“Sure.” Rowan’s smile spreads. “Let me guess, your boyfriend brought this over.”
“He’s not my boyfriend.” The words snap out, my cheeks flaming.
“Mm-hmm.” She arches an eyebrow. “So… date night?”
Straightening coffee cups with a little too much focus, I avoid her gaze. “No. Nothing like that.”
Rowan leans against the counter, arms crossed. The silence stretches until I can’t stand it. “He said I deserve a relaxing night,” I admit. “Just me. A bubble bath, locked door, wine.”
Her brows shoot up. “Bubble bath and wine? He actually told you to spend time alone instead of dragging you out with him?” She whistles low. “Maybe I’ve been too hard on him.”
“It was nothing,” I murmur, but it sounds hollow. “Just… nice.”
“Nice.” Her tone softens. “When’s the last time you did something nice for yourself, Sadie?”
I’m silent, too long to remember.
Sliding a stack of flyers toward me, Rowan brightens. “Open Mic Night posters, ready to go. Thursday at seven.”
I take a quick glance downward. “Looks great. Thanks for handling it.”
“You’ll be there, right? Maybe even sing?” Her voice is casual, but her gaze pins me.
A short laugh escapes. “With Poppy and the café closing? Not a chance.”
“I can watch Poppy,” she counters at once. “And Finn volunteered to close. Said, ‘Boss lady needs to remember humans have fun sometimes.’”
“My life includes fun,” I protest.
“Sade,” Rowan says gently, “you can’t spend your life hiding.”
My muscles lock tight. “I’m not hiding, I’m being responsible.”
“There’s responsible,” she murmurs, “and then there’s being afraid to live. I’m talking about you, letting yourself belong here.”
I drag my fingertip along the bottle’s smooth neck. In that moment, a flash: onstage, eyes on me, Axel’s gaze burning bright in the crowd. My stomach flips, equal parts longing and terror, before the vision gets shoved away.
“I’ll think about it,” I whisper, neither promising nor refusing.
Rowan’s smile is small, but genuine. “That’s all I can ask.”
She heads back to the kitchen, leaving me alone with the Cabernet and the flyer. Both get tucked beneath the counter before I return to wiping surfaces, checking inventory, keeping perfect order.
Still, my mind drifts upstairs to my apartment, to that clawfoot tub I’ve never used for anything but cleaning. This bottle suddenly tastes like permission to breathe.
And beyond that, thoughts jump to Thursday night: music and laughter and the terrifying possibility of being seen. Not as the café owner. Not as Poppy’s protector. But as Sadie. Just Sadie.
With a quick shake of my head, I lean over the coffee grinder. One step at a time. First the wine. The rest… we’ll see.
Chapter 8
Axel
Islip into Pike’s Perk forty-five minutes before Open Mic Night officially begins. The late afternoon sun spills in through the windows, lighting up the café in honeyed tones, softer than the harsh glare I remember from morning shifts. Most tables are shoved aside, opening space by the front window for performers.
Sadie doesn’t see me yet. She’s crouched by the wall, taping extension cords with brisk, precise movements. A half-assembled stage light lies at her elbow, cables coiled like sleeping snakes beside her.
I hang my jacket on the coatrack, then start gathering empty cups. It feels good to move, to be useful without fanfare.
