But I don’t ask; it’s not my place.
As Tag packs up his guitar, and patrons filter over to the tip jar, padding it with tens and twenties, Annie tucks her phone into her purse, takes a steadying breath, and turns to me. “We should hang out again sometime, outside of here. You know, maybe work on music and write some songs. I love my brother, but he doesn’t have a poetic bone in his body.” She breathes out a small laugh. “Unless that’s weird.”
I freeze, unprepared for the invitation.
Her eyes flare. “Shit. It’s totally weird.”
“No, no—not weird. Unexpected.”
“Do you write at all?”
“A few songs back in the day, but it’s been a while.”
“But you play. Guitar, I mean.”
“I do.”
“Okay. Well, think about it. I’ve been meaning to make more time for myself, for the things that matter. I work so much, and everything is just…” She trails off, the light in her eyes sinking beneath the surface like the sun dipping below the waterline, leaving twilight in its wake.
I try to get a read on her, unsure of her motives and whether it’s just a friendly invitation sparked by shared interests, or if something deeper lingers, veiled by the quiet innocence in her gaze.
“Will you be back next week?” she asks me.
Shaking away the seesawing thoughts, I drag my tongue over my teeth, letting a smile tease at the corners of my mouth. “Maybe.”
Something flickers in her eyes. A renewed torch. A flush creeps into her cheeks, turning them rosier. “Sounds like a yes.”
Rising from her chair, she steps closer, the faintest lean drawing me into her scent.
My breath catches.
I hold still, waiting.
“Everyone has cards, Chase,” she murmurs, her fingers curling around my shoulder. “Even the worst hands can still be played.”
Chapter 9Chase
The restaurant buzzes with an early lunch crowd, the smell of deep-fried food and sautéing burger patties assaulting my senses. The space boasts a 1960s flair with checkered tiles, red vinyl booths, and chrome-trimmed barstools lined up against a long counter. A jukebox hums in the corner, crackling as it cycles through old rock and roll hits.
It’s definitely a vibe.
But I’m not here for the vibe; I’m here for the girl.
I slide into an empty booth, eyeing the servers in retro-style aprons, searching for the one with purple streaks in her hair.
That’s when I spot Kenna.
She brightens when she sees me, gifting me with a flash of teeth. “Be right with you!” she calls out, balancing a tray of loaded fries and milkshakes, her voice nearly drowned out by the steady drone of conversation and clinking silverware.
When she approaches my table, she pulls a notepad and pen from her apronpocket. “Can I get you something to drink?” Her accent carries a distinct inflection, the kind you might hear along the Puerto Rican coast.
I set my plastic menu down. “Is Annie working today?”
She wrinkles her nose. “I’ll never get used to that. But yep, she’s in the kitchen. I’ll grab her. Did you want anything?”
“Coffee is good.”
“Coming right up.” She pops thePand saunters away, disappearing through the double doors.
