“Where’s the little one tonight?” I ask, voice steady.
“Upstairs with Rowan. She’ll bring her down later if she’s up for it.” Sadie’s tone softens.
I nod, handing her the last sorted cable. “All set. What’s next?”
She gives me a marker and a roll of tape. “Label these: vocal mic, guitar, keyboard.”
Her fingers graze mine as she passes them over. I catch her breath in the silence that follows. Neither of us comments, but it’s there, electric and undeniable.
For the next twenty minutes we work side by side, labeling cables, adjusting lights, shifting chairs. Our movements fall into an easy, unspoken rhythm. I slide a chair into place right as she reaches for it. She hands me another cable before I ask.
“I think that’s everything,” she finally says, stepping back to survey the room. “They’ll start arriving soon.”
“Nervous?” I nod toward her clipboard, knuckles white around the metal edge.
She exhales, a small laugh escaping. “A little.”
“It’ll be great,” I promise, voice warm. “Virginia Dale’s finest amateur performers, all under one roof. What could go wrong?”
She truly laughs this time, and her smile lights up her whole face. I feel a warmth in my chest, as if I’ve glimpsed the person she is beneath the perfectionism.
The café door swings open and a flood of open mic hopefuls spills in. Sadie’s easy grin snaps shut, replaced by the crisp efficiency I know so well.
“I need more cups from the back,” she says, already pivoting toward the narrow supply hallway. “We’re going to need them.”
“Want a hand?” I offer, tailing her down the corridor that runs past the kitchen. She pauses mid-step, then glances at me. “Actually, yes. And ice.”
We slip into the tiny closet nook where the overhead light hums low and the ice machine rattles in the corner. It’s like a secret alcove, cut off from the buzz of arrivals. Shelves creak under boxes of cups, napkins, and lids. The air smells faintly of coffee grounds and something floral—her shampoo, maybe—clinging to the air.
Sadie stretches up, pale arms lifting a sleeve of cups from the top shelf. Her shirt hikes just enough to bare a sliver of skin at her waist. I pretzel myself around a stack of boxes to reach the ice bucket, but all I can think about is how the warmth from her back presses against my arm. Heat prickles up my neck, tight and sharp, like my body’s suddenly two sizes too big for this closet. Her hair brushes my shoulder as she turns to drop the cups into the bin.
“So,” I say, scooping ice, “do you ever get onstage yourself?” My voice sounds too loud in the hush.
She snorts, her chestnut lashes flicking. “Me? No. I leave the spotlight to the attention-seekers.” She jabs a finger at the cups. “That’s your department.”
“Ouch.” I press a hand to my heart. “You know I signed up to play tonight, right?”
I catch that tiny flicker of surprise in her eyes as her shoulders shift. “You did?”
“Guitar and vocals. Just a cover.”
She studies me, head tilted. “I didn’t take you for the performing type.”
I laugh, but it comes out softer than I expect. “What type, then?”
Sadie turns back to the shelves, cheeks dusted pink. “Charming-your-way-through-life type.”
“Is that what I’ve been doing with you?” I step closer under the pale bulb, almost brushing her side. “Charming my way through?”
Her breath catches; I feel it on my neck. I’m keenly aware of the faint rustle of her shirt, the soft pulse at her throat, the slight give of her perfume, coffee and something floral, something sweet.
“If so,” she murmurs, voice low, “it’s not working very well.”
I lean in, too close, close enough to see tiny amber flecks in her brown eyes, to track each rise and fall of her breath. “No? Then what would work better?”
Sadie’s gaze dips to my lips, then darts back to mine. The air between us feels like static. Heat slams low in my gut. She’s so close. One move and I could have her against the wall, my mouth claiming hers. I want to cross that space, feel her melt for me. Instead, I hold still, every muscle taut with restraint.
A muffled clatter from the café startles us both. Sadie straightens, reaching for a stack of lids. “We’d better get these out there before the show starts,” she says, voice steady but softer than before. I swallow.
