Jerica MacMillan's Blog, page 2
October 23, 2017
Double Exposition Chapter Three
ICYMI, here are Chapter One and Chapter Two.
Chapter Three
Jonathan
I pull out my phone at least ten times between this morning and seven o’clock to text Gabby and tell her I can’t make it to the recital tonight.
But I can’t come up with a good reason to give her.
Which is stupid, because if I’m honest with myself, the real reason I can’t cancel is because I want to go. I want to see her again.
She looked stunned when that chick announced who I am in the coffee shop. But she ignored my offer of an autograph, even though she admitted to being a fan. Then she played off the whole exchange like they were nosy new friends butting into our conversation. And practically ordered me to come to the recital tonight.
It’s an intriguing combination—innocence and bold confidence mixed together in one gorgeous package.
But shit. She’s just a freshman. Should I even go through with this? Pursue anything with her?
I want to. I want to see where this might lead. Because I haven’t felt this kind of connection, these kinds of sparks, in … maybe ever.
Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s something. Maybe we’ll burn hot and fast and turn to ash in a matter of weeks. Or maybe …
I push that thought aside. No sense getting ahead of myself.
So after eating a quick dinner at six, I take a shower and make an effort to dress up a little, putting on dark wash jeans and a button-down shirt, cuffing the sleeves since it’s still warm. Though at the tail end of August, the evenings are starting to get a little cooler, the breeze hinting at the oncoming fall. I find a parking spot at the end of the row in front of the entrance to the performing arts center. Stepping away from my car, I pocket my keys and straighten my sleeves.
Several people mill around in the lobby. A few of them glance my way as I open the door and step in, but I don’t notice any of them once my eyes land on Gabby.
Her hair is pulled back away from her face with some clips, but hangs loose down her back. And she has on skinny jeans and a shimmery light pink top that’s cut in a deep V halfway to her belly button, leaving the inside rise of her breasts visible. She faces the door, but her attention is on a girl next to her with auburn hair. The other girl looks up and sees me, then nudges Gabby, nodding my way.
Gabby looks up, her eyes traveling over me, and my breath hitches when her gaze collides with mine. I give her a smile, and her cheeks turn ever so slightly pinker.
But she smiles back, crossing the lobby to meet me in the middle.
“You made it.” Her voice is pitched low, the warm alto sliding down my spine like a caress. God, I love her voice. I thought it was perfect this morning, and I like it even more now, seeing her again.
“Did you think I wouldn’t show?”
Her gaze drops, and one bare shoulder lifts in a shrug. “I wasn’t really sure. But I’m glad you’re here.”
“Me too,” I murmur, stepping closer to her.
A throat clears next to us, and I blink, suddenly aware that we’re in a lobby. With other people. And her friend is standing to my left.
Gabby blinks too, like she’s equally surprised to realize her friend is there. Then her eyes clear, her smile turning more polite. “This is my roommate, Lauren. She’s a music major too.”
I give Lauren my signature smile, and the look she gives me in return is a cross between a sarcastic eyebrow lift and a dreamy smile. It’s an odd combination, turning my practiced smile into something more genuine. “Nice to meet you.”
“And it’s very nice to meet you.” She leans on the very, which makes me look at Gabby again.
“I take it you told her?”
She nods, looking a little chagrined. She spreads her hands in a helpless gesture. “I couldn’t help it. I had to tell someone. But don’t worry, Lauren’s good with secrets. Aren’t you, Lauren?” Her question has an edge of warning to it.
In response, Lauren mimes zipping her lips and throwing away the key.
Gabby chuckles and rolls her eyes. “Oh, good. That means she won’t talk for the rest of the night. Thank you, Jesus.”
“Hey!” Lauren protests and nudges Gabby in the shoulder. “Don’t be mean.”
Still laughing, Gabby turns to the entrance to the recital hall. “We should go get seats.”
Lauren follows her. “Yes! I can’t wait to hear the sound in this hall. I don’t think there’s a bad seat in the house.”
Hands in my pockets, unable to stifle the grin at their antics, I follow them into the recital hall. A blond guy in khakis and a green button-down shirt hands us programs as we file in. The door opens into an aisle that unevenly splits the audience, the smaller section on my left, the larger section on the right. It’s a small venue, intimate, with large, plush seats upholstered in light gray fabric. The stage is all blond wood, with the same wood paneling on the walls behind it. A grand piano sits in the center of the stage, a chair facing the audience in front of it.
Gabby leads us to an open row about halfway down on the right. Lauren goes in first, then Gabby, leaving the aisle seat for me. Even though there’s a generous amount of legroom, I appreciate the ability to stretch my legs a little more here.
We’ve apparently gotten seats just in time, because I barely have time to open my program and glance down, much less say anything to Gabby, before the house lights dim.
Soon after, the door at the back of the stage opens and polite applause starts. A tall, thin man carrying a cello and dressed all in black except for the red slash of his tie walks on stage from a door in the back. He’s followed by a woman with a streak of white along the front of her shoulder length hair, wearing all black as well, but her sequined top shimmers under the stage lights.
The man stands next to his chair and waits for the woman to take her place next to the piano. With a glance at each other, they bow low from the waist, acknowledging the applause, which tapers off. The man settles into his chair, adjusting the cello and messing with his bow. The pianist waits, her hands poised over the keys, a young woman I didn’t notice come in sitting in a chair on her other side.
At the cellist’s nod, the pianist starts to play, the notes filling the space in the recital hall. No amplification needed. You can hear all the nuances of the music, the changes in volume, the way the pianist and the cellist lean on certain notes, giving the music shape and substance. It’s beautiful and emotional, and I’m enjoying it more than I thought I would.
It’s different than I’m used to, that’s for sure.
My mom was going to be an opera singer until vocal nodes ruined her career, but she played opera for us growing up. She loves Verdi and all those Italian guys. So I’m not completely ignorant of classical music.
But it’s not something I go out of my way to experience these days.
I’m much more used to a different type of concert. More energy from the crowd.
The applause at the end is just as polite as it was at the beginning, though maybe a little louder. There are rules that everyone seems to know about how often to clap and for how long. I want to lean over and say something to Gabby, but her attention is focused on stage, and other than the rustling of programs and the sounds of people shifting in their seats, there’s silence between performers.
Weird.
At our concerts, there was always noise. Not the quiet rustlings of people waiting politely in their seats. No. Noise. Sound. Roaring crowds. Screaming fans. People jumping, moving, pounding their impatience on the floor, on the seats. The crazier ones trying to cross the barrier separating the audience from the stage. Thousands of voices singing together when you play their favorite songs.
It was exhilarating. Thrilling. The biggest rush ever.
These people all look like they’re about as excited to perform and the audience to listen as I feel attending a lecture. Polite interest. But that’s about it.
The chair in front of the piano is whisked away and the piano’s music shelf folded down. The polite clapping starts again as a different man comes and sits at the piano. He runs his hands through his dark hair, adjusting the height of the piano bench and testing the distance to the pedals, scooting back to make more room for his middle-aged paunch and longer legs.
The applause quiets down. This piece is much different than the cello one. Louder. Almost angry. His hands drift away from the piano after each strike of the keys, like they’re floating, the energy returning as he attacks again.
It’s fascinating. The difference between the performers and the audience. Between these performers and this audience and what I’m used to. Even the smallest venues we played weren’t this small, this silent. Even these days, when I only play for friends at house parties, there’s always something going on. When people clap, they whistle, they shout. They sing along to the songs that they know.
The recital is short, only an hour. A little over halfway through the program, the pianist and cellist from earlier return, along with another woman carrying a violin. Gabby leans over and whispers, “That’s my violin professor. She’s amazing.”
I make an effort to pay special attention as they play a piece by Clara Schumann, the short note underneath the piece in the program informing me that these professors take a special interest in compositions by female composers. Interesting.
But I’m distracted by the fact that Gabby never centers herself in her seat again after letting me know her professor is on stage. She stays close to me, leaning on the armrest between us, her shoulder brushing my arm. When she eventually shifts away, I follow, leaning closer, making contact between us once again. My arm now on the armrest, I let my hand hang off the end, my fingers brushing against her leg.
We exchange a glance, but she doesn’t move away. In fact, she seems to press her leg closer, making it easier for me to touch her. So I do.
For all it’s an innocent touch, in public, surrounded by a hundred other people, it lights me up.
When the last piece is finished—a brass quintet—all of the faculty members file out on stage, taking a bow together as the audience stands, one by one, giving them a standing ovation. Which is funny, since the audience didn’t seem especially carried away by the performance while it was going on, but whatever.
I stand too, glancing at Gabby, her program pinned under her arm as she claps, her face radiant in the low light.
The performers bow once more and file off through the door at the back. The house lights come up, and the space is finally filled with the quiet murmur of voices, people gathering their things and starting to make their way to the door. Gabby and Lauren are both looking around as though trying to find someone.
Lauren says, “There,” and points across the aisle toward the back and Gabby nods.
Reaching up, Gabby gives my arm a squeeze, her face turned up to mine. “We have to go get our programs signed so we get credit for being here. You can tag along, if you want, or we can meet you in the lobby?”
