Hazel eyes framed by dark lashes met mine with a flicker of surprise.
“A pen?” he asked with the most miniscule amount of surprise. “You’d like a pen?”
“I forgot mine,” I said, tacking on a sheepish smile. He still hesitated, both unrelenting eyes locked on mine as I fought the urge to fidget. What was the big deal? It wasn’t like I’d asked for his underwear. “I just need to borrow one, and I promise to return it after class.”
Slowly—as if he were doubting my intentions—Noah picked up the shiny pen closest to him before holding it out in a wary offering. Completely weirded out by this point, I snatched it out of his hand with a quick word of thanks and turned to my open notebook.
Doodles of hearts and treble clefs took over the page. I added a quick note of the date as Professor Slade barked out a few more names. Noah’s pen glided smoother than butter, and I considered myself thoroughly impressed.
“Fox, Emma.”
Showtime.
“I’m here,” I said confidently while raising a hand, despite knowing he wouldn’t look up. My focus was concentrated on Noah anyway, watching for his reaction.
It was a whole lot of nothing—he didn’t even glance over—and the Jane Austen side of me wasn’t very impressed.
I focused on doodling a new heart, still amazed by how easily Noah’s pen glided across the page. It registered with me why he’d been so skeptical to share such an instrument.
I was tempted to keep it.
“That’s everyone. Thank you for doing yourselves a favor and showing up today.” Professor Slade stole my attention back as he surveyed the room. “Make no mistake, that was the easiest step. During your time with me, we’ll be studying the melody, rhythm, and diatonic tonal harmony both in four voices and in instrumental textures. There will be an emphasis on rudiments of music, voice leading, harmonic progression, and elemental melodic forms. This is a required course for all music majors, and you’ll be seeing me again next year for the second part of this theory sequence.”
A couple quiet groans sounded from the back row, and I fought not to join in. Music Theory wasn’t exactly my forte. I usually just played whatever songs I liked the sound of. All of the mumbo jumbo technical stuff sounded like a foreign language… probably because a good portion of itwasforeign words.
“By the end of this course, you’ll be expected to identify and write all elements of the fundamentals of music,” Slade said. He flattened both hands against the podium. “We’ll cover the seventeenth through nineteenth centuries. Grading will consist of quizzes on the text material as well as ongoing projects. Your final exam will be a performance with an emphasis on your composition and execution of an original thirty-two-measure work.”
I glanced around the room along with everyone else, nibbling on a fingernail. Performances wouldn’t be a problem; I’d been raised to perform. My parents sold my soul to the piano gods before I’d lost my first baby tooth. As a child, I could jam to Beethoven and Bach with the best of them. But playing myownwork in front of others? Slight problem, Houston. My fingers produced a lovely sheen of sweat as they clung to the pen like a lifeline.
Slade smiled and crossed his arms. “But this music program is also known for its collaboration, so we’ll be introducing a unique new aspect to the project this year. You’ll be composing and performing in pairs.”
My stomach dropped.
A duet?
Oh no.
“Partners will be posted at the end of class. Now, please open yourTonal Harmonybooks to page ten, and we’ll begin…”
Dread pooled in my stomach. How was I supposed to articulate my musical thoughts well enough to compose a piece with someone, let alone work with them for an entire semester?
Flipping open the textbook, which weighed more than a bowling ball, I managed to dutifully follow along with the class for the first four pages before finding a topic worthy of taking notes. I stopped nibbling nervously—not the best habit—and turned to a blank page in my notebook. Pen poised,Tonal Harmonyopened to a chapter on the elements of pitch, and brain one hundred percent focused on all things music. I couldn’t refrain from jolting in horror as I trapped Noah’s pen in a death grip.
Holy macaroni.
Teeth marks glared back at me from where I’d chewed on two inches of the beautiful instrument. Little dents and saliva coated the cap, and I focused on deep breathing as my hands shook. My fingernail looked barely touched. I was officially the idiot of the century.
Something told me Noah Kincaid wouldn’t appreciate his fancy pen being turned into a chew toy.
CHAPTER3
A Coffee
It wasn’twhat I’d expected from my first Music Theory lecture.
For one thing, I thought I’d actually be paying attention to the professor I idolized. Instead, I spent the next forty minutes vaguely listening to a legendary composer’s wise words while internally freaking out over the bite marks on Noah’s prestigious pen. Unfortunately, I’d been so distracted wondering if those deadly hazel eyes of his would glare me to death that I’d unintentionally nibbled on it a few more times out of nerves.
Luckily, Noah didn’t glance my way even once during the entire lecture.
