know each other?”

  Julia nods. “She sits next to us in Anthropology. We were just on our way over there. Wanna walk with us, Gabby?”

  “Uh, sure.” Gabby gives me one more look, her eyes studying my face. I give her a quick smile back.

  I see the moment she puts it together. Her lips part on a gasp, “Oh my God.”

  p; Jerica MacMillan, Shouldn't Want You (Cataclysm Book 2)