I give her a wide smile. “You didn’t want my autograph earlier, but you’ll get one of these tonight?”
Lauren gasps behind her. “You didn’t tell me he offered to give you an autograph,” she hisses.
Splitting her attention between me and her friend, Gabby looks a little flustered. “I didn’t think he was serious. And that wasn’t the point.”
“I’ll take your autograph,” Lauren says to me.
I open my mouth to respond, but Gabby hushes her friend. “Seriously? You promised you’d be cool. This is not being cool.”
“If he’s offering, I see no reason to turn him down. Wouldn’t that be rude?”
Gabby just shakes her head, giving me a look like see what I have to put up with? Tugging Lauren behind her, Gabby squeezes past me. “We’ll meet you in the lobby. I’m pretty sure I heard someone say there’s cake.”
She’s right. But I don’t find out right away, instead staying where I am, watching her chat with Lauren as they wait for the professor in the audience to sign their programs. Once they reach him, I move into the aisle, making my way to the door so I get to the lobby less than a minute ahead of them.
Someone is behind a table cutting a chocolate sheet cake with white frosting into squares for people to take. Gabby and Lauren head straight for the table, me trailing behind them. They balance their plates and programs on their hands, taking bites and conferring quietly. Then Lauren drifts away to talk to another group of students and Gabby turns her attention to me.
Her smile looks almost shy, and she moves to stand next to me, looking all around the room as though she isn’t sure what to say and hopes the clusters of people chatting and eating cake will provide some inspiration.
I wait, watching her. Taking perverse enjoyment in her sudden lack of confidence. She’s a study in contrasts.
The pieces of cake are small, and we both finish quickly. Turning to face me again, finally, she holds out her hand. “I’ll throw away your plate for you.”
I let her, waiting while she moves to a large trash can then comes back to me. Her cheeks are pink again, but she meets my eyes. “Um, I’d like to go put my program in my locker so I can turn it in tomorrow. The office is locked, or I’d do it now. Do you want to come with me? Or do you need to go?”
Arching an eyebrow, I ask the first question that comes to me. “You have a locker?”
She grins. “I know. Funny, right? It’s like high school all over again.” She starts to move to the hallway, expecting me to follow. “I asked my brother if other departments have lockers, and he looked at me like I was crazy. He said he had a locker in the locker room, but only because he was on the football team. And that if you have a PE class you might get one while you’re in that class for your workout clothes, but otherwise no. Most departments don’t give their students lockers. I haven’t seen them in any other buildings either. But I have to admit, it’s nice to be able to leave stuff here.” She laughs lightly, leading me upstairs to another hallway with a bank of lockers on one wall across from classroom doors.
They’re the half lockers like I had in middle school. She goes to one about halfway down on the top, twisting the dial to put in her combination, talking to me without glancing away. “I actually have two lockers. This one, and one for my violin downstairs off the rehearsal room.”
“Two lockers? In the same building.” I follow her, leaning my shoulder against a locker a couple feet away while I wait.
She looks up at me and grins. “I know, right? But it means I only have to take books with me when I have homework. And my violin is always where I need it to be. It’s not like I’m going to practice in the dorm. Could you imagine? Everyone would hate me.”
After slipping the program inside, she slams the door shut. When she turns and steps toward me, my eyes automatically go to her lips. They part on an indrawn breath, and I have this sudden, insane desire to kiss her.
But it’s too soon. A coffee this morning and sitting next to her at a recital? Straightening to my full height, I cross my arms and look around. “You know, they just opened this building last year. I haven’t even been in here before.”
“You want a tour?”
Looking at her again, I smile. “Sure.”
She gestures to the doors across from us. “These are two of the classrooms.” She points at the one closest to us. “This is the smart classroom. And that one’s the dumb one.” She points at the other door.
I let out a quick laugh. “The dumb classroom? Is that for the remedial classes or something?”
She grins, and I want to do whatever I can to keep her smiling as much as possible. “No. The smart classroom has all the technology. The other one doesn’t, so we call it the dumb one. It’s kind of a joke.”
I fall in step beside her as she leads me through the hallway where the professors have their studios, then to another hallway full of practice rooms. We head downstairs next, and she says, “You’ve already seen the lobby. The rest of the classrooms are in the basement.” She leads the way to another set of stairs and takes me down, showing me a room with mirrors on one wall, and then another room full of electric pianos. “That’s where I have my theory class. Sight Singing and Ear Training are upstairs.”
She stops and looks around, her bright expression turning more uncertain as she chews her lip, avoiding my eyes. “Well, um, I think that’s everything. You’ve already seen the recital hall.”
“It’s a nice building. Thanks for showing me around.” I take a step closer, drawn to her, but I stop when her eyes finally meet mine.
“Sure!” she chirps, her eyes sliding away again. “So, um, what do you want to do now?”
What do I want to do now? I’m not ready to leave yet. I want to spend more time with her, keep her talking, see if I can make her laugh some more. “It’s a nice night. How about a walk around campus?”
“That sounds good.” The chirpy quality is gone, and she seems more relaxed at my suggestion. I let her lead the way up the stairs and out the door. The recital crowd has dwindled, and now only a couple of people are left cleaning up the remains of the cake and putting away the table.
Gabby smiles and waves at one of the women before we head out the door. I take the lead, gesturing with my head in the direction I want to go. We walk side by side, and she chatters about her classes. She’s funny, telling stories about her English professor who thinks he belongs in Dead Poets Society. I know exactly who she’s talking about, I’ve had him too, but it’s funny to hear her talk about him. It’s dark out now, but the campus is well-lit enough that I can see her expressive face as she talks.
Our hands bump into each other a few times before I finally give in to the urge to wrap my fingers around hers.
Her sentence trails off and she stops talking, her eyes darting down to our interlaced fingers, then up to my face. I give her a quick smile and squeeze her hand. She smiles back, returning the squeeze. We walk in silence for a few more minutes while I lead her to my favorite place on campus. It’s not exactly a secret, but it’s a little off the beaten path, and there’s a bench almost hidden by a group of tall pine trees. It’s a little island of seclusion on the busy campus, and looks out over the city. The view at sunset is perfect, but the moonlight streaming down over the lights on the buildings is almost as magical.
“Wow.” Her voice is full of wonder. There aren’t any lamps here, but I can still make out her parted lips, her eyes looking all around. Woman impressed. Mission accomplished. And we get some time alone while still in a public setting. Which means I could kiss her before the night is over.
Then she says, “I had no idea this was back here. I haven’t explored campus much outside of the places I need to go for classes.”
And it hits me that she’s just a freshman. She’s only been here for a few weeks. And I’m graduating in May. Leaving.
What am I doing here?
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The post Double Exposition Chapter Three appeared first on Jerica MacMillan.
October 16, 2017
Double Exposition Chapter Two
In case you missed it, Chapter One is here.
Chapter Two
Gabby
I stare at Jonathan, eyes wide, the words “former boyband star” echoing through my head.
I gasp. “Oh my God.”
That’s why I recognize him.
It’s been bugging me since he sat down. And there was a moment when he gave me a smile that tugged at my memories. He’s doing it again, and now I know why that smile looks familiar.
I had it plastered on my wall when I was in middle school. A younger version of that face, that smile. Those intense green eyes.
“You’re …”
In case any doubt remained, Julia banished it completely when she finished my sentence. “Johnny B. Of Brash. I take it you were a fan, Gabby?”
I spare her a quick glance and a nod as I swallow hard, feeling stunned by this revelation. But I’m not so lost in my own surprise that I don’t catch the grimace that flickers across Jonathan’s—Johnny B’s?—face. He introduced himself as Jonathan. So I’ll keep calling him that. But oh my God.
My love affair with Brash started when I was twelve. They were my favorite band for longer than they were really around. I got their CD for my birthday and played it so much it started skipping. My brother, Lance, took pity on me and bought me the album on iTunes and gave me his old iPod so I could still listen to them as much as I wanted.
“Awww.” Emma’s voice cuts through my reverie, startling me out of my walk down memory lane. She continues in a stage whisper intended for everyone to hear, “I think our Gabby’s smitten.”
She’s right, but not for the reason she thinks. Or not only for the reason she thinks. After our conversation, I like him. This guy. Jonathan. That I’ve gotten to know, flirt with, discuss music and books with. The fact that he’s also my first celebrity crush isn’t the important thing here. It’s sort of an interesting side fact.
Jonathan shifts, looking uncomfortable. “Well, hey—“
I put my hand on his arm and turn to Julia and Emma, cutting him off before he can finish that sentence. His tone is too final sounding. Like he’s going to leave and never call me. “Why don’t y’all go ahead? I’ll catch up to you in a minute.”
Emma looks like she might protest, but Julia’s brown eyes bounce between me, Jonathan, and my hand on his arm. She nudges Emma, prodding her toward the door. “Alright. But don’t be late. I plan to raise your hand today and make a scene, see if I can get us to stick in Dr. Presley’s mind so he’ll quit looking on the opposite side of the room when he calls our names.”
