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The bass hits harder tonight, pulsing through the Blue Note’s thick wooden floors as I push through the door, voices louder and bodies pressing closer in the narrow space between the bar and the wall.

Saturday packs the Blue Note tight.

I smooth my palm down the cream-ribbed sweater tucked into my trousers. No midriff tonight, no fragile chains. Just dark hair held back by the same sparkly clip and a demure silver teardrop on my nape guard.

Approachable. Uncomplicated.

Dim lighting bleeds through the room tonight, turning the dense crowd into an anonymous sea of silhouettes.

I head for the bar without scanning the room. The restraint costs me more than it should because I already know Orien stands in the northwest corner, his back to the wall, with sightlines covering both the door and the stage.

I lean my elbow on the counter, angling my body so my back is to the corner where he stands. My foot taps once on the metal footrest.

“Whiskey sour,” I tell the bartender when he stops in front of me. “Thanks.”

“Be right up.”

As he turns away, my attention shifts to the corner table where the guitarist from Thursday’s band sits alone, nursing a beer and watching the crowd with the comfortable detachment of someone used to being looked at but not approached.

Perfect.

My drink arrives, and I take a slow sip before stepping away from the bar, making my way through the packed room.

I slide into the seat across from him without asking, setting my glass down on the scarred wooden surface. “That opening riff was really something.”

His eyebrows rise. “You were here on Thursday?”

“I was.” I let genuine admiration shine through. “I’ve never heard ‘Slow River’ played like that before.”

He straightens, shoulders dropping as he leans forward. “Trying something new. It doesn’t always work.”

“It did this time.” I stick out my hand. “My name is Lee Esposito. I moved to Ashford Heights last month for work.”

He hesitates for only a heartbeat before shaking my hand. “Kain.”

I give him a playful smile. “Just Kain?”

A hint of mischief touches his mouth as he releases my hand. “That’s how musicians do things, didn’t you know?”

I chuckle in appreciation and take a sip from my glass, letting the whiskey burn across my tongue before I swallow. “I’m sad it took me so long to find this place. I love the local music scene. Are you playing again soon?”

The conversation builds from there. He names a half-dozen clubs, then pauses. “You should check out The Raven on Tuesday. Quieter vibe, but the acoustics are insane.”

“Noted.” I lean forward, letting my laugh join his when he describes the bass player’s over-the-top solo. I ease into the role, the laughter and tilted head as practiced as a knife drill.

As I do, I feel Orien’s attention on us, but I refuse to acknowledge him. The band on stage shifts into a slower song, the slide of a bottleneck guitar filling the space with mournful notes.

My foot taps under the table, keeping time with the beat. I laugh at Kain’s story about their drummer getting locked out of the van mid-tour, my fingers wrapped around my glass.

The bass of the song vibrates through the floor and up through my shoes, settling somewhere below my breastbone.

My skin prickles with awareness as the energy in the space around us shifts. Without turning, I sense Orien crossing the floor, his pace as unhurried and deliberate as the night we first met.

A moment later, he slides into the empty seat beside Kain, interrupting our conversation as he fixes on me. “I thought I told you to come back on Thursday, trouble.”

I meet his eyes across the table, pale gray holding mine as I set my glass down. “You informed me, without my asking, that you would be here on Thursdays. But why would I come back to see a man who didn’t even tell me his name?”

Orien’s mouth curves. “And yet, here you are.”