Scholarships could only get so far, and Nicholas Rush was not one to accept charity in any case. At Oxford, he was known as the young and troubled genius, the man who would either shine like the sun or burn out completely.

Here at Gerald's, a dinky all-night café on the bad side of town, he was known as the waiter.

The waiter on third shift.

Sighing, Nick leaned against the counter and watched as cars - but no walkers, never any walkers - passed by outside. It was one a.m. In Gerald's, it was just Nick and Kenny, who made the sandwiches and was currently asleep.

Nick was rarely idle - a violent childhood had created a burning nature in him, and working at a café was not his ideal situation. But then again, Oxford was an expensive university, and he needed funds somehow. He just wished it came from something like … like being a hitman. A math-themed hitman. See, that would be cool.

… And that was why Nick was never idle.

Shaking the stupid thoughts from his head, he turned and watched the door, wishing for the umpteenth time that he was just allowed to read at work. Was it really so much to ask? A textbook or two to memorize on night shift would be lovely, if his manager wasn't such a dick.

Sighing, Nick lowered his head and kneaded his temples. When he looked up, there was someone just outside the door.

His eyes widened.

Then the little bell above the door rang out and the woman entered. She was blonde and graceful, wearing nicer clothes than Nick ever had - but she was also carrying something bulky, a case of some sort, and she was barefoot, which was technically against the rules.

Nick found himself not caring. He went over to take her order.

"Chai," she said simply. "With a honey swirl."

Honey.

A woman after his own heart.

Nick slid behind the counter, suddenly very aware of his uniform, and wondering if the tie and vest made him look dashing or if they just looked cheap. Remembering what the vindictive teachers at secondary school had said, he straightened his shoulders and tried to fix his posture.

Hell, it was late.

He poured the tea and made his way back over to where the woman sat, depositing her cup with a murmured, "there you are" and retreating to a table close to his work station, trying not to watch her.

She didn't drink her tea. She was staring at a program of some sort, printed on blue paper, and her fingers were ghosting over the case at her side.

After a few minutes, Nick's thoughts drifted away. He looked out the large, wide windows to the rainy streets and snorted. He didn't envy the woman - if she walked home barefoot, she was in for one hell of a walk. Oxford wasn't known for its clean pavement.

Behind him - at the woman's table - he heard some low clicking noises and didn't turn around. He rested his chin on his palm and briefly wondered if he should ask her out.

Her clothes are tailor-fit, a nasty voice inside his head reminded him. Nick glanced down at his own clothes - a bargain-basement dress shirt and the company-issue tie and vest.

Oh, well. He could dream.

He settled then for looking out the window, and his eyelids were just beginning to droop when the sound of a violin struck through the café. Nick jumped and turned around, unable to believe where the music was coming from, but knowing it could be almost nothing else.

The woman was playing the violin.

And she still hadn't touched her tea.

Quietly, Nick left his seat and headed over, his footsteps clashing with the music - which was really lovely, actually. Really lovely. Professional-sounding.

He sat across from her, but her eyes remained on the bow and strings until the piece was done. Then she lowered the violin a little and Nick found himself clapping. Finally, her eyes were on him.

"I'd give you a standing ovation," he said, "but then I'd just feel silly."

She grinned.

"Are you in the orchestra, then?" Nick asked. She nodded, then stuck out her hand.

"I'm Gloria," she said.

"Nick."

Gloria pulled her hand away, sipped her tea – Nick was certain it was cold by now – and stared at the table pensively.

"You don't look very happy about it," Nick noted, getting her attention. "The orchestra."

"Oh." She smiled ruefully. "Yes."

They were silent. Nick looked at her invitingly, and after a moment she gave a relenting little laugh.

"The conductor likes me," she explained, "a little too much, if you know what I mean."

Nick raised his eyebrows and leaned forward conspiratorially.

"I have the same problem," he stage-whispered, jabbing a thumb in Kenny's direction. Gloria followed his gaze, then her eyes widened and she clapped a hand over her mouth, stifling giggles.

"What's it like?" asked Nick when she was more composed.

"What?" she asked. "Working in the orchestra?"

He'd meant something more like 'what's it like to be high-class?' but what she said would do. He nodded.

"It's OK," Gloria shrugged. "I love music, and it's fun to play, but … it does get a little stressful sometimes."

"It sounds amazing," Nick replied. Gloria raised an eyebrow at him, and belatedly he gestured toward her violin. "Your playing, I mean. Not working in the orchestra."

Gloria smiled. "What about you, Nick?" she asked with an expansive gesture that swept across the café. "What's it like working at Gerald's?"

Nick paused. "Oh, it's very sophisticated," he said airily. "Gerald's only takes the very best, you see, since we fraternize with so many bigwigs. Margaret Thatcher. The queen. You know, the usuals."

He watched as Gloria forced back another laugh and gave him an arch look instead. "And what qualifies you to work at Gerald's, Sir Nick?"

She was playing along.

Bloody hell, women never played along with his sarcasm.

"I," said Nick, splaying his fingers across his chest, "am currently earning my doctorate at Oxford University."

"Oh, really?" Gloria teased.

"Oh, yes."

She shook her head. "Well, then, what brings you, such a learned man, to work at Gerald's, hm, Sir Nick?"

"Prestige," said Nick instantly, surprising another laugh out of Gloria. "Of course. But other than that –" He pulled a long face. "Poverty, my dear."

For a moment, he thought he'd made things uncomfortable again. Then a slow, absolutely charmed smile spread across Gloria's face, and Nick couldn't believe his luck.

"Well, Nick," said Gloria, "if you're that strapped for cash, I'm sure we could work something out."

She reached down and hauled her violin case up onto the table, opening it briefly and looking inside.

"I'm in need of an accompanist," she said, voice never losing that soft cadence it had. "Can you play the piano?"

"Of course," said Nick. He'd never touched a piano in his life.

Gloria's smile grew more vibrant.

"Here," she said, taking a business card from her case and scribbling down an address. "Come here on Friday. We'll set you up."

Before handing Nick the card, she flipped it over and showed him the other side.

"That's my number," she said lowly. "Call me."

Nick nodded, suddenly struck mute, and Gloria paid him for her tea and left. Nick sat there for a moment, staring at the card.

He didn't have a phone, and he had a week to learn the piano, and all for the sake of some uptown socialite who normally wouldn't spare him a glance. The kind of girl he'd taken pains to bring to tears when he was just a kid.

Nick was in love.