I laugh at that. “Alright. I promise I’ll be there before class starts.” We’ve been sitting in the same spot since day one, and Julia’s last name, King, is right after mine, Kane, on the class list. But our professor can’t seem to remember where we are. She warned me on Tuesday that she was going to try to make us more memorable today. I guess now I know her plan.
She nods and ushers Emma away, leaving me alone with Jonathan again. With my hand still on his arm.
I let go of him as soon as I realize I’m still touching him and bring my eyes up to his.
He gives me that practiced smile again, but now his eyes are distant, shuttered, instead of interested and warm like they were before we got interrupted. Picking up his messenger bag, he settles it across his torso, making his T-shirt pull tight across his pecs, and clicks the pen still in his hand. “So you want me to sign something?”
The resigned, almost irritated quality of his voice makes me drag my eyes off his chest and back to his face. He has a nice chest. I was enjoying looking at it. His arms are nice, too, and I’ve noticed the way the sleeves of his shirt cling to his biceps when he moves. The way his forearms flex when he messes with the pen. I’ve noticed a lot about him, and I’d like the chance to notice it again. Which is why I didn’t mind him interrupting me doing my homework and claiming the empty chair at my table. And why I’m glad that the coffee shop was crowded when he came in.
But he seems irritated. And I’m not sure if it’s because of Julia and Emma or me. Or both.
I bite my lip and decide to pretend like what they said doesn’t matter. Because it mostly doesn’t. I was looking forward to seeing him again before they dropped that bomb. And that hasn’t changed.
With a deep breath, I give him my best smile. “Sorry about them. They’re kind of loud, but friendly enough.”
He crosses his arms, which distracts me again. Because, biceps. Forearms. Strong hands with long fingers, clicking that pen. “Oh, um, sure.”
I force my eyes to meet his again. “So, since you clearly need to expand your musical horizons, there’s a faculty recital tonight in the performing arts center. You should come. With me.” With great effort, I clamp my mouth shut, stemming the tide of babble that wants to erupt. When I’m nervous, I babble. And I just asked a guy out who’s really hot and I think he’s into me or I did until about thirty seconds ago and he was in the band that I loved as a young teenager and I had posters of him all over my room and memorized his answers in almost every magazine interview he gave and I kept those issues forever and they’re still in a box under my bed back home and oh my God oh my God oh my God.
He’s looking me up and down, almost squinting. “I’m sorry, what?”
Did I say some of that out loud? Oh God, I hope not. “What what?”
He places his hand on his chest. “I need to expand my musical horizons? Seriously?”
With a little shrug and a crooked grin, I adjust my backpack on my shoulder. “Well, you’ve never heard the Bach unaccompanied Sonatas and Partitas. Obviously you need a more thorough musical education.”
His mouth moves to one side, then he rolls his lips between his teeth like he’s fighting a smile. But he doesn’t answer, just looks me over again, like he’s wondering what the catch is.
I give a dramatic sigh and put my hand on my hip, checking the time on my phone. “Well, I have to go to class. I promised Julia I wouldn’t be late. The recital’s at seven thirty. I would’ve asked earlier if I knew you’d take this long to decide.” I nod to the paper still in his hand. “You have my number. Text me if you decide not to show. Otherwise, I’ll meet you in the lobby at seven fifteen.”
With one last smile, I turn, being sure to flip my hair like I’ve seen my older sister Marissa do a million times, and flounce out the door.
I force myself to keep walking until I know I’m out of sight of the coffee shop. And then I stop, sagging against a tree for a second, letting the reality of the last few minutes wash over me.
My roommate Lauren is going to die when I tell her about this. Since she doesn’t have a class right now, I briefly consider skipping mine to find her. But I promised Julia I wouldn’t be late. And it’s only the second week of classes. Skipping now seems like bad form.
With a deep, steadying breath, I push thoughts of Johnny B—Jonathan—away. For now.
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The post Double Exposition Chapter Two appeared first on Jerica MacMillan.
October 9, 2017
Double Exposition Chapter One
In music, the first movements of symphonies and concertos are usually written in sonata-allegro form. This form is made up of three parts: the exposition, which introduces the melody and moves away from the home key, the development, which morphs the melody into new and different forms of itself, and the recapitulation, which restates the melody and stays in the home key until the end.
In a concerto, the melody is usually introduced by the orchestra first, and then taken up by the soloist. This is known as a double exposition.
Chapter One
Jonathan
After paying for my coffee, I turn and survey the campus coffee shop. It’s crowded, not an empty table in sight.
I should’ve known better. It’s only the second week of classes. Everyone’s still getting into a rhythm, me included. There are three times when the coffee shop is guaranteed to be packed: the beginning of a semester, the week of midterms, and finals week. With six semesters already under my belt, I know this.
But I have a gap in my schedule on Tuesdays and Thursdays. It’s only ninety minutes, so not long enough to make going home worthwhile. I’ve meandered around campus during this hole last week and on Tuesday. Today I’d hoped to grab a coffee and a table and get through some reading for my Victorian Literature class with Dr. Rankin. She’s a ballbuster, and there’s no way to bullshit your way through her class discussions. But she’s also one of the best professors in the English department.
Resigned to finding a less comfortable spot on a bench outside, I grab my coffee when my order is called. But my attention snags on a fall of dark brown hair at a table in the corner. I can’t see her face from here, just the curve of her neck as she sweeps her long hair over one shoulder and bends back to whatever she’s working on, pencil in hand.
The chair across from her is empty. She’s engrossed in her homework, which I see is spread out over most of the table as I step closer. A textbook sits open on one side, and papers sprawl across the remaining real estate, with her coffee cup on top of a paper.
No matter. I just need a tiny circle of space to set my own coffee down. I can hold my book. It’s a paperback, nothing too heavy. We can do our homework in companionable silence, and I don’t have to scout out another place to work.
I have to clear my throat twice before she realizes I’m standing next to her. She has a pretty face—high cheekbones, a dusting of freckles over her nose, full, pink lips. But it’s her eyes that do me in. Large, brown, and scanning over every inch of me like I’m the best thing in this coffee shop. When they meet mine, the combination of mischief and curiosity steals my breath for a moment. I could lose myself in those eyes.
Her voice pulls me out of the spell her eyes have cast on me. “Can I help you?”
It fits her perfectly. A smooth alto, with a slight twang that means she’s not from here. The soft question from those kissable lips sends a surge of lust rushing through me.
When her dark eyebrows arch high over her hypnotic eyes, I realize I’m taking too long to answer. Clearing my throat, I gesture at the empty chair across from her with my cup. “Mind if I sit here? I need to get through some reading, and all the tables are full …”
She straightens, glancing around, and the movement causes her tank top to shift a little, pulling tight over the small, perfect mounds of her breasts.
I snap my eyes back to her face before she catches me checking her out.
She looks me over again, then shrugs. “Sure. Um, sorry, let me move some of my stuff. I wasn’t planning on sharing the table, so I sort of spread out.” She moves her coffee, shuffling her papers into a neater pile as I move the chair out as much as I can since it’s against the wall.
Squeezing into the seat, I set my cup down in the open space she’s created and give her a smile. “No problem. I don’t need much table space.” I dig out my copy of A Tale of Two Cities.
When I look up, her nose is wrinkled in the most adorable way. “Dickens, huh?”
I bite back a smirk. “Yup. Not a fan?”
She shakes her head. “No. I’ve fortunately never been forced to read him. I tried reading A Christmas Carol once. I think I maybe got through the first chapter.” She shakes her head. “Too wordy. Hawthorne’s just as bad in my opinion. I had to read The Scarlet Letter in high school, and I skipped whole chunks of that book. Not just single chapters, but groups of chapters, and when I started reading again I still knew what was going on. Clearly I didn’t miss anything of great importance.”
Chuckling, I set my messenger bag on the floor at my feet. “Your teacher didn’t notice?”
“Nope. She talked everything to death in class. It was easy to pick up on anything she deemed important that I may have missed just by paying attention in class. You always knew what was coming on her tests. Whatever she harped on constantly was sure to show up. For an honors-level class, I didn’t have to do much studying.”
Smiling now, I lean closer to her, one arm braced on the table. “I hope you’re not an English major then. Otherwise Dickens will be unavoidable for you. You’ll get a lot more Hawthorne, too, and in my experience, you can’t bullshit your way through classes without doing the reading.”
She returns my smile, her eyes darting to my lips as she leans forward too. “I guess it’s a good thing I’m a music major. There’s no bullshitting through music theory, either, but most of it’s pretty straightforward. Memorizing chord spellings and learning to analyze music. No rambling Victorians who got paid by the word.”
Laughing at that, I turn my head, trying to see her papers. “Music major, huh? What are you working on?”
She leans back, revealing a worksheet full of letters beneath circles on a staff. “Chord spellings right now. Like I said, not very exciting but pretty straightforward. We have to memorize all of this, so we know it all like that.” She snaps her fingers. “We had our first speed test yesterday. Dr. Williams makes it fun, though. She says a chord and points at someone, who then has to spout off the three notes that make it right away. If you get it right fast enough, you get candy. If you don’t, she points to someone else. But she goes through everyone and makes sure everyone gets at least one piece of candy.”
