Breaking Gravity (Fall Back Series #2)

by Autumn Grey

  Fuck! Those eyes slay me, rocking me to the core, and I know I’m in a shit ton of trouble.

  Her eyes. I’ve seen them before, precisely thirty minutes ago on Mr. New York’s phone.

  I can’t wrap my mind around what I’m feeling right now, and the loss of control sends irritation flaring through me.

  I glower harder down at her while scrambling to gain ground back over this absurd situation.

  BOOM!

  My head jerks up from my arms folded on top of the desk—my heart racing and head pounding. I squint around the class, letting my eyes adjust to the lighting.

  Shit!

  I slept in class.

  Again.

  I got in late last night from Willow Hill. Things haven’t been easy for the past couple of weeks between driving home to help my older sister, Nor, with the kids while she took care of her husband, Josh, in the hospital and driving back to Jacksonville on days when I have classes early in the morning. Josh was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer six years ago, and since then, he has been in and out of the hospital. The thing is, Nor would break her back, working herself to the ground before she willingly asked me or my other sister, Elise, for help. It’s not that she’s too proud to ask.

  No. Not at all.

  She has been carrying our family’s burden all on her tiny shoulders for as long as I can remember.

  Someone clears their throat, ripping me out of my thoughts.

  I bolt upright and glance around, belatedly noticing the large shadow that has fallen on my desk.

  Slowly, I lift my eyes and meet thighs encased in a pair of black slacks, slightly parted in what looks like a relaxed pose. I inhale a breath and hold it as I continue the journey above a black belt and upward over a crisp, white, button-down shirt. A pair of equally well-toned arms with a dusting of fine dark hair are crossed on an impressive chest—

  Holyyyy shit!

  Is that chest real? Seriously, I can see the rows and columns of his abs outlined on the material. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to the elbows, revealing amazing forearms like you wouldn’t believe, with veins running down to his wrists. On his wrist rests a watch. I stare at it, mesmerized as the second hand crosses over the word Bremont inside the watch. Next to that is a cute, braided, purple bracelet with a little pink heart, which looks completely out of place on that masculine wrist. His index finger is tapping on his bicep in what looks like an impatient gesture.

  Finally tearing my eyes from that finger, I look past the thick neck column and scruffy jaw that’s all angles and shadows.

  Bracing myself, I lift my eyes to take in the rest of his face and immediately regret my decision.

  Eyes the color of flint meet mine in a piercing glare, flanked by thick lashes and eyebrows which are dipped low in a scowl. Rich, dark brown hair is meticulously styled back. His lips are pressed together in a tight line. The man in front of me looks like an avenging angel, sent to Earth to punish sinners. At least that’s what I imagine an avenging angel to look like, which kind of makes me wonder if I’ve sinned badly since my last confession.

  Wait a minute.

  I know that jaw. The manliest jaw in the history of jaws.

  The man standing before me has been an inspiration to the music community. I’ve spent most of my life following his career. Looked up to him and measured my standards to his.

  Nathaniel Rowe. God’s gift to the music world—and Rushmore. Best freaking cellist ever and a member of the Chicago Symphony, that is until he retired three years ago.

  The first time I saw him play, I was sixteen years old. He had flown in from Chicago and was playing in an open-air concert in the school orchestra at Rushmore’s twenty-fifth anniversary. At that age, I already knew Rushmore was my college of choice after finishing high school. Knowing he had gone to school there sealed the deal.

  He held a seminar last summer here in Rushmore, but I spent my summer holidays helping Nor with the kids and at the flower shop, so I didn’t attend it. According to the rumors flying around, he no longer plays for the symphony. People’s speculation suggests that he retired his position after an injury and vanished from the face of the earth until six months ago, when he turned up in Jacksonville.

  Color me intrigued.

  And now he is standing in front of me. I must be dreaming.

  Seriously.

  I have to be still dozing on my desk and dreaming about this guy. It’s been a while since I saw anything as magnificent as this scowling creature—given the last couple of disastrous dates my sister Elise set me up on.

  What the hell is he doing in my class?

  “Name?” His voice is low, a rich baritone that reminds me of evening bonfires, honey and Nutella, touching me everywhere, sinking into my bones. It definitely doesn’t go with that look on his face. The command leaves his mouth like a bullet, and my spine snaps straight despite the richness of his voice. Fear cuts through my chest, and I have to remind myself that I’m not a scared little nine-year-old girl and that he is not my father. I have to remind myself that my poor excuse for a father left us years ago.

  I take a deep breath and sit up taller in my chair and raise my chin up a notch.

  “Um. . .” Crap! My voice is stuck somewhere inside my throat, completely cowering away from Mr. Scowl-A-Lot in front of me.

  One brow shoots up, a vein ticking furiously in his jaw. Heat floods my cheeks.

  If this is a dream, I really want to wake up now. It’s spoiling my fantasy of the real Nathaniel Rowe.

  “I asked you a question.”

  “Elon Blake.” I stumble on the letters, eager to part with them so that he can go away, leave my desk and go loom and glower elsewhere.

  He shifts on his feet and the muscles on his thighs tense. I swear the scowl on his face deepens even further.

