“Don’t tempt me.” God knows I used to fantasize about pecking the heck out of him as a child, long before I’d learned what real kissing was like. “Just a preteen dream of mine, that’s all. Probably for the best I don’t. Even in a dream, it’s not really fair to the guy I’m talking to.”
It may have been wishful thinking, but I thought I saw a glint of disappointment before Oliver chuckled and shook his head. “I’m beginning to think my manager lied to me about the perks of stardom. He didn’t mention anything about girls turning me down.”
“Not used to it?” I smiled and picked up my backpack. “I really do need to go, but maybe I’ll see you around, Oliver.”
I spun around on the spot and headed toward the door as I shot off a text to Teresa to let her know I was on my way.
“Emma?” I looked over my shoulder at the sound of Oliver’s voice. He’d gotten up and was leaning against the piano, offering a small smile that felt like we shared a secret. “I’m glad you’re here.”
My smile mirrored his. “Me too.”
I floated the rest of the way to the coffee cart.
It was a good thing Scott had my regular order memorized, because my mind was still up in the fourth-floor music room.
CHAPTER12
A Deal
Dear Diary,
It’s been almost a week since I met Oliver Bishop in the flesh, and I’ve dreamed about him every night since. In last night’s episode, we were considering investing in a rustic coffeehouse together (I’m guessing he was footing the bill?) but got lost on our way to tour it. There were winding roads and abandoned gas stations and maps written in hieroglyphics. We stopped for coffee and cheeseburgers, then his car got stuck in a ditch and I spilled my coffee.
That can’t be a good omen, right?
Maybe it was a fluke since I only slept a few hours after tutoring Little Miss Demon Spawn Angela Avarde in the ways of piano. After spending most of the night wrestling her Dubble Bubble out of my hair, I wrote Mrs. Avarde a very stern, official warning that if I didn’t desperately need the forty dollars they paid me per hour, I’d quit in a heartbeat.
The email is still sitting in my drafts folder, but it made me feel a little better to type it out.
Oh crap. If I don’t leave now, I won’t have time to get coffee before Music Theory.
Bye!
Emma
* * *
Walking into Music Theory Wednesday morning in a brown bucket hat wasn’t ideal, but it was the only hat I could find—courtesy of my hall’s resident assistant, who went fishing with her father. My hair was nowhere near ready to be seen after a night’s long battle with gum and peanut butter.
I feared it might never recover.
Slade was quickly losing his legendary aura in my presence, especially when he surprised us with a pop quiz. Was I ready for a quiz? No. Should I have been ready? Probably. Had I been too busy getting gum out of my hair and cursing a child, who still had her baby teeth, to study? I’d rather not comment.
So, it shouldn’t have been a surprise that my mind completely blanked after Blaise handed out the quizzes. Musical terms were basically a foreign language, and I struggled my way through three pages of somewhat educated guesses. Fifteen minutes later, Blaise walked around to collect them, and I focused on my coffee. I couldn’t even look at Slade when he took to the podium; I was too embarrassed. Hadn’t I promised the man I wouldn’t let him down?
Professor Slade cleared his throat as he accepted the quizzes from Blaise. “You can use the rest of lecture today to meet with your partners for your duet project. I strongly advise you establish a plan to meet outside of class as well, since allotted class time to work on your duet will be rare. I’ll grade your quizzes during class, and Blaise will hand them back as they’re ready. You’re free to leave once you have your quiz back and a plan in place.”
I let my head fall to rest against the cool wood of the desk as dread pooled in my stomach. Noah was the last person I wanted to see my current hair predicament, but it wasn’t long before I heard the sound of a chair squeaking against the floor in front of me.
“Late night?”
“You could say that,” I mumbled against the desk.
Noah hummed. “I didn’t take you for the partying type.”
I frowned and got an unwelcome sniff of disinfectant. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
There was a weighted pause before he answered. “Nothing.”
