ELLE’S POV
A heavy silence fell between us. I was suddenly hyperaware of how close we were sitting, of the awkwardness hanging in the air. This was a mistake.
"Let's get started," he finally said, his voice all business now. "Show me what you know."
I placed my hands on the keys, but hesitated. "I'm not very good."
"I know." When I glared at him, he held up his hands. "Hey, that's why I'm teaching you, right? Everyone starts somewhere."
"Not everyone starts with a teacher who insults them."
His lips quirked up. "Would you prefer I lie? Tell you you're the next Mozart when you're not?"
"I'd prefer basic human decency."
"Noted." He nudged my hands. "Play something. Anything."
I took a deep breath and began to play the opening of Beethoven's "Für Elise," the only piece I'd somewhat mastered. My fingers fumbled on the keys, nerves making me miss notes I normally hit.
"Stop," Noah said after about fifteen seconds. "You're too tense. Your form is all wrong."
"Gee, thanks for the encouragement."
"I'm not here to coddle you, Elle. I'm here to make you better." He shifted on the bench. "Watch me."
Noah positioned his hands on the keys and began to play the same piece I'd attempted. The difference was staggering. Where my version had been halting and clumsy, his flowed like water. His fingers danced across the keys with an effortless grace that made my breath catch. The melody filled the room, hauntingly beautiful.
I watched, mesmerized by the movement of his hands, the slight furrow of concentration between his brows. This was a side of Noah I'd never seen before—focused, passionate, lost in something other than his own ego.
When he finished, the final notes hung in the air like a question.
"That was amazing," I admitted.
A hint of a smile touched his lips. "It's all about practice and proper technique." He reached for my hand, positioning it correctly on the keys. His touch was surprisingly gentle. "Like this. Try again."
I played the opening notes, slower this time, concentrating on form rather than speed. It wasn't perfect, but it was better.
"Good," Noah nodded. "Again."
We continued like this for nearly an hour, Noah correcting my posture, my finger placement, my timing. He was a demanding teacher, but not a cruel one. When I got something right, he acknowledged it. When I messed up, he showed me how to fix it without making me feel like an idiot.
By the time we took a break, my fingers were sore but my mind was buzzing with new knowledge. I flexed my hands, working out the cramps.
"You have potential," Noah said, leaning back against the piano. "With practice, you could be decent."
"Wow, such high praise," I rolled my eyes, but secretly, I was pleased.
"For me, that is high praise." He studied me for a moment. "Why is Juilliard so important to you?"
The personal question caught me off guard. "It's been my dream since I was a kid. My Dad went there."
"The one who died?"
I nodded, swallowing the lump that formed in my throat at the mention of her. "He was brilliant. I want to make him proud."
Noah's expression softened slightly. "I'm sure he would be."
The moment felt strangely intimate, and I looked away, uncomfortable with how much I'd revealed. Noah cleared his throat and turned back to the piano.
Just as he was about to continue the lesson, he paused, his fingers hovering over the keys. Without looking at me, he asked, "Are you dating Lucas?"
The question was so unexpected I almost laughed. "Lucas? Why would you think that?"
Noah's jaw tightened. "Lucas was looking for you. Seemed worried."
A small, petty part of me saw an opportunity for payback. With a smirk that mimicked his own signature expression, I replied, "None of your business."
Noah's head snapped toward me, his eyes widening slightly before narrowing. His jaw clenched visibly, the muscle there twitching with tension.
For a split second, I saw something flicker across his face—anger? Jealousy? Whatever it was, it sent a thrill of satisfaction through me.
Two could play at this game.