Page 18 of Say You Want Me
The stem of her wine glass bit into her fingers. Liquid swayed against the brim.
The warmth drained out of her all at once. Arms, hands, the back of her neck.
Taylor.
Taylor sat on the wooden stool and the low-scooped black top stretched tight over her chest, the neckline dropping low enough to frame the full curves of her breasts. Jeans clung to her legs as she pulled the acoustic guitar across her lap. Chestnut waves fell around her face. The sight hit Charlotte low in the stomach first, a hard pull that spread heat between her thighs and made her shift against the chair. Her fingers locked around the wine glass. Those lips were painted a darker shade now, and the memory of how they had opened under hers four months ago sent another rush through her. She wanted to press her mouth there again, to get her palms under the fabric and feel that skin warm and give against her hands.
Taylor reached for the tuner, plucking a string and turning the peg with steady fingers. The same fingers that had traced the line of Charlotte’s jaw as they’d kissed in her bed. The ones belonging to the woman was in her Interpersonal Relationships lecture.
Charlotte’s breath caught.
She couldn’t be thinking like this. Not about a student.
Sam shifted beside her, resting her chin in her palm, her eyes on the stage. “See what I mean?” Sam said.
Charlotte couldn’t answer. Her mouth was open, but nothing was there.
Taylor adjusted the microphone, a slow, easy smile spreading across her lips as she looked out over the small crowd.
“How is everyone doing tonight?” Taylor asked into the mic, her voice carrying easily through the low hum of the room. “I’m going to play for you for the next hour or two, depending on how it goes.”
A gentle ripple of laughter drifted through the bar.
“My name’s Taylor Morgan,” she said, her hand settling against the soundboard as she found her first chord on the neck. “And I hope you enjoy these first few covers.”
Taylor struck a rich, resonant chord that hummed straight through the wooden floorboards.
Charlotte sat frozen, her hand still gripping the wine glass. Her pulse pushed hard at the base of her throat.
Sam had a crush on her.
The thought moved through her slowly, like something too large to process all at once. Sam sat inches away, completely transfixed by the twenty-seven-year-old student Charlotte had abandoned in a beach town apartment.
She needed to stand up.
To excuse herself, to step outside, to let the cool night air do something useful.
But any movement would draw Sam’s attention, or worse, pull Taylor’s eyes from the stage to hers.
Sam leaned in again, her warm exhale brushing Charlotte’s cheek. “Even her speaking voice...”
The words landed somewhere low and wrong. Charlotte’s jaw tightened before she could stop it. There was something hot and irrational moving through her now, not grief, not panic, something uglier and more embarrassing than either of those, and she had absolutely no right to it.
14
The last chord faded, and Taylor let her fingers rest against the strings, feeling the vibration hum through the wood and up her arms. She smiled at the applause, thanking them for being a great audience, and stepped down from the stage, her boots thudding softly on the worn floorboards. Her skin still buzzed from the set, the way it always did after singing, like every nerve ending had been tuned to a higher frequency.
She’d seen Charlotte two songs in.
Not at first. She’d been lost in the opening verse of that old Joni Mitchell cover, eyes closed, fingers finding the familiar patterns without thought. But then she’d glanced up during the bridge and caught sight of her, towards the back of the room, with another woman, half-turned toward the stage, wineglass in hand, eyes on her.
Taylor’s throat had tightened around the next line, but she’d kept going, kept her voice steady, even as her stomach flipped.
Now, offstage, she forced herself not to look over.
She shouldn’t be happy about this. She shouldn’t even benoticing. Charlotte was her professor. End of story. But her body hadn’t gotten the memo. Her skin remembered Charlotte’shands, her mouth, the low, broken sounds she’d made in her bed.
And now here she was, sitting on the other side of the bar, looking so tempting in a crisp blouse, laughing at something the woman beside her said.