  “Wipe your chin, Miss Blake.” His gaze drops below my mouth.

  Quickly, my hand darts up and swipes away the drool there. I groan inwardly when I feel the traces of dry slobber that have also escaped to my cheek.

  Earth, swallow me now.

  Please. Just open up and gobble me whole.

  Feeling the weight of his stare on me, my cheeks burn as I lick my thumb and rub off the dried trail of drool. When I’m done, I sneak a look up to this mysterious man. Gone is the scowl, replaced by a frown. Those grey eyes studying me with intense concentration are a physical burn on my skin.

  He blinks once, and the scowl returns with a vengeance.

  Unfolding his arms, he leans forward, the tips of his fingers braced on my desk, forcing me to lean back in my chair. But there’s no more room to flee from his imposing figure. His scent, woodsy and intoxicating, slams into me, making me feel dizzy.

  “I don’t take it lightly when people come to my class to waste my time.”

  His class?

  Am I being punked? Did I wake up in an alternate universe?

  “Your class?” The words slip out of my mouth before I can stop them.

  He leans further, invading my personal space. My heart thrashes inside my chest as I try not to cower under his stern gaze.

  “Yes.”

  I shiver at his tone, and all I want is for him to move back. Leave me alone. So I nod, drop my gaze and wet my dry lips.

  This guy has just morphed from the avenging angel into Satan. I blink, feeling confused. What is he doing in my Music Theory class?

  From the corner of my eye, I see him pull back, straightening to his full height—over six feet of intimidating, lean muscle. He turns and strides away in confident, purposeful steps and halts at the podium in front of the class.

  Wiping my hands on my skirt, I blow out a breath through my mouth.

  “Way to make a great first impression, Freckles,” a male voice whispers. I look up to find Alex—my rival and friend—scooting into the seat on my right.

  “Right? I’m a genius.” I groan, rubbing my hands down my face to wake myself up. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

&nb
sp; “What? And miss seeing the look on your face you’re wearing right now?” I glare at him and he chuckles, raising his hands up in surrender. “Sheesh, I just got in class at the same time he did. Where’s Amber?”

  “Doctor’s appointment.”

  His face pales a bit, and he asks, “Is she sick?”

  I roll my eyes. “You two should really learn to talk to each other. This on-and-off thing you have going on is giving me whiplash.”

  He grins wolfishly at me. “Have you had wild, crazy make-up sex?” It sounds like a rhetorical question, so I don’t even bother to answer him. “Benefits of breaking up and making up, Freckles. Crazy, wild, off-the-roof hot—”

  “UGH. Shut up,” I say, trying not to think about the last time I even had decent sex. “Not interested in your sex life with my best friend.”

  I turn my gaze back to Professor Rowe, who is now standing with his butt propped on the desk.

  “Poor guy,” Alex murmurs under his breath.

  “Huh?” I don’t turn to look at him, my eyes still taking in Nathaniel Rowe, still unable to believe he is here in my class.

  “Shame he quit playing for the Orchestra.”

  I nod, distracted. Three years ago, he and his girlfriend were involved in an accident.

  I can’t imagine ever giving up on my dream. I live and breathe playing the cello.

  Mr. Rowe eyes everyone. “My name is Nathaniel Rowe. I’m stepping in for Professor Harris,” he states, introducing himself in that voice that rumbles across the room, demanding attention.

  Demanding to be heard.

  Folding his hands behind his back, he looks around the amphitheatre lecture hall making sure to make eye contact with everyone, lingering too long when he reaches me.

  After a few seconds of silence—which I think is intentional on his part to make us nervous or something—someone asks, “So Professor Harris won’t be teaching us anymore?”

  Satan shakes his head curtly. “I’ll be teaching her class for now,” he says definitively. “I have to warn you, I am demanding and I don’t like people who slack off in class. I expect two hundred percent participation and hard work from each and every one of you.”

  The class erupts into a cacophony of murmurs, a mix of excitement and disappointment. Professor Rowe’s gaze sweeps across the class and, as if on cue, the noise dies down immediately.

  Could Professor Harris’s illness have gotten worse over winter break? Before we closed for Christmas holidays a few weeks ago, she had been diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis. She taught our Music Theory class when school opened last week on Monday, but she didn’t show up to work the rest of the week and another professor had to teach her class on Wednesday and Friday. Maybe she got worse over the holidays?

  My thoughts burst into chaos and my breath saws in and out of my chest.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  We’re just a week into the second quarter of winter semester. My new professor and I didn’t exactly get off on the right foot.

  As if he can hear my turmoil, his sharp gaze cuts back to me, and I sink even lower in my seat.

  God, I wish he’d just forget I exist. I was so happy, living in my quiet little bubble where I went unnoticed every day. Looks like I’ll have to work harder now.

  He turns around without elaborating and switches on the projector on his desk. The words Tonal harmony-counterpoint-analysis appear on the screen in front of the class.

  My attention wavers, drawn to the way his black pants shift across his ass and the muscles on his back flex as he writes.

  “Open your textbooks to page thirty-five.”

