Page 23 of Love Felt Like This

“Hey, my dress is pretty.”

“It is,” he agrees.

My head jerks back.

God, he didn’t even skip a beat, did he?

He squints, and the corners of his mouth finally crook up. A full smile. “But you do look like a kindergarten teacher.”

He’s joking with me.

I curl my lips in, adjust my napkin, then pop them out to a smile. “Wow. Even my blind dates don’t insult me like that.”

“You go on blind dates often?” he asks.

“Try not to with musicians.”

“And what’s wrong with musicians?”

“What isn’t?”

I finally get a breath of laughter from him. It’s gruff and low. “Touché.”

“So, what is with the interviews?” I ask, leaning my forearms on the table. “It’s all people talk about.”

“I guess I don’t like people much nowadays,” he says. “I prefer my home.”

“I’m a homebody too. Well, home or the workshop,” I clarify. “It’s where I work. Or, worked?” I tilt my head to the side and squint as if thinking through the words myself. They’re so foreign on my tongue. “Finch is retiring.”

“He’s famous, isn’t he?”

“God, no, he’s…just some old guy,” I tease, waving him off. “No, he’s my boss and a mentor of sorts,” I clarify. “He’s kind of the grandfather of puppetry. I moved here five years ago to work with him, and I’ve been doing that ever since.”

“Why?”

“My grandpa was his business partner for years, and when he passed, I wanted to continue his legacy. Y’know, if I’m gonna get all woo-woo, meaning of life and all that.” He snorts. “But I’ve also been puppeteering for a long time, so it was a natural fit. Except for the show on Saturday, Finch and I have done every performance together for the last five years.”

“Sounds like he really respects you.”

I laugh. “I don’t know. I just assume he sees me as a lost kid with a dream.”

“Dreams are the reason we get out of bed in the morning.”

It’s my turn to snort. He’s charmingly quick-witted when he’s not being a massive pile of grump. The weird thing about Griffin Harvey is that he says things so genuinely yet so brusquely that it’s disarming. My gut says it’s a game. But the way his eyes dart between mine says otherwise.

“Well, I’m sure you feel the same way about making music,” I observe.

“Yeah…” The word fades, and he clears his throat.

I smirk. “Well, that’s convincing.”

“I’m trying to feel that way again.”

“You don’t right now?”

Griffin swallows. “It’s complicated.” He looks at the midnight blue wallpaper that, now seeing it closer, has raised details in the shape of roses with glimmers of gold. He’s silent for a moment before turning back to me, searching my eyes as if I were some zoo animal or freak of nature.

“Tell me why you’re reviving the show,” he says, adding, “honestly.”