Page 27 of Naz & Roz

“You do need to get your focus on track,” her mother said.

“Agreed,” her father grumbled.

Roz shook her head. “I am on track.”

That was a lie.

She wasn’t able to focus at all when she sat down at the piano. Her mind was elsewhere. On the last text he sent. On the next one that might come through. The sound of his voice first thing in the morning. The way it still felt like his hand was holding hers, or that his kiss was on her lips days later.

Yeah, her focus was somewhere. But it certainly was not on the piano, or properly finishing the piece for the audition.

No doubt, it hadn’t escaped her parents’ notice. How could it when up until this point, nearly all of Roz’s life had been dedicated to being the world’s best pianist. She hadn’t even bothered with making friends because friends meant time away from music, and practice, and everything.

“Sure,” her mother said softly. “Just do what you need to do, yes? Whatever is best for you, sweetheart. We’re going to support you no matter what. That’s what we’re here for. Isn’t that right, Zeke?”

Katya passed her husband a look, and then Roz’s father sighed with a nod.

“That’s always been the case,” her father said. “Whatever you need, Roz. You know that.”

“Okay, so this morning … I need to go to breakfast without being made to feel guilty that I am having a life that doesn’t involve me sitting on a piano bench.”

There, she said it.

Let them make of it what they wanted.

Zeke grunted under his breath as something outside the window caught his attention. At the same time her phone buzzed, and a horn beeped outside, her father said, “Have a good breakfast, Roz.”

Her phone said the same thing the beep of the horn essentially did, too. Naz was there, and waiting.

“Thank you, Daddy.”

Zeke smiled. “Looks like Naz is here.”

“And for once,” Luca muttered, digging into his plate again, “he’s not here for me.”

“Okay,” Roz drawled, giving her brother a glare that he couldn’t even see, “that’s enough of this. I’ll see you all later.”

“Be safe,” her father called at her back.

“Zeke!”

“What, Katya?”

“Knock it off.”

Her father’s resounding grumble echoed behind Roz, but she just grinned and kept on walking. Grabbing her bag, a light jacket, and slipping on a pair of ballet flats at the door, she quickly exited the house.

And there he was.

Dark slacks.

White dress shirt.

Leather jacket.

And leaning against a BMW F 800 like the sportsbike was a fucking accessory on his arm or something. The black bike was all sleek lines, and hard curves. A lot like the man resting next to it with a lazy smile, and holding a helmet in both hands.

“Good, you wore jeans,” he said. “I didn’t want to tell you to change.”