Maya grabs my arm and leans in. “That’s Frankie Miller. He still thinks he can hit that high note. He still can’t.”
I laugh so hard I snort, and Maya high-fives me like it’s 2012 and we’re still sneaking wine coolers into the senior bonfire.
I don’t realize how much I missed this, missedher, until I’m back in it.
Chicago is cool.
I definitely enjoy culinary school.
But I have to admit, it’s a hell of a lot of fun to be back.
“You’re up!” Maya shouts over the crowd, shoving me toward the little wooden stage with a wicked grin. “Don’t chicken out now, Dawson!”
I groan but don’t fight it. My feet move on their own, muscle memory carrying me to the mic like it always has. A familiar cheer goes up as I step onto the stage, and someone from the cider booth shouts, “Make us cry, Jo!”
Challenge accepted.
The opening chords ofJolenespill from the speakers, and I close my eyes, letting the words pour out of me. For threeminutes, it’s just me, Dolly, and the kind of aching you can only sing with a cider burn in your throat and a cracked-open heart.
When the final note fades, the market erupts in cheers, filling me with a warmth I work hard to contain.
I hop off the stage, grinning, my cheeks flushed and my chest warm with an intensity I can’t quite name.
“Still got it,” Maya says, hugging me tight.
“You say that like I ever lost it.”
Woah.
I turn to check out the crowd, to see who I recognize, only to find myself looking athim.
A brooding, tattooed stranger with a body that looks carved from heat and trouble. Tall, broad-shouldered, built like he could throw someone over that griddle without breaking a sweat.
He’s wearing a black Henley that hugs his chest like it was stitched onto him, the sleeves shoved up to reveal powerful forearms inked in winding black tattoos. His jeans hang low on narrow hips, worn in all the right places, and his boots look like they’ve seen more than a few bar fights.
He’s behind one of the food booths we haven’t hit yet, flipping something sizzling on a cast iron griddle like he owns the place. Steam curls up around him, turning to smoke in the golden light, the scent of garlic, charred meat, and something sharp and spicy curling into the air. It’s mouthwatering, magnetic.
And then, as if hefeelsme watching, he lifts his head.
We lock eyes across the crowd.
I pause mid-laugh, still breathless from the stage, cider cup in hand. For a second, everything goes a little hazy, like the lights dim, the noise dulls, and the only thing in focus ishim.
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t nod. Doesn’t even flinch.
But fire crackles between us. Hot. Immediate. Electric.
I can sense it even from here.
A flicker of heat blooms low in my stomach. It’s absurd. Irrational. Ridiculous. I don’t even know his name. But I know I’m staring, and I know he’s staring back. Like he’s trying to figure me out. Like he already has.
“Whoa,” Maya mutters beside me, her eyes bouncing between us. “Whoisthat?”
“No idea,” I say, voice a little breathless.
The stranger breaks eye contact first, turning his attention back to the grill like nothing happened, like he didn’t just short-circuit my entire nervous system with one look.
Maya nudges me. “Go ask what he’s cooking.”
