Chapter Three
Half step: the smallest interval, or distance, between two notes in Western music. On a piano keyboard, a white key and a black key are a half step apart, as are the two white keys without a black key between them.
Whole step: an interval consisting of two half steps
Damian
Sunlight streams through the wall of glass windows into the lobby of the music building, illuminating Charlie standing alone next to a grouping of chairs, pacing slowly and nibbling on her thumbnail. She hasn’t seen me yet, and I stop in the opening of the carpeted hallway to take her in. Her head is tilted down, her gaze on the terrazzo tile of the lobby, but her short hairstyle leaves her profile visible. She has her glasses on, her lips painted a deep red, a sharp contrast to her pale skin and the muted earth tones of her clothes—a long, rust-colored top over skinny jeans and brown knee-high boots, the strap of a leather messenger bag crossing her torso. The sun glints off a shiny pendant hanging on her chest, the one flashy thing about her outfit. But she doesn’t need jewelry to sparkle. She does that all on her own.
Adrenaline spikes in my bloodstream, kicking my heartbeat to a higher tempo. Some part of me half expected her to not be here. I’d dawdled after Strings Seminar, hoping to give her enough time to get here so I wouldn’t be standing around waiting for her like an idiot. Which I’m making her do right now.
Wiping suddenly sweaty hands down my thighs, I clear my throat and take a step onto the tile. Her head snaps up, and her eyes meet mine. She drops her hand from her mouth, and a smile spreads across her lips as she steps toward me. I love seeing her smile. “Hey. How’d your seminar go? Did you play today?”
Her voice has that husky quality it sometimes gets right now that sends a little electric shock down my spine. The best kind. “Not today. Next week.”
“Cool. What are you going to play?” Her pale blue eyes have a ring of navy around the rim, and her pupils are tightly contracted against the sunshine, allowing me an unfettered view of the feathery patterns in her irises as she gazes up at me.
“The Dvořák cello concerto.”
“Oh.”
My smile grows wider. “Haven’t heard it?”
Her eyes drop from mine. “Uh, no. Not yet.”
“Maybe I’ll play it for you tonight. After we play together.”
She meets my gaze again, her smile bright. “I’d like that.” We stare at each other for a second, my attention captured by her eyes again. She clears her throat and glances outside, her fingers skimming over the top of her ear like she’s pushing her hair back. “I’m starved. Ready to get dinner?”
“Right. Yeah. Dinner. Of course.” The smile she once again directs my way has me stumbling over my words like a moron, but she doesn’t seem to notice or care.
She turns and heads for the doors that face the center of campus. I’m surprised, since the main parking lot is at the end of the building, but I catch up quickly, my long legs eating up the distance between us in a few strides. “You scored a spot over here?”
“What?” She glances up at me as she pushes the door open.
I catch it above her head and prop it open for her, following her out. “You parked on the side?” I tilt my head to the left. “I usually park over on the end. I was running late and had to park out at the back of the parking lot.”
Her laugh trips across my nerves, pleasure flaring at the sound. I’d love nothing more than to listen to that laugh all night. “No.” She shakes her head. “I’m parked over there too. Probably as far out as you, since I got here in the middle of the main performance seminars. We piano performance majors have our seminar in the recital hall on Tuesday afternoons while you’re in orchestra rehearsal. Since we have to be available to accompany everyone else.”
“Are you accompanying anyone yet?”
She shakes her head, a grimace twisting her berry-colored lips. “Terrible technique, remember?”
I chuckle at the pained expression on her face that I know isn’t real because of our conversation last night. “In all honesty, it can’t be that terrible. Otherwise you wouldn’t have been admitted. Or gotten the standard scholarship offer.”
She looks away, her hand curling around the pendant of her necklace. “Right. True.” Then she smiles at me again, and whatever question I was going to ask about her weird reaction flies away. “Anyway, we were going to dinner. I usually eat in the campus center. Is that not what you had in mind?”