  Everyone, including me, scrambles to look up the page. He begins his lecture, and I grab my pen and notebook, ready to begin scribbling notes, the sound of his voice travelling across the room, capturing our attention. Little by little, the fatigue I was feeling before fades, enthralled by the words pouring out of his mouth. He’s really good, I have to give him that. From what I’ve heard, his seminars across the country and in Europe have always been quite successful.

  Glancing around the room, I realize I’m not the only one mesmerized by this striking man pacing confidently in front of the class. The entire female population in this room is literally swooning, jaws on their desks.

  “God, that ass,” a female voice whispers behind me.

  “Have you seen the way those pants hug his thighs?” Another whisper, this one from a male voice, followed by snickering.

  Ah, those perfectly strong thighs. They’re thoroughly imprinted in my brain for life. Professor Rowe’s stern gaze flickers above my head, and the hushed tones and giggles cease immediately.

  “We’re going to learn about composing a three-voice fugue.” With the remote control gripped in his left hand, he clicks a button and the screen changes, displaying his email addresses, before turning around to face the class. “If you have any questions, you can either come and see me in my office anytime before five o’clock or email me.”

  Right before I jot down the email address, I notice his right hand shake. He clenches his fingers into a tight fist, his jaw clenched. A grimace appears on his face as he subtly lifts his left hand and massages a spot on his right bicep, moving up to his shoulder. His brows snap together as pain carves a path across his features. As if sensing me, his eyes fly open and find mine, and for just a second, I see something in their depths that has my heart stalling. It’s gone before I can figure it out. Storm chases the pain and his cheeks flush. Obviously, the thought of being found experiencing a human emotion annoys him, given that look on his face. He narrows his eyes at me, and my heartbeat accelerates.

  Look away before that look turns you to ice, Elon.

  I scan the room and realize everyone else is caught up in writing the instructions from the screen, while I am staring at my professor.

  The bell rings, and the room erupts into action. Books are slammed and bags are snatched from the floor. I quickly gather my pencils and drop them inside my bag without arranging them in their appropriate sections inside the pencil case and then shove my textbook inside the bag. Leaning down, I grab the cello case at my feet, stand up and strap it on my back.

  “Miss Blake?”

  My head swings in the direction of that voice.

  “May I have a word?”

  The students freeze in their movements at his words. Suddenly, their attention is redirected to him and me. The urge to duck under the desk to avoid the scrutiny strikes.

  “What does he want with that cold bitch?” a voice that sounds suspiciously like Lara’s says. Lara is your typical Barbie doll kind of girl. She’s always a bitch to everyone who doesn’t look at her with adoration, so our dislike is mutual.

  “Quit being a dick, Lara,” Alex comes to my rescue. I smile at him in gratitude, even though he really didn’t need to defend me.

  I’m already immune to people like Lara, so I brush it off and hold my head high.

  Before starting my degree in Music here in Rushmore, I thought that growing up in a household where being yelled at and insulted by my own father had thickened my skin. Then I met Lara during my first day of school. She was mean to everyone, and I was an easy target. I toughened up, and when she realized her words couldn’t punch holes in my armor, she went in search of another target.

  Just because I’m quiet and I don’t rise to her baiting doesn’t mean I’m afraid of her. I just don’t feel like wasting my energy on her, and I won’t satisfy her thirst to hurt me with her words, so I glance over my shoulder and toss her a ‘Yes, he wants to talk to this cold bitch’ smile and stand taller before turning to face the professor who’s staring at me impatiently. He cocks an eyebrow in question, and I remember what he asked me before.

  Like I have a choice. “Sure.”

  In my life, I’ve known three types of men. Men like my father and my ex-boyfriend, for whom abuse was second nature. Men like my sister’s husband, Josh Holloway; his brother Cole; and my best friend, Nick, who are pro
tective, loving and generous. And now I’ve met Nathaniel Rowe. He’s difficult to read and I don’t want to make things between us more tense than they already are, so I remain seated until the last person leaves and then focus on the brooding figure at the front of the room, trepidation sliding down my spine.

  Is he going to give me shit for sleeping in class? Before it even started?

  He sits on the edge of the desk, crossing his feet at the ankles and folding his hands across his chest.

  “It would be easier for us to speak if you’d join me down here.” He cocks his head to the side and stares at me.

  Correction. His eyes blatantly rove between my neck and mouth, the grey darkening to charcoal. I bite my top lip between my teeth and shift on my feet. Being the sole focus of his attention is like being surrounded by warmth.

  He slants his head in question.

  Hmm, yeah. I don’t think so. He still intimidates me, even from this distance. And if he’s going to lecture me on the triviality of sleeping in class, I would rather hear it from back here.

  I stand up, sling the strap of my bag over my shoulder and climb down two steps, making sure the distance between us is still enough so I can escape if things go south fast, fold my hands in front of me and lift my chin. If there is anything I learned earlier on in life, it’s to always be ready for the unexpected.

  A muscle ticks in his jaw as he scowls up at me, probably not used to people disobeying his orders.

  “I’d like to apologize for sleeping in class earlier,” I say, quickly beating him to whatever scolding he has in mind.

  “You worked for Professor Harris,” he says, effectively ignoring my apology.

  Jackass.