“That does sound like more fun than Victorian Literature. Does she give you good candy?”
“It was Hershey’s kisses yesterday. I’m guessing that’s what she usually does, but, like I said. Yesterday was the first time, so I can’t say for sure.”
At the mention of kisses, my eyes stray to her lips again. Her tongue swipes across them, making them pink and shiny. I set my book down on the table, my intention to get through my reading forgotten now. I can read Dickens anytime. Right now, I want to talk to her. Which is when I realize I haven’t introduced myself.
I shake my head and meet her eyes again. I could write a song about those eyes. But that’ll have to wait until later. When I get home. “I’m Jonathan, by the way.”
Her smile pulls wider. “Gabby.”
“Nice to meet you, Gabby. I couldn’t help noticing that you have a little bit of an accent.”
She gasps. “I do not!”
Nodding, I hold her gaze. “You do. Where are you from?”
She looks disgruntled now and mutters, “Denton, Texas.”
“Ah. That explains it.”
She shakes her head, still denying her accent, and sits back in her chair with her arms crossed. “I don’t have an accent. I’m from the Metroplex. Not …” she waves a hand around, “Hickville, East Texas.”
My shoulders shake with suppressed laughter at how irritated she is that I commented on her accent. “You might be from the Metroplex, whatever that means. But you do have an accent. It’s subtle and adorable as hell.”
Her eyes widen at that, her irritation falling away, replaced by surprise at my last comment.
I didn’t mean to say that out loud. It slipped out. But there’s no calling the words back, and in my experience, it’s better to stand behind what you’ve said. Don’t apologize, don’t show weakness.
Confusion flickers across her expression before she puts on a neutral expression and says, “Um, thank you?”
“You’re welcome.” I say it firmly and reach for my coffee, hoping that’ll give me time to find my way back to more neutral territory. She is adorable. Her accent, the way she wrinkles her nose, her uncertainty in the face of an unexpected compliment. But her eyes hypnotize me, and her lips …
Before I can think any more about her lips, she says, “Well, I should get back to my homework …” Her eyes are on her papers again, and she’s picking up her pencil.
A spike of panic shoots through me. I don’t want this conversation to be over. I want her to keep talking. And if she starts doing homework, I’ll have to start reading, and then she’ll finish, and I know with absolute certainty that she’ll quietly pack her things and leave without giving me another opening to talk to her or get her number or agree to see me again after this. That would be awful. To never see her again or hear that laugh or look at her eyes again.
But I need to play it cool. Not desperate and weird. Channeling all the charm I’ve gained over the years and all the training and practice at keeping my cool in front of people, I give her a smile, and ask a question I’m sure will get her talking again. “So are you going to be a music teacher?”
Her eyes fly up to mine, her brows coming down. She sets her pencil back down, assessing me with suddenly cool eyes. “No. That’s not the plan. I’m violin performance.”
I glance at her left hand, but her fingers are curled in. I rub the pad of my thumb over the rough callouses on my own left hand, the result of years of playing the guitar, and nod. “That’s cool. If I’d majored in music, I’d want to do performance too.”
Her eyes widen, surprised and interested. “Really? What do you play?”
“Guitar.”
She leans her face on her hand. “How come you didn’t major in music? Your comment makes it sound like you thought about it.”
I shrug, twisting the paper sleeve around my coffee cup. “I did. But my background is more in popular music.” That’s an understatement, but I don’t like announcing who I am. Who I used to be. Especially not to people who I just met. “The music department here only has classical guitar. It’s different enough to not be appealing. And the faculty looks down on popular music. I don’t need a side of condescension with my education, so I went with English.”
She moves her lips back and forth, like she’s debating what to say to that. I give her my practiced smile, the one that I’ve flashed in front of cameras and audiences alike, hoping to distract her. I don’t want to get into a debate on the relative merits of popular music versus classical music right now. That seems like another good way to ruin an enjoyable conversation. Maybe later, when we know each other better, we can spar about that. For now, though, I want to know more about her. “So who are your favorite composers?”
Her eyes, which have been moving over my face, a frown of concentration wrinkling her forehead, meet mine again. “Pardon?”
I let my eyes examine her face now, too. “You’re a music major. Violin performance. You must have a favorite composer.” Sitting back in my chair, I take another sip of my coffee.
Her lips quirk into a small smile, her eyes still studying my face. “Are you sure you want to ask that question? I have opinions. With a capital O.”
Chuckling, I nod. “Hit me. I’d love to hear all your Opinions.”
She gives me a look that says you asked for it, and starts in on her feelings about Mozart, Tchaikovsky, Beethoven, and a few other names I don’t recognize. She’s playing a Mozart concerto, which she likes, but doesn’t enjoy his orchestral works. She prefers the romantics for orchestra.
“But oh my God,” she gushes, and I shift in my seat at the moan of pleasure in her voice, trying to slow the blood from rushing south at the sound. “The first time I heard the Bach Sonatas and Partitas for Unaccompanied Violin, I just lay on my bed in musical heaven. They’re gorgeous.”
“I don’t think I’ve heard those.”
“You have to listen to them. Go on YouTube and search. Make sure you find someone good, like Joshua Bell or Hillary Hahn. Better yet, find the old videos of Jascha Heifetz. Especially the D minor Chaconne. That was his hallmark piece. It’s so beautiful.” She digs through her bag and tears a corner off a piece of paper, picking up her pencil and scribbling something, then passing it to me. “Here. I wrote it down so you can find them.”
My fingers brush hers as I take the scrap of paper, sending a jolt skittering up my arm. My eyes meet hers, and she sucks in a breath.
She shakes it off faster than I do, her eyes dropping to her homework again. She picks up her phone and pushes a button to glance at the time. “Oh, crap. I have a class soon. I guess I’ll have to finish my homework later.” Meeting my eyes again, she offers me a quick smile. “It was nice talking to you. Sorry if I bored you by going on and on about music stuff. But, well … you asked.”
Standing, she sets her backpack on her seat and gathers her papers and textbook, stuffing them inside. I stand too, not ready for this to end. “You didn’t write your number down.”
She slows as she puts the straps on her shoulders, a crooked smile on her face. “I’m sorry?”
Nodding, I pull out a pen of my own. “How else will I have someone to discuss the wonder that is the,” I stop to read the name of the piece she talked about, “Sonatas and Partitas for Unaccompanied Violin if I don’t have your number?”
The other half of her mouth has lifted, and she’s giving me a wide smile now. My answering smile is just as genuine. She takes the pen, bending to write her name and number on the scrap of paper.
As she’s handing it back to me, a voice interrupts us. “Well, lookie here. If it isn’t our favorite little freshman and our favorite former boyband star. They look cozy, don’t you think, Julia?”
I have to stifle my groan of irritation. I know these two girls. We’ve had classes together and have a few friends in common. And unfortunately, they know about my days as the guitarist for Brash, the band I was in with my brothers that had a brief moment of fame several years ago.
Gabby looks at them, her brows pulled together in confusion. “Oh, hey, Emma. Hey, Julia.”
I look between Gabby and the other two. “You guys know each other?”
Julia nods. “She sits next to us in Anthropology. We were just on our way over there. Wanna walk with us, Gabby?”
“Uh, sure.” Gabby gives me one more look, her eyes studying my face. I give her a quick smile back.
I see the moment she puts it together. Her lips part on a gasp, “Oh my God.”
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September 20, 2017
Double Exposition Cover Reveal
Double Exposition
Songs and Sonatas
Book 1
Jerica MacMillan
New Adult Romance
Release Date: November 6, 2017
Blurb:
A former boyband star gets a little musical education from a sexy violinist. Will they stay in different keys or find a way to play in tune?
The first time I saw her I knew I wanted her. And when she talked music with me? I didn’t stand a chance.
When she found out my secret past—that I used to be a famous pop star—I expected her to fangirl all over me. Because even though it’s been years since people cared about us, a ton of girls who grew up with our music still go nuts when they find out who I am.
Not Gabby. She was more interested in our future than my past.
I tried to stay away at first. She’s so young, eighteen to my twenty-two. Just starting out in college while I’m getting ready to leave.
But I couldn’t leave her alone. Her passion, her drive, her intoxicating combination of innocence and audacity. And that sexy little Texas twang. Damn. I was sunk from the start.
With her help, I started writing better songs than ever. And when a video of me playing a new song landed on YouTube and went viral, my life exploded in a return to fame I never thought I wanted.
How can I pass up this chance now that it’s being offered to me again? But if I take it will Gabby and I be able to survive?
If you like rock star romances and sexy musicians, or you’ve ever been curious about what happens to a one-hit wonder after the fame fades, don’t miss the first installment in this fresh take on a familiar trope. Full of sizzling chemistry and heartfelt emotion, grab this new adult pop star romance now!
