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surprise. His gaze immediately slid to Elli, and his lips stretched to a full-on grin. He knew Elli had spoken about him.
                          Bastard.
                          Elli shot a stealth nice-going look at Macy and marched around the only table in the room, piled with dangerously high stacks of applications for donated instrument’s.
                          “What are you doing here?”
                          Jon’s expression turned serious. He visibly swallowed and glanced at the floor as if the real reason for his visit was etched in the oak planks between his boots. When he looked at her again, he was Jon the trumpet-master, not the Jon that had saddled his knee between her thighs on a street corner and tempted her sixteen different ways, none of them ladylike.
                          “I came to apologize.”
                          “Not accepted.”
                          “I want to make it up to you. Have dinner with me.”
                          Elli shook her head.
                          “Lunch?”
                          “No.”
                          “Coffee?”
                          “I don’t see a trumpet.”
                          Jon slung the hand not holding his helmet low on his hips. He let out a sigh that turned him far closer to bastard Jon. “You won’t, either.”
                          “Please leave.”
                          “How about a ride? Anywhere you want to go.”
                          “Chicago?”
                          He hesitated, but only for a moment. “If you want.”
                          “Maybe then I can see where they raise men to accost women on the street.”
                          “Accost?” Jon barked out a laugh. “You practically took me to the sidewalk right there, Sweetheart.”
                          Macy’s eyes flashed wide with a deliciousness that rivaled jelly donuts. She crossed her legs on a nearby chair and settled in to sip her iced coffee through a straw and watch the show.
                          “And on top of being the most egocentric, classically-trained musician this side of the Mason-Dixon, he’s a liar.”
                          “You know nothing about me. Except that I have what you want.”
                          The innuendo was unmistakable. Somehow they had jumped the intertwined tracks between music and sex. Again.
                          “I know you aren’t man enough to hold onto a woman.”
                          Elli wanted to bite it back the moment it slipped from her tongue. It wasn’t her—not even close. Fueled by an adrenaline hangover from the kiss and the suggestion that she was the type of woman who hung from the balconies on Bourbon Street, she had wanted to save face. All she succeeded in doing was slugging Jon-the-trumpet-player in the heart.
                          He pressed his lips together, probably to hedge off words he might regret. His body shifted toward the door in retreat. His gaze trickled to everything and nothing in particular until it found Macy.
                          “Nice to meet you Macy.”
                          And then he was gone. Out the door, helmet on, what-the-hell-just-happened kind of gone. Elli’s body melted to the hurricane damaged subflooring where she prayed for a well targeted atom bomb to fall on her.
                          “If you don’t go after him, I will,” said Macy. Her