Chapter 13
The second bottle of Pinot Noir sat between them on the small table.
The bottle was half empty and glinted dark crimson under the low amber bulbs.
It was nine o’clock. The sharp, persistent ache behind Charlotte’s eyes, the residual tension from a long week, had finally dissolved into a dull, manageable hum.
This was why she’d agreed to come. To spend some time with Sam away from work, to have a few drinks.
The ambient lights in the back corner dimmed, and Sam pushed back from the table, her chair leg scraping against the oak floorboards as she lifted it and placed it directly beside Charlotte’s. They sat shoulder to shoulder, facing the small, raised wooden stage in the corner.
Sam leaned close, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial purr that barely carried over the murmur of the crowd.
“Wait until you hear this singer,” Sam said, her shoulder pressing lightly against Charlotte’s arm. “I might have a crush on her. I heard her here last Friday. She’s beautiful. And her voice. Unbelievable.”
Charlotte scooted her chair over an inch to give Sam room, a faint, wry curve touching her lips. It felt refreshing to hear Sam talk like this, completely detached from faculty politics and research grants.
“Is that right?” Charlotte said softly.
She took a slow sip, letting the dry, tannic fruit coat her palate.
Then a figure stepped up onto the low stage.
Charlotte’s throat seized.
The stem of her wine glass bit into her fingers. Liquid swayed against the brim.
The warmth drained out of her all at once. Arms, hands, the back of her neck.
Taylor.
Taylor sat on the wooden stool and the low-scooped black top stretched tight over her chest, the neckline dropping low enough to frame the full curves of her breasts.
Jeans clung to her legs as she pulled the acoustic guitar across her lap.
Chestnut waves fell around her face. The sight hit Charlotte low in the stomach first, a hard pull that spread heat between her thighs and made her shift against the chair.
Her fingers locked around the wine glass.
Those lips were painted a darker shade now, and the memory of how they had opened under hers four months ago sent another rush through her.
She wanted to press her mouth there again, to get her palms under the fabric and feel that skin warm and give against her hands.
Taylor reached for the tuner, plucking a string and turning the peg with steady fingers. The same fingers that had traced the line of Charlotte’s jaw as they’d kissed in her bed. The ones belonging to the woman was in her Interpersonal Relationships lecture.
Charlotte’s breath caught.
She couldn’t be thinking like this. Not about a student.
Sam shifted beside her, resting her chin in her palm, her eyes on the stage. “See what I mean?” Sam said.
Charlotte couldn’t answer. Her mouth was open, but nothing was there.
Taylor adjusted the microphone, a slow, easy smile spreading across her lips as she looked out over the small crowd.
“How is everyone doing tonight?” Taylor asked into the mic, her voice carrying easily through the low hum of the room. “I’m going to play for you for the next hour or two, depending on how it goes.”
A gentle ripple of laughter drifted through the bar.
“My name’s Taylor Morgan,” she said, her hand settling against the soundboard as she found her first chord on the neck. “And I hope you enjoy these first few covers.”
Taylor struck a rich, resonant chord that hummed straight through the wooden floorboards.
Charlotte sat frozen, her hand still gripping the wine glass. Her pulse pushed hard at the base of her throat.
Sam had a crush on her.
The thought moved through her slowly, like something too large to process all at once. Sam sat inches away, completely transfixed by the twenty-seven-year-old student Charlotte had abandoned in a beach town apartment.
She needed to stand up.
To excuse herself, to step outside, to let the cool night air do something useful.
But any movement would draw Sam’s attention, or worse, pull Taylor’s eyes from the stage to hers.
Sam leaned in again, her warm exhale brushing Charlotte’s cheek. “Even her speaking voice...”
The words landed somewhere low and wrong. Charlotte’s jaw tightened before she could stop it. There was something hot and irrational moving through her now, not grief, not panic, something uglier and more embarrassing than either of those, and she had absolutely no right to it.