Niko leaned over to her, his lips brushing her ear as he got close enough to be heard over the music. “Do you want to get out of here?”
Her pulse stilled, her mouth going dry. “What?”
“We can go upstairs. There’s another part of the bar up there.”
She shook her head. “No, I’m okay. He didn’t bother me.”
“Are you sure?”
She looked up at him through her lashes and saw his brows were knitted in concern. “Shit. Do I seem miserable?”
“No, no. You just look…distant. Don’t worry about it, I don’t think anyone else can tell.”
She breathed a sigh of relief. “We should stay through the first set, at least. It’ll be a bad look if I leave now.”
He nodded, then drained his beer, waving to Jo for another one. They didn’t talk much after that, just sat and listened to the music.
Eventually, she found she didn’t have to fake enjoyment: shewashaving a good time. The joy and energy rolling off that tiny stage was infectious, the band playing for nothing but the pure love of it—and, honestly, she liked more Grateful Dead songs than she’d realized.
Then there was the fact that Niko’s knee was, once again, pressed to hers under the bar, whichhadto be intentional this time. Didn’t it?
When the forty-five-minute set ended, she applauded loudly, then turned to Niko. Without a word, he picked up both their glasses, and they headed to the staircase half-hidden in the back of the bar.
Upstairs, the far wall was lined with booths, with a few pool tables scattered around and a jukebox at one end. Niko slid into one side of a free booth, Merritt taking the other. He looked like he wanted to say something, but he just sipped his beer.
“What?” Merritt prompted.
He glanced up, reticent. “You have a Grammy?”
She almost brushed it off with a simple affirmative, but what the hell. It had been a long time since she’d let herself flex a little. “I have seven.” She paused before adding, “And an Oscar.”
Niko couldn’t have looked more dumbfounded if she’d told him she had a tail. “You have anOscar?”
“I wrote a James Bond song,” she said with a shrug, taking a sip of water.
He leaned back in the booth, assessing her. “Wow,” he said. “I see why Frank is so insecure around you. I mean, he was being an asshole and should’ve kept that shit to himself, but now I kind of get it.”
She felt a twinge of regret seeing the expression on his face, the first time he’d looked at her like that. Like he’d just realized she was from a different planet, and he wasn’t sure whether to be awed or afraid. “I just had a really good publicist,” she mumbled.
It had been so long since she’d talked about that part of her life that it felt unnatural. Sitting in this booth with him now, she’d never felt further away from the version of herself that had employed a mini empire of people in the business of Being Merritt Valentine.
He nodded at the stairs. “When’s the last time you were up there? Onstage, I mean.”
“Ten years?” She said it like a question, as if she didn’t know, almost to the day, the last time she’d performed in front of a single person, let alone a crowd.
Niko took another drink, looking pensive. “Can I ask you something?”
She wanted to point out that he had already asked her several somethings, but clearly he was trying to gauge her comfort level with this line of questioning.
She met his eyes, trying to shake off her apprehension. “Go for it.”
“You’re a musician.”
“Is that the question?”
“I’m working up to it.”
She laughed a little. “Okay. Yes, I’m a musician.”
