In Harmony (Fenbrook Academy #2)(11)
Author: Helena Newbury

There was only one problem.

“What are you going to play?” Harman asked.

I’d been giving this some thought. There was absolutely nothing written for cello and electric guitar—I’d looked—so it would have to be….

“Original composition,” I told him.

I could feel Connor’s eyes on me. I hadn’t shared that little gem with him.

“So, in addition to all the rehearsals, you’re going to compose the music as well?” Harman asked.

“Correct,” I told him, with no idea how we were going to do it.

He sighed, but wrote it in the book. I could feel the tension in my stomach unwind a single notch. We were in.

Now all we had to do was pull it off.

***

Later that morning, we had our first rehearsal. I knew that, since we hadn’t even started composing yet, we couldn’t really rehearse. I just figured we should get together and play, and exchange ideas. Mostly, I just wanted to get a feel for what it was going to be like to work together.

He let me go into the practice room first, which was surprisingly polite and gentlemanly of him. But it meant that when he squeezed in, I didn’t have anywhere to go. And then, when he had to come even further into the room so he could get the door closed behind him, he was pushed right up against me, just like when he’d caught me on the steps what seemed like weeks ago.

We stared at each other, my head level with his chest, my face upturned to him. I was close enough to feel his body heat, and it seemed to radiate from him like a furnace. “Sorry,” I said, even though it wasn’t my fault.

He closed the door and finally stepped back. Then I had to get my cello out of its case. Backing up with it in my arms, I felt my ass brush against his groin, my hair stroke his stubbled chin. “Sorry,” I said again.

And then the strangest sensation, like my hair had lifted just fractionally, and then fallen again. Like something had sucked a few strands of it upwards. Did he just smell my hair?

No, don’t be stupid. Or if he did, he meant it as a joke. He’s playing with you. Just ignore it. I turned and promptly tripped over the cable he’d stretched across the room to power his amp. I caught myself, but his hands were already on my waist, so big they felt like they could almost encircle it.

“I’m fine, thank you,” I said, and I said it so quickly it sounded like I was snapping at him. “I mean: thank you. Sorry.” I was blushing and trembling like an idiot. What was wrong with me? I’m just nervous.

We finally sat down, no more than three feet separating us. He cranked his amp down to almost its lowest setting, so as not to drown me out.

“So,” he asked. “How are we going to do this?”

I took a deep breath. “We’ll divide the recital into five sections—two minutes per section, so ten minutes total. For each section, one of us will do the melody, the other will do the harmony. I’ll lead three, you lead two.”

He was grinning. “How about I lead three and you lead two?”

We’d have to compose the parts we led and then give them to the other person so that they could learn the harmonies. The more I let him lead, the more he had to compose and the more reliant I was on him. “Just trying to save you work,” I told him. “I hate to remind you, but we have to get your grades up, too. Let me take more of the composition.”

His smile tightened. “I want to do more of the composition.”

Because you think you’re better? He really was arrogant…but I couldn’t afford to make him angry. “You know what? How about we just make it six sections. Three each. How’s that?” Does that satisfy your ego?

He smiled sweetly. “Perfect.”

“I’m serious about the grades, though. We’re going to need to look at how we can—”

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s play.”

And he was off and strumming and I fell silent. Partially it was the shock of how little importance he seemed to attach to his grades; mostly, it was what was coming out of the amp.

When he’d played in the bar he’d been singing, too. His playing had been great, but it had been just an accompaniment, most of his mind on the words. Now, with nothing to distract him, he could really let loose. It was like a tapestry woven from rich, sweet notes and shot through with threads of crisp magic. I assumed he was playing from memory, because surely no one could be that confident on the fly.

I picked up my bow and tried to follow. At first, it was like trying to coax a huge battleship around a nimble, darting speedboat, and I broke off again and again, my nerves getting worse. But then I saw an opportunity and went for it, and once my harmony was there it added depth to his flighty melody, giving it a whole new feel.

This could work, I thought. This could actually sound pretty good.

And then it came apart, him shifting before I was ready and me screeching with my bow. “Sorry,” I said instinctively.

“You say that a lot,” he told me. “You’re one of those people who spend their life apologizing.”

“Sor—” I caught myself.

“You shouldn’t be sorry. You have nothing to be sorry for.” He was looking at me very intently, and I noticed his eyes again. It was dim in the practice room, the aging bare bulb painting the walls with shadows rather than actually lighting anything up. Those blue-gray chips of ice seemed to almost glow, they were so pale and clear. A little part of me was beginning to see what Jasmine had seen, what the girls who giggled and swooned for him saw.

