Tall, Dark, and Brooding

by Amanda Faye

  TALL, DARK & BROODING

  FORBIDDEN FRUITS SERIES, #4

  Amanda FAYE

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THRITEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Authors Note

  Dear Reader

  About the Author

  SNEAK PEEK

  TALL, DARK, & BROODING Copyright@ 2020 Amanda Faye

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Cover Design by: Megan Parker-Squiers @ EmCat Designs

  Editing by: S. Murra and Light Hand Proofreading

  Interior: TCC Designs

  Printed in the United States of America

  To Sade, my sister in books, and Katherine, my future wife (if I can convince her to move cross country and, you know, meet me lol.) Thank you for listening to me swoon and whine over Eli for much longer than was necessary.

  Thomas, you know I love you. Thank you for being cool when you walked into my office and saw I changed my backgrounds to pictures of half-naked men. #youknowyouraromancewriterwhen

  CHAPTER ONE

  NATALIE

  September

  I should not have had that last shot.

  Frankly, I shouldn't have had the first.

  But the third?

  That was a bad decision.

  It's the last Sunday before fall classes start at Chanler Conservatory and 4/4, the local piano bar, is overflowing with students. Each is attempting to get one more drink in, one more fling out of their system, before we buckle down, and the real work begins.

  4/4 is always loud and crowded. When they aren’t putting on scheduled shows, which they do two-three times a week, it's a free for all at the piano bench. Or the guitar stool, or the microphone. Plus, whichever random instruments are hauled across the street from the practice rooms to the stage available for the patrons to play.

  There's a certain feeling of frenzy in the air tonight. The boisterous laughter is a smidgen too raucous, the singing a little too strained. Chanler Conservatory is the most prestigious performing arts school in the nation. It's not for the faint of heart.

  When we let loose, we really let go.

  It's boredom, more than anything else, that makes me order the last shot of vodka. Boredom has always been my downfall. Most of the bad choices I've made in my life are traceable directly back to the doldrums that come from studying one subject since I was little more than a baby.

  I knew the moment I watched Beauty and the Beast at age five that I was going to be a musician. I cried my eyes out when the beast became a prince. Not because he was the hero, but because the music supporting him was just so beautiful. Still, that doesn't mean that it doesn't become tedious now and then.

  Steven, my brother from another mother, was supposed to be here twenty minutes ago. But he's late, as usual. I'm in my fifth year at Chanler, my first in the master's program. It sets me apart from the other students in the bar. While I get hugs and cheek kisses as dancers and performers make their way in and out of the building, no one stays to talk. I am the same, yet oh so different now.

  Hence the shots.

  As the liquor slides down my throat and loosens the vertebrae in my spine, I feel spiders crawl all over my neck. I can feel the stare boring into my head and look left and right until I finally see Paul sitting several seats down from me at the bar. He's alone, too, but that's because he's universally hated.

  I pull my phone from my pocket, texting Steve as quickly as I can.

  Where are you? Rescue me! Mall Cop is here.

  I feel bad for using the nickname the undergrads gave Paul. I liked the Paul Blart movies. It's rude to disrespect them by throwing our Paul into the mix. But the name stuck. And he hates it, so I use it.

  Two minutes. Lay one on me when I get there. That'll shut him up.

  Two minutes.

  Two minutes could last a very long time. I glance at Paul against my better judgment, and he's staring at me, licking his lips. I feel like a pork chop. One that's undercooked and poorly seasoned. He waggles his eyebrows in my direction, and I have to swallow back the bile rising in my throat.

  Boredom. It kills me every time. I went on one date with Paul at the end of last semester. One.

  Why?

  You guessed it. Because I hadn't had a date in two years, and my vibrator needed new batteries. He'd been asking me, hounding me, for weeks, and I figured letting him buy me dinner one time wouldn't cause any lasting damage.

  How wrong I was.

  I sent a mass SOS message before we even got to the appetizers and was out of there with a fake emergency five minutes later.

  The door opens, and I think I see black hair, but I can't be sure.

  I rise from the barstool, and Paul mimics my motions, lifting his leg and pushing away as I try to lose myself in the crowd.

  I fail.

  For all that his slimy personality gives him a small presence in appearance, he's still rather tall. Bad, because he can see me over the crowd, but beneficial because I can see him closing the distance.

  Son of a biscuit.

  I create and discard random escape plans, each one more outlandish than the one before.

  There!

  Steve, bless his heart, is finally pushing his way through the crowd. Or he was.

  Gosh darn it, he's moving in the wrong direction! I feel my sternum collapse with the feeling of miserable surrender.

  No. Absolutely not.

  I refuse to start my master's program like this. If I begin the school year this depressing, I'll spend the whole semester singing arias about cow farming and pig manure. I won't allow it.