With a bark of laughter, I shake my head, daring to place my hand on the small of her back to guide her toward my car. She stiffens under my touch, just a little, but I notice and quickly drop my hand. “Sorry.”
She shakes her head. “No, it’s fine. I’m sorry. I just … It’s, um …”
Her face looks troubled, and I jump in, not wanting to make her feel like she needs to defend herself. “Don’t worry about it. I didn’t mean to startle you. But no. I didn’t intend to take you to eat in the cafeteria. We said this was a date, right? Dinner and making music. Maybe a little unconventional as dates go, but I think it sounds perfect.”
“I think it’s perfect too.” She bumps my arm with her shoulder, relaxed once more. “Everything about me is unconventional. Why would I want a conventional date anyway?”
“Right. Exactly. But there’s no way I’m taking a date to the cafeteria for dinner.”
She laughs again. “Got it. No cafeteria. So where are we going?”
Glancing down at her, my smile is irrepressible. Even if I wanted to hold it back, there’s no way I’d be able to. Not with her. I don’t know what she sees in me that she likes, but the way she’s smiling and laughing with me, I’m not going to overthink it and ruin this. Not even my date with Lauren started off this well, and I’d been over the moon when she’d agreed to go out with me. I hadn’t realized at the time that she’d meant it as something platonic.
This, though? The way she keeps looking up at me, the smile stretching across her lips, how close she’s walking next to me? Nothing about this screams platonic to me.
“How do you feel about Mexican food?” I slide the key in the lock of the passenger door of my beat-up Subaru and open it for her. My car’s old and seen better days, but it still runs great, and the hatchback means I have plenty of room to haul my cello around.
She waits for me to fold myself into the driver’s side before answering my question. “I like it.”
“Good. I know a great place. Locally owned.”
“Cool. Is it one of those places where they know you and what you always order before you even sit down?”
I chuckle, looking behind me before pulling out of the parking spot. “Something like that. Maybe not for everyone, but they know me that well.”
A quick glance at her reveals raised eyebrows and a tiny smile, calling my attention to her mouth again. Those lips are going to be the death of me. I force my gaze back to the road, both so I don’t crash and so I don’t miss whatever she says.
“You go there that often?”
God, I can’t stop smiling. “Well, it happens to be owned by my uncle. I used to work there. Still do sometimes when I need extra cash or they’re short staffed if I have the time.”
“Wow, that’s cool. I’ve known a few restauranteurs in California. It’s nice to have an in at a good place.”
“Uh, I’m not sure I’d go so far as to call my uncle a restauranteur, but he’s good at what he does. And it is nice to always know I can get in whenever I want. As long as I don’t mind the third degree.”
Soon, I pull into the cracked and pitted asphalt parking lot of Marco’s Cantina, a rectangular brick building with a faded yellow and red sign and neon glowing in the windows. “Here we are. It doesn’t look like much, but the food is delicious. And they serve house-made tortilla chips. The best in town.” I gesture at the vinyl banner hanging on the door that shows they were voted Spokane’s best Mexican restaurant the last three years.
She flashes me a big smile as she unbuckles, apparently not needing my reassurance. “This is great. I love finding hole-in-the-wall places. They’re usually the best.” She waves a hand. “Michelin starred restaurants have good food, but they’re so stiff and formal that they’re not very fun. I mean, don’t get me wrong, sometimes it’s nice to be fancy, but I prefer to keep those to like once a month or so. This looks perfect.” And she climbs out, leaving me blinking after her in shock for a second before scrambling out of the car to meet her around front. Gourmet restaurants once a month?
But I have no time to contemplate that because she’s headed for the door. At just after five o’clock on a Wednesday, only a few other cars occupy the parking lot. The midweek dinner rush is lighter and starts closer to six. At least it always did when I worked here with my uncle and his family.
I open the door for Charlie and, without thinking, place my hand on the small of her back again to guide her inside. It’s not until she glances at me over her shoulder and gives me another bright smile that I realize she didn’t stiffen at my touch this time. Which makes me smile back at her. Tonight is going to be perfect.