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Excerpt:
The final notes of Jonathan’s song fade out as he stares at me, his face lit up from the inside, like a kid on Christmas morning who’s gotten everything on his list.
His song was beautiful the first time that he played it, about a love lost and found, full of nostalgia and longing. But with the changes? It’s so much more now.
He sets his guitar down and stands, leaning over me, brushing against my shoulder. Tapping at the paper on the piano’s music stand, he says, “Okay, let’s write this down so it’s all there.” He hums through the bridge again, and when he gets to the first part he changed, he looks around.
Handing him the pencil, I hold my breath at the quick smile he flashes my way. I think about moving, getting off the bench and out of the way, but the way the piano is wedged into the room and where he’s standing, I’m pretty much trapped.
And really, I like being this close to him. I’m enjoying the brush of his side against my shoulder, his arm against mine as he reaches past me to hold the paper still while he erases the notes I drew and draws in the new ones, trying to copy my style of thick slanted lines for note heads. He scribbles in the names of the chords underneath, then stares at the page for a moment, like he’s soaking it all in.
That smile is on his face again when he turns to look at me. He’s so happy. His eyes examine mine, skate over my face, and settle on my lips before dragging back up to my eyes again.
And he’s right there. So close that if I lean toward him just an inch or two, our lips would meet. I’ve wondered what it would feel like to kiss him since the night of the recital.
Without really thinking about it, I give in to the temptation, leaning in those scant inches. I see his face turn serious in the second before our lips meet, and I close my eyes to savor his soft, full lips on mine.
He kisses me back. His lips press against mine, but are gone all too soon. He pulls back, looking at me, that same serious expression on his face, but it doesn’t tell me anything.
Then his hand slides through my hair, cradling the back of my head, and he kisses me again, his other arm going around my waist. Almost before I can register what’s happening, he’s urged me off the tiny piano bench and onto his bed, with me on my back and him off to the side, his one hand still under my head, while the other caresses my side, down over my hip to my thigh, and back up again.
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About Jerica MacMillan
Jerica MacMillan is a lifelong reader and lover of romance. Nothing beats escaping into a book and watching people fall in love, overcome obstacles, and find their happily ever after. She was recently named a semi finalist in Harlequin’s So You Think You Can Write 2015 contest.
Jerica is living her happily ever after in North Idaho with her husband and two children. She spends her days building with blocks, admiring preschooler artwork, and writing while her baby naps in the sling. Join her Book Club at www.JericaMacMillan.com and get a free book!
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August 31, 2017
Double Exposition
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That day changed everything–
The day I met the girl of my dreams in the campus coffee shop.
She schooled me about music, saying my popstar background didn’t teach me what I really needed to know.
She became my muse, my inspiration, and my cowriter. Polishing my songs and making them shine.
And when a video of me playing one of my new songs went viral, my life exploded in a second chance at the dream I thought was over six years ago.
But if I take this opportunity, will our relationship survive?
You’ll love this sweet and sexy tale that’s part rockstar romance, part coming of age story, because who hasn’t fantasized about meeting their first celebrity crush and falling in love?
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July 17, 2017
False Assumptions is Live!
False Assumptions
Players of Marycliff University
Book 6
Jerica MacMillan
New Adult Sports Romance
Release Date: July 17, 2017
Blurb
First impressions aren’t always right.
Layla Caldwell is finishing her senior year, intent on keeping her head down, acing her classes, and getting a job after graduation that allows her time to write. The last thing she has time for is a playboy football player who flirts with any and every female. But he’s just who she gets paired up with in class.
Evan Coopman has seen Layla around and been intrigued by the quiet, pretty girl who keeps to herself. Now’s his chance to get to know her. Except she wants nothing to do with him, treating him with disdain since she thinks he’s a dumb jock who couldn’t pass a class without a lot of help.
Forced to work together, their relationship progresses from cold dislike to grudging respect. But Layla isn’t convinced that her first impression of Evan is wrong after all. Will his reputation be his downfall? Or will her assumptions ruin everything?
If you love snarky heroines and chemistry that ignites on the page, grab this fun, enemies to lovers story now!
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Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
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False Assumptions is live! And on sale for this week only. Personalities clash when the bookworm has to work with the flirtatious jock in this enemies to lovers story.
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She can’t stand flirty jocks, and he’s the definition of a player. How will they survive being forced to work together?
On sale for one week only!
She’s turned off by his flirtatious charm, but they get paired up for a class project. But is there more to him underneath the playboy exterior?
Opposites attract in this enemies-to-lovers college romance.
When the jock gets paired with the bookworm, sparks fly. Will they catch and burn or fizzle into nothing?
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July 16, 2017
False Assumptions Chapter Four
If you haven’t read them, here’s Chapter One, Chapter Two, and Chapter Three.
Chapter Four
Evan looked up in shock when Layla slid into the seat next to him on Thursday afternoon for their World Literature class. She didn’t look at him, instead busying herself with getting out her books, spiral notebook, and a pen that she used to take notes. His hands rested on the keyboard of his laptop, but he no longer paid attention to the Facebook chat he had open, instead staring at Layla.
Heidi, the girl who normally sat next to him, approached with a frown. When she glanced at him, he shrugged, not sure what to make of this either. Heidi smoothed a hand over her blonde ponytail and cleared her throat, directing her attention at Layla. “Um, excuse me. This is my seat.”
Layla glanced up, her black hair falling away from her face. She gave Heidi a warm smile. “Oh, sorry. I know. But Evan and I are working on the project together, and I wanted to be able to talk to him about it so we can coordinate our schedules. You understand, right?”
Heidi’s frown grew more pronounced, her brown eyes flicking between him and Layla. He gave another shrug, as dumbfounded by this as Heidi, stunned into silence by this new and different version of Layla that he hadn’t encountered before. Quiet and studious, yes. The frigid bitch in full force on Tuesday. But apologetic, smiling, and polite? Who was this chick?
Layla bent to get something else out of her bag on the floor by her seat, her hair falling down and blocking her face once more. Heidi stood there for a minute staring at Layla, her shiny pink lips compressed in a thin line. With one final look at Evan, Heidi turned away to find a seat elsewhere.
When she was gone, Layla sat back up, nothing in her hand, her eyes darting around the room, briefly lighting on Evan before turning back to her desk. Digging in her bag had apparently been a front to keep Heidi from pushing further. He didn’t know what to think about all of this, both her sitting next to him and the way she’d handled Heidi so that she avoided a confrontation.
His curiosity getting the better of him, he leaned over the side of his desk so he could keep his voice low. “What was that all about?”
“Hmm?” Her face turned toward his, but her eyes remained looking down at whatever she was writing in her notebook.
“That. With Heidi. Why are you sitting here?”
Her dark eyes met his before darting away, and she licked her lips. “Oh. Like I said. We need to discuss our project. It’s easier if I’m sitting near you instead of halfway across the room.”
“I thought you were planning on doing everything. Or did you decide to give me reading lessons after all?” He let some of his irritation from Tuesday enter his voice, lending a caustic edge to his sarcasm.
This time she actually looked at him, huffing out a sigh. “Please. You’re an English major. We both know you can read. With all those tutors helping the football team, I’m sure they’d at least do that much.”
He ground his molars together at the clear implication that even if she thought him smart enough to read, her estimation of his intelligence wasn’t much higher than that. Why did he even give a damn what she thought? But he did.
Before he could formulate a cutting response, Dr. Rankin appeared and started class. Evan had a hard time paying attention to the class discussion, which was unusual. Dr. Rankin was one of his favorite professors, and her class discussions were some of the best that he’d ever participated in.
“Dr. Coopman? What’s your take?” Dr. Rankin addressed all of her students as doctors, even though they were undergrads.
Evan’s head popped up from behind his computer where he’d been brooding. He had no idea what they were talking about. Dr. Rankin had a tendency to single out the students who were distracted to answer questions, even if plenty of other people were chiming in, and now he’d been caught out. He wouldn’t care except that when he glanced around, trying to mine some clue about the discussion from his subconscious, he caught Layla smirking.
Dammit. Getting caught out like this wasn’t helping dispel her impression that he was just a dumb jock. How had she not noticed his comments during the other class discussions? Or did she choose to ignore those? Or maybe she thought his comments were obvious and juvenile. Shit.
And he still couldn’t come up with anything to say, while Dr. Rankin stood in front of his row, looking at him with an expectant expression on her face.
Finally, his cheeks and the tips of his ears hot, he shook his head. “I’m sorry. What’s my take on what?”
“We were discussing the similarities and differences between the Russian authors under Soviet rule and authors from other Eastern Bloc countries, like the Czech authors Milan Kundera or Vaclav Havel.” Her clarification was delivered calmly. Her purpose in calling on distracted students was only to get them to pay attention, not to humiliate or embarrass, even though that was sometimes a side effect.
A soft voice came from his right. “No tutor to feed you comments this semester?” He glanced at Layla, her smirk still in place.
