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“He’s married to Olivia. Now. But Sam and Sandra were together in high school and college.”
“And how long ago was that?”
I shrug and let my gaze fall back on the golden blonde.
“Dude. You can go for her now, you know?”
It’s not that simple. And if she gets her way, she’ll be pregnant soon. Hell, she could be pregnant right now.
Sunny ends her song and speaks into the microphone. “That’s it for me, folks. I really appreciate you all listening.” Subdued sporadic clapping sounds in fits and bursts. “Shane Wilcox is up next, and I hope you’re as good to him as you were to me. Thank you all. And if you’d like for John to put me on the roster again, be sure to ask for Sandra Turner.” She places her hand to her lips and blows out a kiss to the audience. The action wins another round of applause and even a couple of catcalls from the back.
She steps down from the stage and strides straight to our booth. She leans across the bench and gives Harrison a hug, then slides in next to me.
“Great show,” I say.
“You made it for two songs.” Her smile is teasing, but guilt slices.
“Three-car collision.” I search her expression, hoping for understanding. I’m not like others. I don’t have a choice when work calls.
Her light arched brows draw together and her lips tighten. “Oh, no. Everyone okay?”
“They will be.” To my knowledge, they will all be okay. My patient will eventually be fine, but she may set off security alarms for the rest of her life.
“So, Sandra or Sunny?” Harrison butts in.
“Oh, Ian’s the only one who calls me Sunny. Everyone else calls me Sandra.”
Harrison narrows his eyes, and I prepare for the inquisition.
“Why do you call her Sunny?”
“Yeah, why do you call me Sunny?” She seconds, and her nose wrinkles up in that adorable way she has when she’s both teasing and asking.
“Apropos, I guess.” There’s not a chance in hell I’ll admit that back when I was crushing hard, it used to feel like the sun came out whenever she entered a room. Harrison, of all people, would never let me live down the cheese in that sentiment.
“Blonde?” Harrison guesses.
“Exactly,” I say. “Sunny, what would you like to drink?”
“Honestly, I’m exhausted. And I drank enough water before the show that I might float out of here if I drink more.” Water. Hmm. The turkey baster approach might have worked.
The guy on stage begins singing. We’re sitting a mite too close to the amplifier.
“What song is that?” I ask Sunny, raising my voice to a near shout.
“Oh, he sings all his own work.”
Harrison lifts his arm and checks the time. “I know you two kids don’t have work tomorrow, but I do. I’m gonna head on out.”
I lean down so my lips are closer to her ear. “You want to stay, or you ready to call it a night?”
“I’d love to get home and get comfy.”
“Looks like we’ll head out with you,” I tell Harrison. His sophomoric smirk says plenty, but I ignore him.
Sunny steps backstage to collect her guitar and to thank John, then we all head out together. Harrison jumps into his Uber, and after a brief discussion, we agree to walk the couple of blocks back to my place.
My fingers graze hers as we stride side by side down the sidewalk. The touch is jarring and possibly overly friendly, so I shove my hand into my pants pocket.
