I wonder, briefly and recklessly, if anyone would notice if I grabbed this man by the front of his shirt and dragged him into the storage room for however long it takes to make myself feel better.
Hell, maybe I could convince him to take a vacation and come along when Atticus and I leave in two days.
The thought is vivid enough to make my pulse kick. Dom’s scarred hands pinning my wrists, that rough voice telling me to?—
I drown the fantasy in a gulp of whiskey.
His mouth twitches, as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
But the lights dim before I can decide whether to throw caution to the wind.
A hush ripples through the crowd as attention swings toward the makeshift stage in the corner. Atticus has settled onto the stool, guitar balanced across his thighs, fingers already finding position on the frets. The single spotlight that someone riggedup catches the sharp planes of his face, throwing shadows that make him look almost otherworldly.
I swivel on my stool to face the stage, grateful for something to focus on besides the complicated knot of emotions currently strangling my heart.
Atticus adjusts the microphone, tapping it once to check the levels. The sound system crackles briefly, then settles into a low hum.
“Evening, Harmony Harbor,” he says, and his voice carries through the room with that effortless projection that fills stadiums. “Didn’t expect to be back here so soon, but apparently the lobster rolls are too good to resist.”
Scattered laughter ripples through the crowd.
He strums a chord, letting it ring out. “I get nervous singing around people I know, so you all need to bear with me.”
More laughter. He’s got them already—that magnetic pull that makes rooms full of strangers feel like they’re sharing a private moment with him.
He starts slow with a crooning song that feels like a whisper under skin. I let the music wash over me, and for a few blessed minutes, my thoughts slip away with it.
The song ends to a round of raucous applause.
Atticus grins, acknowledging the response with a small nod. Then his expression shifts. His eyes scan the crowd, searching for something. Someone.
They land on me.
“I’ve got a special guest for this next one,” he announces.
My stomach drops.
“Phoenix Riviera, everyone.” He gestures toward me with the neck of his guitar. “Come on up here.”
The crowd goes wild.
I shake my head emphatically, plastering on a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. My hand waves in a motionthat clearly communicatesno thank you, absolutely not, please stop.
Atticus doesn’t stop.
“Don’t make me come down there and carry you up,” he says into the microphone. “I’ll do it. I am not above manhandling.”
The crowd laughs. Someone near the back starts a chant.
“Phoenix! Phoenix! Phoenix!”
The chant spreads like wildfire. Within seconds, the entire bar is chanting my name, stomping their feet, clapping their hands. Impossible to refuse without making a scene that would be infinitely worse than whatever Atticus has planned.
I might actually murder him.
Atticus extends a hand to help me up on the stage.
“I will kill you for this,” I whisper in his ear.