Deciding to ignore her, he cleared his throat and thought about the question. “The Russians seem more hopeless and angry than the Czech writers you referenced. Which is particularly interesting in light of the fact that what was then Czechoslovakia had been occupied by the Nazis before the Soviets took over. I guess when you survive a concentration camp, like Ivan Klima did, maybe being blackballed and forced to work as a garbage man instead of a writer doesn’t seem so bad.”
“Interesting point.” Dr. Rankin walked back to the front of the room, moving the discussion onto the next item, and Evan slumped back in his chair, closing his laptop. He wasn’t taking notes anyway, why drain the battery by having it open?
“Maybe because by the time Klima and Kundera were under Soviet rule the Russians weren’t running the labor camps anymore.” Layla’s response to his observation came as a muttered comment that he wasn’t sure he was supposed to hear.
But he did. “Even the later Russian artists have an angry quality to them that seems missing from Klima’s novels and essays. Don’t you think?” He had to lean over and loud-whisper to be sure she heard him.
Unfortunately their conversation didn’t go unnoticed. “Dr. Coopman?” Dr. Rankin’s voice cut through the classroom, interrupting whatever she’d been saying. “Did you have something more to say?”
“No.” Layla’s stifled chuckle caught his attention, but he ignored it. “Sorry. No.”
Dr. Rankin held his gaze for a long moment before turning back to what she’d been saying.
“Busted,” came from Layla in a singsong whisper, but he continued to ignore her. He wasn’t going to be drawn into another whispering match with her and get in trouble with Dr. Rankin. Layla had caused him enough trouble today. He wouldn’t let her get to him again.
He managed to keep his attention mostly on the class discussion and ignore the way Layla’s hair swung forward when she looked down to write notes. And the way she ran her hands through it to push it back. And the curve of her neck when she swept it up and did that crazy thing with a pencil that chicks sometimes did to put their hair in a messy bun. How did a pencil keep your hair all wadded up on the back of your head? It made no sense to him. That’s why he studied literature and not physics.
“I hope everyone’s gotten their books for their projects already. Next week we’ll talk more about Temptation by Vaclav Havel. Thank you for a good discussion today, everyone.” Dr. Rankin turned to collect her things, signaling the end of class.
With his laptop and books safely stowed in his bag, Evan stood and faced Layla. She’d said she wanted to discuss their project. He had plans to go talk to Abby, his roommate’s girlfriend’s friend, about their book and see if he could get a better idea of the cultural background and some good ideas for where to go with their research. He’d done some Googling, and talked to Elena, his roommate’s girl who spoke Spanish. She’d laughed at him and said, “My parents are from Mexico, Coop. I don’t know any more about Chile or its culture, either now or in the past, than you do.” But she’d offered to put him in touch with Abby, a Spanish major, and Abby’d told him to come by the language department today after class.
While cursory research divulged information about the military coup in the seventies and the subsequent reign of terror, he didn’t know where to go with that. He always did better talking out his ideas with someone than just letting them rattle around in his own head. He liked projects where he got to work with a partner for that reason. Which had made Layla’s attitude toward him all the more frustrating. So he’d bounce his ideas off Abby to see if something good came out and try to force Layla to take him seriously.
But if she was willing to work with him … He didn’t know what might’ve precipitated this change, but he wasn’t going to question it. Hell, maybe she’d asked Dr. Rankin for a partner change and been lectured about her attitude. That made him smile.
He cleared his throat, but Layla didn’t look up from putting her things away. “So, you said you wanted to discuss our project.”
That got her attention. She looked up at him. “Yeah.” Standing, she shouldered her bag. “I did.”
“Great.” He could tell she wanted to say something else, but he didn’t want to keep Abby waiting, and he also didn’t want Layla to think she’d be dictating this whole project. “We have an appointment in the language department to discuss Chilean culture and the historical background of Allende and her book. Let’s go.”
Without letting her say anything, he headed for the door, but she caught up to him quickly. “Wait, what? Who are we meeting?”
He glanced back at her. “Her name’s Abby. Friend of a friend. But she agreed to help.”
She snorted and muttered something under her breath, but he didn’t catch it. Whatever. If she wanted to morph back into a frigid bitch, that wasn’t his problem. He’d do his part. If she wanted to do hers, she had that chance, but after the hot and cold treatment he’d gotten so far, he decided he didn’t care what she did. If she didn’t want to talk to Abby with him, then that was up to her.
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July 10, 2017
False Assumptions Chapter Three
You can find Chapter One here. And Chapter Two here.
Chapter Three
The library door banged open from the force of Layla shoving her way through, still angry at Evan. She couldn’t believe his brazen flirting and the way he’d checked her out. Repeatedly. Like he thought she might be interested.
She had no desire to be one of the many brainless females that threw themselves at his feet. Watching the way other girls reacted to him made her want to gag. They fawned all over him, which just fed into his ego, confirming his belief that he was God’s gift to womankind.
Her irritation kept her warm on the twenty minute walk to her apartment. On days like today, she missed her old roommate and the knowledge that she’d have a sympathetic ear to vent to. But Alyssa had gotten married over the summer to her longtime boyfriend. So now Layla lived in a one bedroom with only her books as company.
The exercise of walking home had calmed some of her anger, but she got annoyed all over again when she realized that she’d intended to look for the book she needed in the campus bookstore. She wanted to charge the book to her school account rather than having to pay for it out of her spending money if she could. Or maybe she should see if the public library had it.
Once inside her apartment, she put on the kettle to make some chamomile tea. She needed something soothing.
With a deep breath, she centered herself, thinking back through her interactions with Evan. If she had to work with him, she needed to figure out a way to not let him get to her. Now that she had a chance to think, it seemed like that might’ve been his goal, since every time she got irritated, he did more of whatever made her mad, like he was trying to see how much of a reaction he could get.
If that were the case, then she needed to rein in her temper and treat him politely but without emotion. Hopefully he’d lose interest when he didn’t get a reaction and go back to flirting with other people.
While the tea steeped, she decided to call Alyssa anyway, not sure if she’d answer, but knowing she’d call back when she could.
Alyssa picked up on the second ring. “Hey, girl! What’s up?”
“Not much. Just thought I’d see if you were around.” Layla clamped her phone between her ear and shoulder while she pressed the flowers against the steeper to squeeze the liquid out.
“Liar. You hate talking on the phone. You usually text me to come over or fish for an invite when you want to hang out. What’s wrong?”
Stirring in some honey, Layla let out a sigh. “I have to work with Evan Coopman for a project in World Literature.”
Alyssa didn’t say anything at first, then a muffled snort and a giggle came over the phone.
“Shut up. Why are you laughing at me?”
Her voice still vibrating with laughter, Alyssa finally spoke. “You’re the only person I know who can make that sound like a death sentence.”
“What—I’m supposed to be excited about it? Yippee, I get to work with a dumb football player who flirts with anyone who has a pulse and passes as female. Hooray.”
Alyssa snorted with laughter again. “Did he flirt with you?”
“Yes.” Layla spit the answer through clenched teeth, getting mad all over again.
“Oh, the horrors. A hot guy who obviously works out all the time flirted with you. Hurry, hang up so you can call the police and report him.”
“What’s with the sarcasm? You’re supposed to be on my side.”
Alyssa sighed. “I am on your side. But what’s the big deal? So the guy flirted with you. Flirt back and have some fun. It’s not like your professor assigned you to have his babies. You meet a few times, you turn in your project or whatever, and you go about your life. It’s not quite the crisis situation you seem to think it is.”
“I know his type. He flirts with everyone. It’s not like him flirting with me means anything.”
“Exactly. It doesn’t mean anything, so why get upset about it?” Alyssa paused. “Or wait—would it be better if it did mean something? Do you want him to flirt with you for real?”
“No. What? No. Absolutely not. He’s a womanizing douche. Why would I want him to flirt with me?”
“Because he’s hot.”
“How do you know?”
Alyssa laughed out loud at that, not trying to muffle it. “One, they show pictures of the players on the scoreboard at games when they talk about them, and you know that Darren and I like to go. Two, you told me when he sat next to you in class last time. When you witnessed him flirting with a bunch of other girls right after being super flirty with you.”
Layla chose not to respond, sipping her tea.
“What’s really going on, Layla?”
Sighing, Layla set down her mug on the coffee table and sat down on her couch. “He reminds me of Mark.”
“That guy you dated in high school?”
“Yeah. That guy. The one who was hot and flirty and made me feel like I was special instead of the nerdy, weird girl. Who made me believe he loved me. And then bragged to anyone who would listen the minute we had sex. God, he posted about it on Facebook before I even left his house. I was just a challenge to him. Something different and exotic to add to his collection.” Her voice turned bitter on the last sentence. The way he’d made her feel—like an object, a fetish, something less than human—still stung even though it had happened almost five years ago.
“Look.” Alyssa’s voice softened. “I know Mark was awful to you. And you have every right to hate him. But Evan Coopman isn’t Mark. He hasn’t done anything but flirt with you, which, by your own admission, he does to every girl he comes across. So maybe try to be polite at least, okay? Treat him the same you would anyone else you could’ve gotten paired up with. Do your project and go back to ignoring him. It’s really not that big of a deal.”
