I’m still in a daze. I lick a sticky trail of coffee off my knuckles and veer my attention toward Kenna. “How are you so good at this? You were a waitress a few days ago.”
“Yeah. And now I’m lining up a feature inRolling Stone Online—complete with a photoshoot, of course—and negotiating a cut of your merch. Try to keep up.” She pinches my arm with an affectionate wink.
Tag gawks at her like he’s seeing her for the first time. “Kinda hot. Won’t lie.”
She wrinkles her nose, then turns to me. “Not to mention, you were also a waitress a few days ago. Now you’re a superstar.”
“I wouldn’t say—”
“Own it, Annalise.” She snatches my hand and gives it a shake. “Own it, breathe it, live it. It’s the only way.”
“You’re manifesting for me, aren’t you?”
“I always manifest for you. That’s what best friends do.”
I squeeze her hand with a nod, letting it all journey through me in tendrils of vast potential. “I need you here. Every step of the way.”
“Duh. Are you kidding? Why do you think I’ve been biding my time at your boyfriend’s diner for two years? I was waiting for this.”
Fiancé, my brain amends.
But I don’t bother correcting her.
“You should see my spreadsheets,” she continues. “‘Project: Annalise’s Big Break and Rise to Fame.’ There’s color coding, a five-year plan, and contingency options for when you inevitably ditch me for an assistant with better handwriting.”
I laugh, the kind that bubbles up from somewhere real. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And you’re stuck with me.” She squeezes my hand back before dropping it and straightening her pencil skirt. “Now let’s go change our lives with a janky van, a viral video, and way too much talent for one room.”
Kenna steps away and grabs Tag by the arm, leading him over to the loveseat where her laptop is open, primed with big, color-coded dreams.
Chase saunters over to me, hands in his pockets. “Got a minute?”
The rest of the guys gather around the loveseat, assessing Kenna’s notes. I blink back to him. “Yeah. Of course.”
He nods at the staircase, gesturing me to follow. We trek up to the living room where a new guitar is resting on the sofa. It’s not a custom but a Gibson acoustic hummingbird with a vintage sunburst.
Catching me eyeing it, Chase sinks down on the couch and holds it up. “Like the new axe?”
“It’s gorgeous,” I croon, taking a seat beside him. “Must’ve cost a pretty penny.”
“Little bit. Just a few days after the show, all my customs sold for asking price. Figured I should invest in the band with the extra cash.”
“Smart. Stocked fridges are overrated.”
“I’ve learned to get by on less.” A soft smile carves dimples on his cheeks. “Also, I finally quit the woodworking job last week. Gave Sol my notice.”
My head snaps toward him. “Seriously?”
He nods, running his thumb along the strings. “If I’m going to bet on anything, it should be this.”
I study him for a beat, his biceps flexing beneath short gray sleeves, and thick veins dilating as he flicks a pick over the strings. “Play something for me,” I say.
He shoots me a glance, hunching over the instrument. “Any requests?”
“Whatever you want.”
Chase could play “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” and I’d be toast. Down bad. Mesmerized through and through.