  I don't give Paul the chance to catch up to me, using my slight size to dart in and out of couples and groups, making my way to the scraggly haired asshole that's supposed to be my best friend. With a final lunge and a gasp of celebration, I grab him by the wrist and yank him around to face me. Not caring that fifty percent of this bar knows who we are, and that Steve is incredibly taken, I climb him like a tree and plant my lips against his.

  When suddenly I realize I've gone from bad to worse.

  The first thing I notice is that the man pressed up against me isss—not Steve.

  Sure, they have the same head of shaggy black hair. And they do have similar body types. Easy to confuse in my moment of panic and slight inebriation. It becomes obvious, however, as I arch on my tiptoes to wrap my arms around this man's neck that that is where the similarities stop.

  Whereas Steve has the body of a dancer, powerful and robust, he's slight for all that: lithe and tightly compressed. The man with his chest pressed up against mine is broad, like a football player. Or an opera singer. The sharp intake of breath he sucks down when my lips hit his expands his pecs like a balloon filling with air, and I swear he doubles in size under my fingertips.

  The lips molding with mine are lush and full. The face they belong to has five o'clock shadow rough against my cheeks. Not that I don't appreciate it. The sting adds a new texture to our kiss, and I
find myself trying to get another millimeter or so on my tippy toes so that I can bring myself closer to it.

  Still, though, Steve has a baby face. Couldn't get scruffy if his life depended on it.

  Steve is of average height, 5'11 at the most. This man? He towers above me, so much so that as I crane to reach his lips, he dips and kisses me deeper, bringing the mountain to Mohammed.

  And Steve? Well, he'd never palm my ass like that. Ever. Just the thought brings a giggle to the surface. Which my mystery man uses to his advantage, plunging his tongue in and exploring my mouth when I part my lips to laugh.

  I should probably be more upset that a stranger is caressing me in a bar. But since I started it, and it feels so very nice, I decide to forgive the newcomer for his tiny indiscretion.

  I let my nails graze against his scalp, and he moans into my mouth.

  It was an accident.

  I was simply trying to better my grip.

  So, I didn't slip.

  That's believable? Right?

  Instead, he hauls me closer, bending his knees and lifting me as if I weigh nothing more than air. Wrapping my legs around his waist can't be held against me either.

  What else was I supposed to do with them?

  The sounds around us fade into nothing. Instead, I hear trumpets, heralding the returning conqueror. Saxophone riffs trill up my spine, and Whitney Houston returns from the grave to belt "I Have Nothing" into my ear.

  He kisses me with a desperation that would steal my breath away. If I had any to spare. There's a beast I feel rumbling in his chest, straining against his skin and begging to be let loose.

  I'd be more than happy to release it from its confines.

  We've been kisses for ages: months, maybe years. Or perhaps it's only been seconds. What I do know is the symphony we're composing is rudely interrupted by whistles and howling and clapping so obnoxious it makes my ears hurt, and my face scrunches up in distress.

  Which is when I remember I'm in a bar. Hanging off a stranger.

  He seems to come to the same realization. His body, moments ago pliable and molded against mine like we were two halves of a whole, suddenly stiffens under my touch. The hands that were supporting me fly away as if I'm on fire, and my feet drop to the floor weighted in cement.

  My eyes open as if waking from a trance. It's the only excuse I have for what just happened.

  Hypnotized?

  Drugged?

  Possibly, I had an out of body experience.

  The noise fades for a second time, as reality smacks me harder than a drummer on a snare.

  I'm seeing double. I'm going to be sick.

  There in front on me, lips swollen and eyes as glazed as mine, stands Dr. Eli Summers. The head of the Strings Department for Chanler Conservatory, and the meanest professor on campus. And beside him, like some pale shadow imitation of the god I just climbed off of, is Steve. Giving me the slow clap with eyes of wonder like I just won a Tony.

  Crap on toast. I am so screwed.

  I should have just talked to Paul.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ELI

  The first few days of class are always a clusterfuck. I've learned to accept it. Even though I teach at the Masters and Doctorate levels, and those students should know their way around by now.

  It's still, "Sorry, Dr. Summers," and, "Excuse me, Dr. Summers," as people trip in and out of my classroom at all hours. It's infuriating. If you're good enough to have made it into the most advanced music program in the country, then you’re damn well able to make it to your classes on time.

  I'm on my way back to my office when I hear the most annoying sound on the planet drift into the hallway. Paul Collins is a part-time teacher aid, full-time pain in the ass. It stops me in my tracks, and I can't help but cringe at the grating of his voice. He graduated three years ago, and while he is a fantastic bassist, his attitude is horrible. He gave up looking for full-time work with a symphony and ended up right back here. They say that those that can't do teach. Well, those that can't do either are Paul. Now he spends his time running errands for the real professors and lording what little power it gives him over the undergrads.

  I'd heard a rumor that he'd finally found a position in a group that does movie soundtracks, but I guess it was false hope. Or they kicked him out. Either is a likely scenario.