With another sigh, Layla finally gave in to Alyssa. “Fine. You’re right. I should probably apologize the next time I see him. Maybe it’ll throw him off guard. And I’ve already figured that I’ll have to do the majority of the work if I’m going to get a decent grade on this.”
“Why?”
“Hello? He’s a jock. I’ve heard him talk about his tutor. He probably needs one to keep his GPA high enough to stay on the team. I’m not risking my grade on someone like that. I’ll give him enough to do in the presentation that we both get credit, but no way am I giving him actual work.”
“You’re such a snob sometimes. Why not give him a real chance? You hate it when people assume things about you.”
Layla’s lips twisted in a grimace of distaste. That was true. She did hate people making assumptions about her, about her background, her ethnicity, her cultural heritage. When she’d moved to Everett in sixth grade the kids in her class had found out that she’d lived on a reservation before. They’d asked her if her parents had worked in a casino and called her a squaw and worse. Her skin was lighter than her dad’s, since she was only a quarter Native American, but with her long black hair that she liked to wear loose and her high cheekbones—plus growing up on the Colville Reservation—they all assumed she was Native American.
And when her mom, who was half white and half Japanese, came to school to pick her up, everyone assumed she was adopted. Or had been taken away from her Native American parents and placed in foster care. Anything but that her mom was her mom.
It was bad enough when kids did it in school, but it pissed her off more when it came from grown-ass adults. Like her history professor who had declared that she was a product of Affirmative Action, like she hadn’t earned her right to be at Marycliff University like everyone else.
“Fine. I won’t assume he’s a moron. I’ll give him a chance to prove himself at least. But I reserve the right to make sure he doesn’t screw this up.”
“Fair enough.”
They chatted for a few more minutes before hanging up, and Layla felt both better and worse after talking to Alyssa. Better, because Alyssa made good points. But worse because she had been a raging bitch to him today. With a sigh, she realized she’d have to apologize to him on Thursday when she saw him in class. And she should offer to schedule a time to meet with him and discuss what they should do.
The idea still didn’t sit well, but maybe if she made it clear that she would be polite and professional and expected the same from him, he’d quit flirting and save it for someone more receptive. She could only hope.
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July 3, 2017
False Assumptions Chapter Two
In case you missed it, you can find Chapter One here.
Chapter Two
Evan couldn’t decide whether to be amused, irritated, or flat out pissed. The way she’d sashayed out of the classroom, that extra sway in her step obviously for his benefit, pulled him toward amusement. But the way she acted toward him the rest of the time had his irritation bubbling towards full-on anger.
He followed her across the brick center mall of campus to the library, his Marycliff Football sweatshirt not quite enough to block the early February chill. Layla glanced at him over her shoulder a few times to make sure he still followed, but he kept his distance a few feet behind her. She’d made it abundantly clear that she didn’t value his company. If they didn’t need to figure out when to meet next about the project, he’d bail. Maybe he should anyway. He could catch her in class the next time.
His breath puffed in front of him as he let out a sigh. He had to get the book anyway. Might as well go to the library and get this over with. Plus, he wanted to prove her wrong about her assumption that she’d be doing all the work and that he would be just a lackey along for the ride. He got the dumb jock assumption a lot. It came with the territory. If he did well at football, then he must not be good at school, right?
Wrong.
He took advantage of the team tutors during the season because it was easy to get behind in classes, and borrowing notes was always a crapshoot. Some people took good notes that made sense. Others … not so much.
He’d always thought Layla looked like the type to take good notes. They’d had classes together twice before. He’d managed to sit next to her once. She’d caught his attention, both because of her looks—long, straight black hair, smooth, golden skin, and large, dark eyes—and because she seemed so focused in class. But the next class, she’d been surrounded by other students and never met his eyes any time he tried to catch her attention. He’d thought she must be shy.
With the way she’d treated him today, he wasn’t so sure. She didn’t seem shy. For some reason she’d decided she didn’t like him. When he’d offered her his usual smile and a handshake, she’d looked at him like he was some kind of unidentifiable slime she’d found on her shoe after exiting a public restroom.
That was new for him.
He flirted a lot. He knew it. Not all girls responded the same. Some flirted back. Some threw themselves at him. Some expressed their disinterest, but remained polite and friendly. Disgust had never happened before. It wasn’t like smiling and shaking hands was an offensive move.
Layla yanked the library door open with more force than necessary, and Evan didn’t bother hiding his grin. He was behind her, after all. She couldn’t see him. Ever the gentleman, though, he caught up to her in two quick steps and held the door for her to enter. She glanced back at him, and he let his smile grow wider.
She scowled.
He stifled the laugh that threatened to escape, turning it into a cough just in time. Christ, she was easy to needle. He made the decision to go with amusement instead of irritation or anger. It’d be fun to see how much his usual behavior pissed her off. So flirting, smiling, fun Evan was back in action. Not the full force that he used to get in a girl’s pants. Just his usual. He could always turn it up later if he felt the need.
With that being the case, he didn’t hang back like he had since leaving the classroom. She stopped at a computer station to look up The House of the Spirits in the online catalogue, glancing at him as he leaned against the counter next to her, his eyes never leaving her, his customary smile turning up the corners of his mouth. Usually it happened without thought. Today, he was extra aware of it, wanting to make sure it never faltered, but didn’t veer into creepy territory either. Flirting was definitely not the same as creeping.
She let out a frustrated sigh, hitched her backpack higher on her shoulder, and headed for the stairs without a word. Rubbing a hand over his face, Evan stifled another laugh, catching up to her at the bottom of the stairs, being sure to stay close behind her. With another quick glance over her shoulder, her eyes narrowed as she saw him right behind her. Flinging her hair over her shoulder, she caught him in the face, his nostrils filling with a citrusy scent. This time he laughed out loud. Oh, this was going to be fun.
Evan followed her through the stacks, more determined than ever to see how far he could push her. If smiling at her and walking close behind her provoked this kind of reaction, what would she do if he actually flirted? Run screaming back to Dr. Rankin demanding an assignment change? Even if she did, he somehow doubted Dr. Rankin would go for that. The woman had a reputation of being unbending, rarely granting extensions except in cases of University-sanctioned absences (which he’d taken advantage of more than once) or a documented crisis. Not getting along with your assigned partner didn’t qualify as either of those. Unless Layla got appendicitis or had a real family emergency, she was stuck with him.
She stopped in front of a shelf of books so suddenly that he couldn’t stop before running into her, catching her by the shoulders to keep her from falling. She glared at him. “What are you doing? Don’t touch me.”
He let her go, holding up his hands palms out. “Yes, ma’am. I apologize. Just trying to keep you from falling.”
She huffed. “I wouldn’t’ve been in danger of falling if you hadn’t run into me.”
“Give a guy a little warning next time before you stop, and I’ll be sure not to run into you.” He smiled.
Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t follow so close behind me.”
“Right. I’ll walk next to you from now on.”
A little growl of frustration came from her throat, but she turned to the books before she could catch him grinning. While she examined the books, he took another opportunity to examine her.
He considered himself something of a connoisseur when it came to women. He’d heard one of his old teammates use the term, back before he graduated and got pussy-whipped by some chick he met at a party. Evan felt it fit him even more than it had Lance Kane. As much as he liked to sample women, he also enjoyed watching them, figuring them out.
Layla didn’t fit in the neat classifications he’d come up with for the majority of the female population on campus. He had the most experience with the jersey chasers, for obvious reasons. They kept themselves made up and primped to the max, with regular salon appointments to keep up with the hair color, nails, and waxing. Then there were the female jocks, who he came in contact with nearly as often as the jersey chasers. They were lower maintenance, which he appreciated when he was waiting for a girl to get ready, and more aggressive in bed, which he liked when he was in the right mood as well.
There was a large subset of outdoorsy types around here. Layla almost fit that description, but not quite. She didn’t look like she’d stepped out of an L.L. Bean catalogue like he thought of those types of girls. Nor did she embody the hipster chick that dominated the English department. She had a similar wardrobe, but lacked the ironic air that went with it. And today, for example, with her fitted skinny jeans that clung to her legs and showcased her ass, and solid purple long-sleeved T-shirt with its deep V that gave just a hint of the swell of her breasts, she didn’t look like either of those. Since he’d seen her in shorts or a skirt a few times, he knew she shaved her legs, so she couldn’t be a hippie.
No, she was in a class all her own.
A book slapped into his chest, and he grabbed it reflexively.
Layla stood in front of him, brown eyes flashing. “Here. There’s only one copy. I’ll see if I can get it from the public library or buy it somewhere.”
“Uh, okay.” He pulled the book away from his chest and glanced down at it. “Is this a good translation? Wouldn’t it be easier if we got the same one? If you’re going to buy it, I can buy it too.”
She rolled her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest, which pushed her breasts up more, framing her cleavage above her shirt and between the sides of her open jacket. “Eyes up here, jackass.”
His eyes snapped to her face, and he had to fight the urge to turn sheepish. He hadn’t meant to check her out like that, but much better to make it seem deliberate since he was trying to push her buttons.
