Page 21 of Love & Notes

“You’re absolutely not here.” He confirms. "You're in a world of your own."

He is correct.

I am in Practice Room C with a certain violinist playing on my mind—a girl in black sweats looking at me across a Steinway like I am the most infuriating, magnetic thing in the room. I can’t find the exit from that specific memory, no matter how much whiskey I pour down my throat to drown it out.

I am the absolute hypocrite of the century. Sitting here in the exclusive corner of an upscale lounge, casually telling my friend to stay cool, while Ellise Vance has me completely, violently unhinged.

The realisation doesn’t sit well.

“Another round, Thorne?”

I blink, tearing myself from the memory as Theo appears over the edge of the velvet booth, already gesturing at my tumbler with his own empty glass.

Theo. The next Alexander Hamilton. He’s a second-year, too but a drama major who genuinely believes the role is his calling, and he’s currently just waiting around for Lin-Manuel Miranda to realise it.

With his dirty-blonde hair falling loose in surfer-like waves around his face, Theo looks less like a Broadway hopeful and more like he casually walked off a Malibu beach. He’s a real catch with the ladies—even more than me. A guy that could charm the front-row theatre girls with only a single wink.

Right now, he’s leaning against the booth like he owns the place.

Around us, the lounge is getting progressively louder. It’s too crowded and too suffocating. I need to get out of here.

“I’m good.” I push the crystal away, “Think I’m calling it a night.”

Theo looks down at me, his eyes narrowing in the dim light before a slow smirk spreads across his face. He’s heard the rumours. Of course he has. Everyone in this place probably has by now.

“No fucking way, Thorne. It’s still early.” He leans in. “What’s going on? Is it that violin chick? The scholarship girl? Word is that Mathias put you two in a duet together for the Spring Showcase?"

Fuck sake. It’s already spreading through the Academy like wildfire.

I cut him a glance. He reads the warning correctly and raises both hands, backing down. “Just saying.”

“Don’t.” I snap.

He manages to keep his mouth shut for roughly three seconds. “She’s actually really good though. From what I’ve heard, anyway. Bit uptight, but—”

Before he can dig any deeper, the front door of the lounge opens with a rush of October wind, and Nancy bounds in.

She spots me immediately, her hazel eyes locking onto mine across the busy lounge. I watch half the guys in this place turn their heads as she passes, their eyes tracking her every step.

Nancy doesn’t give a single one of them a second glance.

Her attention stays pinned strictly on me.

Nancy is a soloist with Belrose’s elite ballet division. A prima ballerina in the making who moves through the world as if every surface were a stage designed specifically for her. She is exactly what I need right now—the perfect distraction.

We have an arrangement.

It’s nothing complicated or serious, just two people from the same world passing time with no expectations—which is the only kind of arrangement I have ever been interested in, with anyone. She understands completely because she is, in most respects, exactly like me.

She slides into the leather booth right next to me, her movements elegant and perfectly practiced. Her thighs press against mine immediately. Her hand cold from the outside air, slides up the collar of my shirt to find the sensitive skin at the back of my neck with a practiced familiarity.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Her glossy lips graze my ear, her breath hot against my skin. She smells like expensive gin and amber perfume. It’s intoxicating, a scent designed to make a man forget his own name. But tonight my brain plays a sickening trick on me.

The scent of vanilla flashes through my mind—completely uninvited. The blonde hair against my shoulder turns to lush chestnut waves and a defiant bow.

I don’t pull away from Nancy. I force my eyes shut and let her fingers anchor me to the present.

“So, where were you?” she asks. “I’ve messaged you three times.”