I looked at his tattoo, and wondered if Ruth had been one of those girls, and what had happened that he’d had to leave her behind. “Is she in Ireland?” I wondered.

Then I realized I’d said it out loud.

He looked down at his arm. “Yes,” he said.

“It’s none of my business—”

“And yes, it’s her in the song. We broke up a few months ago. Before the song; after the tattoo.”

I nodded, and didn’t know where to look.

“Can I ask you something?” he asked.

“Of course!” Like I had any interesting stories about ex-boyfriends and names tattooed on my body.

“Why’s the New York Phil such a big deal?”

I opened my mouth, about to say a lot of things. I had plenty of responses, practiced since I was a kid, about how they were one of the most renowned in the world, about how it would take my career to places otherwise out of reach, about how—

“It’s all I’ve ever wanted,” I told him, the words surprising me as much as him.

He was silent for a moment. “All?” he said at last.

I nodded. “All.”

“Well, we’d better get this right, then,” he said. And he grinned, and something inside me that I hadn’t realized had been tensed unwound. It was as if his smile made everything okay, reassured me in ways that words never could.

I smiled back, and then thought that I probably looked like an idiot so wiped it quickly off my face. What was going on? Where was the brash, arrogant Connor I’d known—and avoided—for three years?

To cover myself, I pulled out the calendar I’d made and unfolded it. I saw him blink in surprise.

“My lessons are pink. Yours will be blue—obviously.”

“Obviously,” he said, straight-faced.

“Ones we have together are purple, because—”

“It’s pink and blue mixed. I’m not that stupid.”

I looked across at him, unsure if he was joking. “I didn’t mean—”

“Go on.”

“Rehearsals are green. And we should mark out some study time for me to help you. Maybe in red.”

He went quiet for a second. Then: “Can we keep red for when we fuck?”

I actually jerked as if stung and then stared at him, thinking I’d misheard. “What?”

The arrogant Connor I knew was back. He sprawled back in his chair, guitar slung casually down by his side. “Well, it’s pretty much inevitable, isn’t it?”

I took out a blue pencil and thrust it at him, part of me wanting to bury it in his chest. “Mark out your lessons.”

He stared at me and then took it. “The ones I have, or the ones I actually show up for?”

I closed my eyes. “You need to show up for all of them! If they kick you out, you can’t do the recital. If you flunk, I flunk!”

He stared at me for a second longer, and then started to fill in squares. “We’re like two escaped convicts. Like in the movies, where they were chained together.”

Our fates are one, I thought with a groan. Just as I’d been warming to him—only a little, of course—he’d reverted to his true personality. And now I couldn’t simply walk away—I was trapped working with him.

I picked up my bow and started work on the rough foundations of the first of my sections. As I played and he filled in squares on the calendar, I swore I felt his eyes on me and let my hair hang down to hide the flush in my cheeks. He’s probably winding up for another joke about sleeping with me, I thought. But it never came.

***

Two hours of practice went by surprisingly quickly. By the end of it I had some rough ideas and needed to sit down with manuscript paper and a pencil. The next stage would take some time, so we agreed to meet in a week, when I’d composed my first section and he’d composed his.

I’d said I’d do lunch with Jasmine, and she was waiting outside when I came out of the practice room. I shooed her away before Connor came out behind me. The last thing I wanted was for Jasmine to get involved with him—things were complicated enough already.

I couldn’t stop her casting a glance back into the room at him, though, as he wound up the cable for his amp. “Cute,” she whispered in my ear.

I towed her off down the stairs.

When we were out of earshot, she asked, “So, how was Mr. Irish Eyes?”

I shook my head. “Arrogant. An idiot. Well, most of the time.”

“Most of the time?”

“All of the time. He fooled me into thinking he might be…you know, normal for a minute, but as soon as I talked about classes he went straight back to jerk.”

“I have something that’ll cheer you up.” I realized Jasmine was even bouncier than usual.

“What?” I asked cautiously, hoping that she hadn’t set me up with someone again.

“Darrell and Natasha are throwing a party this weekend. And you can’t complain because it’s not a weed and beer party, it’s your sort of party. Champagne and canapés.”

“That’s not my sort of party, that’s Clarissa’s sort of party.” I wondered if I even had a party type.

“Don’t quibble. Saturday night. I’ll borrow a dress for you from Clarissa.” She looked down at her chest. “She’s more…your size. And we’ll all come round to your apartment in the afternoon to help you.” She gasped in sudden delight. “We can give you a makeover!”

“I don’t need a—”

“Think of it as my way of paying you back for the money.”