“What difference does it make if we get the same edition. Are you even going to read the book?”
He took a sharp turn toward anger again, but fought back toward amusement. If she wanted to assume he was a dumb jock and a horny asshole, then let her. Letting his eyes wander over her again, his eyelids heavy, he leaned against the bookshelves, rubbing his thumb along his lower lip. “I’d be open to private tutoring.”
Another eye roll from her, this one so hard that he almost worried she’d get stuck like that. He worked hard to suppress his smile, keeping it to the level of flirty and sexy that worked like a charm on most women, but he knew would infuriate this one more.
“Puh-lease.”
Yup.
“I have better things to do than teach you to read while you ogle my chest for the millionth time.”
His jaw clenched at her insult. Normally he didn’t give a shit if people assumed he wasn’t smart, but from her it pissed him off for some reason. He forced himself to relax, raking his eyes over her once more.
“You misunderstand my meaning. I was offering the private tutoring to you. Help you learn to loosen up.”
She gasped, taking a tiny step back, her mouth open in shock. That sound, the way her lips parted, had a thousand dirty thoughts flooding his mind and his blood rushing south. But in an instant she recovered, her eyes narrowing. He could tell she was trying to think of a suitable comeback. When nothing came, she let out a low growl and pushed past him, her pointy elbow making contact with the tender spot below his ribcage on her way past.
He waited until she got to the end of the row of shelves before calling after her, “So I’ll see you tomorrow to plan out our project?”
She froze, her back to him, her shoulders going up to her ears as though to defend herself against his words. When she turned around, her eyes were little more than slits. “Read the damn book. I’ll tell you what you need to do when the time comes.”
With that, she stormed off.
He stared at the space where she’d stood, trying to figure out why she hated him so much. She was so striking that he would’ve remembered if they’d talked at all before now. Maybe she was friends with someone he’d slept with and never called back?
Hmm.
That seemed possible. Girls talked. So she might’ve been in on some girly ice-cream-and-guy-bashing session.
With a sigh of resignation, he glanced down at the book in his hands. She didn’t even expect him to read it, so having the same edition wouldn’t matter to her at all. Might as well save his money and check this one out. How would she react when he actually had an opinion about the book and their project? She’d probably just get pissed off, since that seemed to be her default reaction to him no matter what.
Female voices chatting and laughing drifted to him from somewhere else in the library. Walking out of the shelves, he spotted a couple of girls he recognized at a table with their books and laptops out. Just what he needed to feel better.
His usual flirty smirk in place, he sauntered over. “Hey, ladies. Mind if I join you? I need to get through some reading for a class.”
The girls eyed him up and down where he stood with a hand on the back of a free chair. The blonde drew her hand across her chest to move her hair behind her shoulder while the brunette pulled his chair out for him, a welcoming smile on her lips. “Of course! We’d love to have you join us.”
Evan smiled as he sat down. Yeah, his mojo worked just fine. It was all Layla acting like a frigid bitch, not something about the way he treated her. Good to know.
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June 26, 2017
False Assumptions Chapter One
False Assumptions is coming on July 17! Be sure to preorder while it’s on sale for only $2.99. In the meantime, enjoy the first chapter.
“Layla Caldwell, you’ll be working with Evan Coopman.”
Covering her face with her hands, Layla bit back the groan threatening to escape, no longer paying attention as Dr. Rankin continued to pair off the students in her Survey of Twentieth Century World Literature class for their midterm project. Evan Coopman was the last person she wanted to work with.
And what was this—junior high? Why was the professor assigning who they had to work with? Hadn’t she escaped those days when she made it to her upper-level literature classes? This was going to be a nightmare.
“Find your partner, and I’ll come around and give you the title of the book you’ll read and present to the class. This is more than a simple report. You’ll need to pull out the themes and research the cultural backdrop. Because books influence culture as much as the other way around, be sure to discuss both the impact of the culture on the story and the story’s impact on the culture after publication. Each book should be available at the library, but you are, of course, welcome to purchase it in your preferred format. Once you’ve received your assignment, you may go to the library to get started if you wish.”
The rustle of clothes and scooting of desks made Layla lift her face, brushing back her long, dark hair and glancing around at the other students finding their partners. She was confronted with sapphire blue eyes gleaming with mischief and the perpetual flirty smirk of Evan Coopman. He sauntered over. Yup, sauntered. Like he was the hottest thing around. Gag.
It didn’t help that he actually was hot. The brightest blue eyes she’d ever seen not boosted by contacts or Photoshop, dark brown hair that flopped over his forehead, high cheekbones, and a square jaw framing luscious lips that were almost always smirking or smiling, causing females in the vicinity to lose their minds. As if that weren’t enough, his body was all muscle that flexed and bulged every time he moved. All that time in the gym and on the football field obviously paid off.
She’d had classes with him before and always made sure to sit far away so he wouldn’t ask her for notes when he missed class for away games. She had no desire to be the target of all that flirtatiousness after seeing him in action. Seeing him give all his attention to one girl for a day or a week or however long until he got what he wanted and then move on to someone else.
He knew he was hot. He knew chicks couldn’t resist him once he turned on the charm. And he used it to his advantage.
She’d been the target of that kind of attention before. In high school. And she’d ended up brokenhearted and feeling like a fool in the end.
Never again.
So she had no desire to be another one of his conquests. He could just take his charm and flirty smiles and—
“Layla?” He dragged the desk next to her closer, sliding into the seat, all muscles and grace, turning the full magnitude of his smile in her direction. “I’ve seen you around, but I don’t think we’ve met before. I’m Evan.” He held out his hand.
She stared at it for a second, her eyes going back to his face. “Hi.”
His smile dimmed, and he pulled his hand back to his desk, clearing his throat. He gave her a quick scan, down and up, taking her in. She shifted in her seat under his scrutiny, aware of her Old Navy jeans and clearance T-shirt from Target the same way she used to be aware of her thrift store clothes and hand-me-downs when she was in elementary and middle school. Her parents worked hard, but couldn’t afford much when she was a kid. At least now, thrift store chic was a thing. And she rocked that often enough, but she still preferred new clothes, even if she could only afford them when they were on sale.
Evan probably wore all name-brand clothes. And didn’t have to worry about sales or thrift store discount days to fill out his wardrobe. She’d seen the kind of girl he normally went after—all perfect and primped and made up, not a hair out of place. The kind of girl who wore heels to walk around campus despite the uneven brick walkways and ice and snow in the winter. Girls that were nothing like her, with her preference for functional shoes—though she did try to find cute ones—and her desire to spend more time in the woods than at a salon or the mall. Even if she could afford that kind of thing, she wouldn’t dress much differently than she did.
Sitting back in his chair, his name-brand denim clad legs spreading in that obnoxious alpha-guy way where they take up almost all the space available, he opened his mouth, but Dr. Rankin’s approach cut him off before he could speak. Thank God. It was probably going to be a lame pickup line, because she was female, after all, or a criticism of her appearance, since she’d so obviously rebuffed his handshake.
Dr. Rankin handed each of them a piece of paper. “You’ll be presenting The House of the Spirits by Isabel Allende.” She gave them both a warm smile. “I’m looking forward to hearing your take on it. I hope you two can work well together.” With a nod that had her auburn bob brushing the shoulders of her jacket, Dr. Rankin turned to the next set of students to hand them their assignment.
Layla swallowed. Ugh. Why did she have to get paired up with the womanizer jock? She’d end up carrying the whole presentation. Meeting his eyes, she decided she’d take control right off. It would be easier that way. “Let’s go to the library and see if we can both get a copy. Then we can set up a time to discuss the presentation. Once I’ve read it, I’ll outline each of our parts and let you know what you’ll need to do.”
One of his eyebrows lifted and the corners of his mouth twitched, but he just nodded. “Sure. Sounds good. Let’s go.”
She didn’t know if she should be happy or irritated with his easy acquiescence. If he wasn’t a dumb jock, wouldn’t he object to being ordered around by her? But if he was, then at least he was content to let her be in charge. He must recognize that they’d get a better grade that way. Hopefully he’d be able to do what she assigned him. Maybe she could give him stuff to read aloud for the presentation and not give him any of the research responsibility. Less chance he’d screw it up and screw her over that way.
Gathering her things, she looked up to find him looming over her. His eyes moved from the area of her chest, slowly wandering to her face. She couldn’t stop her eyes from rolling even if she wanted to. Seriously? He was checking out her chest? Just proving her point. Womanizing douche used to getting whatever girl he wanted.
She stood, and he gestured toward the door. “After you.”
Sure. Of course. He probably wanted to check out her ass. She’d read somewhere that pickup artists did that for the double reason of appearing like a gentleman and having a better opportunity to check out a potential mark from behind. Seemed like a likely explanation in this case.
With a little extra sway in her step, she made her way around the desks toward the classroom door. May as well give him a show. It was the best he’d get out of her.
A low whistle sounded behind her, pulling her head back around and drawing the attention of the people she passed. Evan winked at her, his blue eyes amused, and followed.
This was going to be the worst.
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