  Trying to keep the disgust off my face, I resume my march when a second voice again stops me in my tracks. Natalie Abernathy. Images of last night's kiss run pell-mell through my brain, and before I've registered the decision to do so, my feet take me in the direction of the half-open doorway.

  The room is spacious when empty. Designed for optimal acoustics, even the quietest of whispers can echo in the space. And Paul is not trying to be quiet.

  "That was quite the show you put on last night. Was it for me? You didn't need to entice me by showing off the goods. I want you as bad now as I did last year."

  Her back is straight, but the little piss-ant has her pinned up against the wall. Not by force; he's not holding her there with his hands. But she's cornered all the same. Paul is crowding into her space, probably pushed her back until she ran out of room to run. While her face is wearing a grimacing sort of smile, her eyes are darting everywhere, looking for a way to escape. Or praying someone shows up to rescue her.

  "Look, Paul. I—"

  He cuts her off, hoping that if he talks over her, she won't get the chance to turn him down.

  "It's a shame our time together last year got cut short. I can't wait to get you alone. Saturday? I can tell by the way you kissed him; how bad you want me."

  Oh, Jesus. My fists clench in anger. Maybe I make a sound or cringe in disgust at the filth spewing from the imbecile's mouth, but Natalie's eyes jerk in my direction. When they lock with mine, a thousand emotions fly across her face: fear, revulsion, relief, and panic. It takes me no time at all to come to a decision.

  "Natalie, there you are. I thought we were meeting in my office after classes were over."

  Her eyes widen momentarily in confusion, but with a flick of my brow, she grasps the concept.

  "I was. I am. I'm sorry, I'm running late. Paul wanted to take a moment and catch up about summer break. It’s great seeing you again, Paul, but Dr"—I mouth my first name in exaggerated motions, and she trips over her tongue correcting mid-statement—"Eli and I have plans for this evening. We can talk another time."

  I close the distance between us while she's talking and thread my fingers through hers, not bothering to give Paul any of my attention. Before she even finishes her brush off, I'm pulling her against me, then behind me as I drag her from the room.

  We're several feet down the hallway when I stop, remembering I actually have something to say to him.

  "Stay here," I order, then let go of her hand, only to entwine our fingers again on the other side. Good job, asshole. Bark at her like a dog then pull her on a leash. Genius.

  Leaning into the doorway, I see Paul's in the same spot I left him, looking sullenly at the door.

  "Since you're still the TA this semester, be expecting an email from me with schedules I need made and sent to my 1st year Doctoral candidates. I need them by Thursday."

  At that, I pull a flabbergasted Natalie Abernathy behind me as I make my way to my office.

  Twitterpated is the only word I can think of to describe Natalie's composure. I sit at my desk, leaning back in the chair, watching with amusement as she sits, stands, then sits again in quick succession. I try to keep my face as neutral as I can while she battles whatever demons she's dealing with, and firmly shut my mind to the image of her taking me apart with her mouth last night.

  "I am so sorry, Dr. Summers. So sorry. For what you just witnessed and for last night." Her voice becomes tight and squeaky, and that charming Southern drawl she has is so pronounced I could swim in it.

  She's still rambling her apologies, but I zone out when a shadow crosses my door. Twenty to one it's the piss-ant checking to see if we'
re in here.

  "Natalie."

  She flinches when I say her name. I make an effort to not take my anger out on her and to moderate my tone.

  "Natalie," I try again. "What the hell is going on? Is Paul harassing you?"

  She closes her eyes, and her chin tips upwards. I wonder if she's praying.

  "I got bored," she mumbles under her breath.

  My eyebrow arches in curiosity.

  "Last semester, Paul," she hesitates as if she's searching for an appropriate word, "pursued me to go out on a date. Rather emphatically. In the hopes of making him lose interest, and because I had nothing better to do, I agreed. It did not end well. I skipped out before the food was even served. However, he seems to think that it did. Or maybe he doesn't particularly care."

  That doesn't surprise me. You could run that man over with an elephant, and he'd still think it was a zebra. If he didn't have a fantastic ear for music, we'd have been rid of him ages ago.

  "Last night, and again, I deeply apologize." I wave off her apologies. I don't want them; I want explanations. "I saw him last night at 4/4, and he was on his way to approach me. I messaged my best friend, who told me he'd be there in a few minutes. He has scraggly black hair."

  "Ah," I say, and leave it at that. I ignore the way my heart swoops into my stomach, keeping my face blank. I know she didn't kiss me on purpose. Of course, she didn't. She doesn't even know who I am. We've spoken twice before today, when her cellist fell ill, and I backed her in performance two years ago.

  Still, I'll be thinking about that kiss long after she's forgotten it.

  "Steven, my friend, told me to kiss him when he got there, to scare Paul off. I saw your head of dark hair moving through the crowd, and, well, you know what happens when you assume. Anyway. Again I—"