“Listen,” I say gently, “I’m seeing someone.”
She doesn’t even flinch.
“Of course you are,” she says. “Men like you are never single.”
I laugh.
“Can I give you my number anyway?” she asks. “For when you break up?”
Bold.
Confident.
Honestly kind of sexy.
But I shake my head, grinning. “I’m usually here. Or the bar down the block. Or the marina.”
She winks. “Good to know.”
As I head back up, she calls, “Play something for me next set?”
“Dangerous request, darling,” I say.
But when I sing?—
I catch her swaying, one hand in the air, watching me like I’m the only thing in the room.
I hold eye contact through a line.
Her face goes red.
I look away, smiling.
Damn.
This feels good.
Too good.
Work’s steady. Friends are solid. Sage’s incredible.
Everything’s clicking.
For once.
I finish the last song to whistles and claps.
“Come back next Sunday,” I say into the mic. “Three to six. Come bug me again.”
Tips clink into the guitar case while I pack up.
Bills. Fives. Crumpled singles.
Not glamorous.
But it’s something.
I stash the guitar carefully in my trunk.
