LEO'S POV
I checked my watch for the third time. Fifteen minutes late. Zoe Washington was fifteen minutes late to our session.
This was exactly the kind of unprofessional behavior I should report to Sullivan. A student who couldn't be bothered to show up on time clearly wasn't serious about her studies. I could march down to his office right now and tell him that Zoe was wasting my time and the department's resources.
But I found myself just sitting there, staring at the empty piano bench and wondering if something had happened to her.
The practice room door finally opened, and Zoe rushed in looking flustered and out of breath.
"Professor Mercer, I'm so sorry," she said, dropping her bag and sheet music on the floor. "I know there's no excuse for being late. I lost track of time in the library, and then I couldn't find my music, and—"
"Why should I have to arrive before my student?" I interrupted, standing up from my chair.
She stopped talking and looked at me with those wide dark eyes. "You shouldn't. I messed up, and I'm really sorry. I promise it won't happen again. Ever."
I'd been prepared to lecture her about professionalism and respect. I'd had the whole speech planned out in my head. But the genuine remorse in her voice caught me off guard.
"Take a seat," I said instead, gesturing to the piano bench. "We have a lot of work to do."
"Thank you," she said quietly, settling onto the bench. "I really appreciate you not giving up on me."
Something about the way she said it made my chest tight. Like she was used to people giving up on her.
"We're going to focus on classical theory today," I said, pulling out my stack of teaching materials. "Real theory. Not the simplified versions they teach in introductory courses."
For the next hour, I put her through exercises that would have made some graduate students cry. Harmonic progressions, voice leading, counterpoint rules that most jazz students never bothered to learn.
"This is the foundation," I explained as she worked through a particularly complex Bach invention. "Everything else—jazz, blues, contemporary—it all comes back to these principles."
"But what about improvisation?" she asked, her fingers stumbling over a difficult passage. "What about feel?"
"Feel comes from understanding. You can't break the rules effectively until you know what the rules are."
She nodded and tried the passage again. Better, but still not quite right.
"Let me show you," I said, moving to sit beside her on the bench.
I started to demonstrate the proper fingering for the passage, my hands moving over the keys. "See how the voices move independently here? Each line has its own—"
I reached for a higher note at the same time she did, and our hands collided over the keys.
The contact was brief, just a brush of skin against skin, but it sent electricity shooting up my arm. We both froze, her hand still touching mine, and for a moment the only sound in the room was our breathing.
Her skin was warm and soft, so different from my own calloused fingers. I could feel her pulse fluttering against my thumb.
I jerked my hand away like I'd been burned.
"Sorry," I muttered, trying to ignore the way my palm was still tingling from the contact. "Continue with the exercise."
She cleared her throat and turned back to the piano, but I could see the flush creeping up her neck.
We worked for another thirty minutes in careful silence, both of us making sure not to get too close to each other. By the end of the session, she'd managed to incorporate some of the classical structures I'd taught her into her own composition.
"This is good," I admitted, listening to her play through the piece. "You're starting to understand how classical framework can support jazz elements."
"So I can keep working on pieces like this?"
"No," I said, starting to pack up my materials. "Next week we're eliminating the jazz composition entirely. Pure classical focus from now on."
Her hands stopped moving on the keys. "What? You can't be serious."
"I'm completely serious. Jazz is a distraction from proper musical study."
"But you just said my piece was good. You said the classical framework supported the jazz elements."
"It did. But classical music stands on its own. It doesn't need jazz to make it interesting."
She stood up from the piano bench, her eyes flashing with anger. "That's not what this is about. You're trying to change who I am as a musician."
"I'm trying to make you a better musician."
"By eliminating half of my musical identity?"
"By focusing on what matters."
"Jazz matters. It matters to me."
I could see the passion in her face, the way her whole body seemed to vibrate with conviction. It reminded me of myself at her age, fighting with my own teachers about interpretation and artistic vision.
"We'll discuss it more next week," I said, hoping to end the conversation before it escalated further.
I grabbed my briefcase and headed for the door, but her voice stopped me.
"How did you know my uncle Marcus?"
I froze with my hand on the doorknob. Of course she'd ask eventually. I'd been wondering when this conversation would happen.
"Professor?" she pressed when I didn't answer.
I kept my back to her and continued toward the door. Maybe if I ignored the question, she'd drop it.
"I knew you wouldn't answer me," she said, and I could hear the frustration in her voice. "You two were classmates, right? Back when you were students here?"
I turned around slowly, and immediately regretted it.
She was standing by the piano with her arms crossed, and for the first time I really noticed what she was wearing. A simple blue dress that brought out the gold flecks in her brown eyes, fitted just enough to show her curves without being inappropriate.
She looked beautiful. More than beautiful.
I mentally slapped myself for even thinking such a thing. She was my student. She was twenty-two years old. She was Marcus's niece, for God's sake.
"See you in class tomorrow, Washington," I said, forcing my voice to stay professional.
And I walked out before I could say something I'd regret.