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.”
That meant I couldn’t say “No,” and she knew it.
“Fine,” I told her. “Anything else?”
“Ask Connor.”
I stopped dead by the main doors. “What? We’re not—”
“Not as a date! God, imagine that. No, Darrell’s inviting some of the high society types, and apparently about eighty percent of them are female. It used to be balanced out by the NuclearKillDeathSquad but he’s cut the cord with them now. Natasha’s worried we’ll be short on men.” NuclearKillDeathSquad was Jasmine’s shorthand for the defense industry executives who used to be Darrell’s whole life.
“Why does she want Connor? I thought those society women were all twigs in Prada. Are you sure they’re going to mix well with—”