Page 4 of Enough Isn’t Everything (Everything Trilogy #1)

The campus was massive, and I got lost several times during my orientation, but I managed to collect some pre-reading material as well as my study timetable.

I headed toward the sign pointing to the canteen, where the ‘meet and greet’ for the new students was taking place.

On the way, I thumbed through the literature to check that everything was in order.

Choosing to study commercial music, gave me classes in music theory, ear training, music history, as well as private instruction on my instrument. I’d added courses in audio recording and production, and obviously performance as a combination, focusing on voice and my guitar.

Writing lyrics and composing by myself since I was thirteen, I hadn’t wanted to take formal lyrics writing classes.

I had written over one hundred songs and felt my formula was doing okay.

I didn’t want any other influences to put that into a funk as creative writing and music lyrics were a form of escapism for me, but music was my first and only real passion.

I was proud of my song bank, twenty songs in particular. And I was interested to hear what the expert critiques would say about some of them. Until that point, I’d never shared them with anyone apart from my cat, Jack, Saffy, and my parents.

On the rare occasion, when I sang in London, it had tended to be in very dark places at the end of the night, and it had mainly been covers of other artists.

The managers of the clubs didn’t want me experimenting with my own stuff, especially when I was being paid to entertain. They seemed to want popular tunes, from the sixties to present day, to entertain their clientele.

Rounding the corner, I stayed on the path signposted for the canteen but stopped when I saw some musicians jamming on the lawn in a shaded area.

Wandering around listening to some of them playing, I could hear there was a lot of talent on campus, but I was drawn to one sound above all others.

Dulcet, low, rich velvet tones from a male voice, sitting aways back from the rest, drew my attention, so I went looking for the guitar player with the great voice.

When my eyes caught up with the singer, I was instantly captivated. Stunningly good looking, his appearance more than matched his incredible voice. He looked every bit the rock star as he sat there, but with his strikingly handsome features he could easily have earned a living modelling as well.

He was gorgeous, his head bent forward, as he looked down at the neck of his guitar. From where I stood, his face had perfectly symmetrical features, and his eyelashes were to die for.

I focused on his mouth—it looked perfect, with luscious, plump, extremely kissable lips. He had a slightly chiseled look to his face, which complemented his brooding, sultry look. The faint stubble on his strong jawline was just scruffy enough to be sexy without making him appear disheveled.

Frowning down at his notebook, he strummed quietly to himself, deep in contemplation of what he was trying to achieve. Transfixed, I found it impossible not to stare at him.

His golden sun-kissed skin looked amazing, and his sandy blond hair, with little sun-kissed flecks of lighter blond near the edges, looked so clean, soft, and shiny.

If that wasn’t enough, he had a little strand of hair in the front that kept falling forward.

It was as if God gave it to him for the exact purpose of attracting someone to sweep it back into place.

I checked myself when I imagined how it would feel to run my fingers through it or pull his hair into my fist at the nape of his neck.

Unsure of the effect he was having on me and whether it was his tone, like the taste of melted chocolate when he sang, or how incredibly sensual he looked, I stood staring in silence.

His voice gave me goose bumps and the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.

He made my scalp tingle as the full effect of this man and his voice hit me.

Suddenly, I found myself visualizing how he’d look naked. The mental image in my mind’s eye was sensational, and an involuntary smile crept over my face, which made me blush and feel perverted to have thought such a thing.

Oblivious to me, he sat absorbed in his work, composing his music, and trying to lay the melody over it. His head was still bent forward, eyes closed, as he strummed away on his guitar with his strong, smooth, veiny hands and long fingers.

His guitar looked like an extension of him, just like my mine does, and I wondered if he’d been playing it since he was little.

Sitting down on the grass, I leaned back on my oversized bag, and continued to watch him intently. I had never spent this much time just staring at a man before, but he was irresistible to look at, and I indulged in the guilty pleasure, soaking up every delicious inch of him.

Still struggling with some lyrics, he played the melody over and over, trying to make it fit with the words of his song. Listening patiently, I was enthralled by him as he tried to find the right line. He was an incredibly hot guy and I could have happily sat there watching him all day long.

Lyrically, the song content was about making love, but the words weren’t crude, they were clever and well chosen, but the inferences were there all the same.

Or maybe it was just my mind that was interpreting his words that way, since my knowledge had been broadened with my new sexual experience with Sam.

Inspiration struck and I had an idea for the perfect line for his song. I didn’t want to interrupt his artistic flow, but I felt compelled that the line needed to be there.

He stopped playing, then banged the side of his guitar hard, while his jaw flexed tensely.

He lifted his head and stared straight at me.

Our eyes connected briefly, and a shocking pang of desire surged through me when the twinkle in his hazel eyes met mine.

I felt like I’d been hit by a lightning bolt—my heart raced, while his gaze locked into mine, it was as if he could see my soul.

I found him even more attractive when he looked like he was going to burst with frustration as each line he tried didn’t quite gel with the song, and he looked seriously agitated about it.

Thinking he was going to speak to me, I inhaled a deep breath, but he shook his head and broke our gaze. Looking back down at his journal, he scratched out the words he had written.