His Unwilling Muse

Chapter 3: His muse

"Is this yours?"

The street performer's velvet voice floods my ears, but it sounds muffled. Like there is a wall of thick glass separating the two of us.

He is still standing a step away from me, with my blue notebook resting on his open palm. His fair lips are stretched into a soft smile, which emphasizes the sharp angle of his jaw, and he has his head tilted to the side, waiting for my answer.

Yet all I'm able to do it stand next to the stone bench at the side of the promenade and stare at his smooth skin and warm chestnut eyes.

For the first time I notice the black necklace around his neck, which plunges into the opening of his dark blue shirt. It makes me wonder if he also wore it the first time I saw him play.

When I catch his eyes swish up and down my body, I become aware of the sweat clinging to my armpits and forehead. Not to mention the wind-blown hair from the hurried bike ride. I can't even remember if I bothered to wash it this morning.

With the side of my eye I see a few of my wavy black locks tingling my chest, which makes me conclude that I washed it after all. It was my habit to wear my hair loose when it was freshly washed and bound in a loose ponytail when I was too lazy to wash it.

The moment I realize what I'm doing, I curse at myself. Who cares what I look like? I could be standing here in my pajamas and it shouldn't make a difference.

"You okay?" he asks.

In an instant the sounds of the surrounding traffic and the passing pedestrians return, and I'm once again in the middle of the moving world.

"Fine." I shake my head to get rid of any lingering thoughts of him. "I'm fine."

I lower my eyes to the notebook still in his outstretched hand and snatch it from him.

"Thanks. I thought I'd never see it again."

I lay the notebook into the plastic basket in the front of my bike, which is still leaning against my side.

"My pleasure."

He dips his head in the smallest of nods and then straightens back into his full height. Yet he doesn't move his still outstretched arm back to his side.

"My name is Nathaniel Lewis."

I glance from the hand he is offering to his inviting smile, while forcing myself to ignore the way my heart quivers. There is no way I would be affected by a boring classical musician like him.

Still, I wipe my right hand into the side of my dark jeans to get rid of the lingering sweat. His hand is neither hot nor cold, but his grip is firm as we shake hands. The brief contact lasts for only a few seconds, but it's enough to have me pulling my hand and hiding it behind my back.

At the same time, I tell myself that there is no way the soft tremble in my hand is because of someone like him. I'm just tired from the ride back here. That's it.

"Violet Riley." I finally introduce myself.

"It's lovely to meet you, Violet."

"Sure." Despite my better judgement I can't resist trying his name. "Nathaniel."

"What?"

Because his eyes have yet to leave my face, it's no wonder he notices me cringe when I speak his long name.

"Nathaniel is such a mouthful. Does anyone even bother to call you that?"

"Everyone calls me Nathaniel." His soft smile remains, but I don't miss the way his lips press a little tighter together.