Crisp, raw music pulls me into the tightly packed bar and wraps its arms around me. The only thing detracting from the velvety voice flowing through the room is the incessant yapping of my escort.

“I thought of you when I heard they were having live music in here tonight.” Brooks guides me to an open area at the bar. A small Reserved sign propped up against a bottle of champagne marks the spot with two seats. “You’ve always got music playing while you work.”

He pulls out one of the tufted leather barstools and waits for me to take a seat.

“It looks like these seats are taken,” I say, looking around the crowded bar with no other available chairs.

It makes perfect sense that there is nothing but standing room only here. The sounds of acoustic guitar and that voice are like honey, drawing all the flies. I kind of think that, if I checked out the floor, I’d see dropped panties littering the space.

“I had them reserve us a spot here, at the bar. I want nothing but the best for you.” Brooks leans in close, crowding me again. “Jesus, they didn’t even chill the champagne properly,” he mutters through a disgusted sneer. “Why don’t you sit your pretty little self down? And I’ll get this straightened out with the management.” He swipes the bottle off the bar and plows his way through the busy room to the hostess stand.

I can’t hear what he’s saying to the poor hostess, but it’s probably better that way. Brooks has been hovering on the edge of smarmy pretension since I showed up at his family’s office, teetering just on the precipice of inappropriate with his leering looks and way-too-close proximity. Brooks is a harassment case waiting to happen.

The bartender tosses me a smile and quick nod that she’ll be down to help me in just a moment. The purple streak wrapped around her messy bun brings me back to a different time, a different restaurant, miles and a lifetime away.

“What can I get for you?” She pulls me back from a full-blown flashback.

Why do I torture myself with reliving my biggest regret?

I haven’t been able to find anything on Gavin’s band since they played at the Beekman College summer concert series a few months after we met—after I bolted, literally running away from him in Destin.

Giving in to the memories, I lean forward and order the fruitiest tequila drink that she can think of. The combination of reminiscing and the music leaves me craving a taste of spring break.

“Thanks.” I hand her my card and take a cautious sip of the frozen tropical goodness, wanting to avoid the brain freeze that seems to plague me. Mangoes, berries, and tequila blended with ice. “Do you know who this is playing? He’s incredible.”

She runs my card and snaps it back down on the bar in front of me. “He is, right?” She darts her gaze past me, and her smile is replaced with a look of restrained irritation as she excuses herself and hustles down to the far end of the bar.

I pick up my glass and turn in my seat, searching for a stage, a microphone, something.

“This establishment most likely won’t be getting any more of my patronage.” Brooks huffs as he plants himself on the chair next to me, effectively blocking my view of the room. “I’ve got them all straightened out. Put them in their place.” Brooks whips his condescending gaze to my drink and demands, “What the hell is that?”

“My drink.”

He plucks the offending beverage from my hand and plops it down on the far side of the bar.

Shocked. I’m shocked at his presumptuousness. And appalled. Shocked and appalled.

“The champagne will be out in a moment as well as some desserts they thought would smooth things over.”

Why am I even here? What made me think this would be anything different than the Brooks show?

“They evidently have a new pastry chef, though I doubt it will be anything worth bothering with.”

I tune him out, trying to ignore his rant, and reach for my drink, sucking half of it down in one big gulp.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Goddamn brain freeze.

My eyes water, my nose wrinkles up, and all I can manage is to bite my fist and breathe deeply. And curse gloriously. “Fuck, this shit hurts.”

The bartender hands me a glass of tepid water and an exaggeratedly sympathetic look. When she sets a wine bucket down on the bar in front of us, the green bottle with gold foil around its neck resting in an ice bath, her sudden departure earlier makes sense. “Brooks—”

“You should watch your language,” he corrects me. He fucking corrects me.

My head is spinning, my blood thumping, and I am on the verge of ripping into this asshole when the most amazing presentation of tiramisu is set before me. I hate to admit it, but the truth hurts; I can totally be distracted by dessert.

“Thank you,” I tell the bartender.

She smiles at me, but it tightens as she shifts her attention to Brooks.

“Is everything to your satisfaction, sir?” She pours a taste of the champagne for him and then waits patiently while he goes through the motions of sniffing and tasting.

“This is amazing,” I moan around a mouthful of the boozy coffee dessert.

“I’ll let Sasha know. Thank you. She’s our pastry chef, um”—she leans in a little closer to me and drops her volume—“and she arranged the music tonight. She knows this guy and—”

“I suppose this will suffice,” Brooks states loudly, pulling all focus back to him. “And you can take that away.” He dismissively waves a hand at his untouched dessert and my fruity brain freeze.

“Uh, yeah, I’ll be keeping my drink, and there’s no way in hell I’m going to let that sweet little confection go to waste.” I trade my now-empty plate for the full one and move my glass closer to me again.

All the aggravation in the world is a small price to pay for the dessert alone. I scoop a perfect bite onto my spoon, and just as it passes my lips, my mouth bursting with flavors and textures like nothing I’ve ever tasted, the fantasy all comes crashing down.

“You’re not really going to eat both of those, are you?”

Yeah, the asshole went there.

And, to make matters worse, Brooks has the nerve to reach back and pat my ass, adding, “You don’t have any extra space in that skirt, sweetheart.”

There is so much wrong with this situation. So much.

“Get your hand off of me.”

He laughs. The dick has the nerve to laugh. And, instead of moving his hand, he squeezes the nonexistent fat on my backside. It’s probably a product of my anger, but it feels like the whole restaurant has gone quiet. I don’t hear a thing. Not even the frostiness of my glass registers in my hand—until it’s too late.

I end my set, blissfully unrecognized. I’m still just some guy playing his guitar in a nothing little venue—if this even counts as a venue.

My sister asked me to fill in at the last minute at the restaurant where she works. Totally a spur-of-the-moment thing, but this is the part of music I really dig. Yeah, I fucking love the money I make off record sales, the pace and pulse of tours and stuff, but I totally get off on popping into little places like this and just playing.

Sasha promised me free drinks and my choice of her unbelievable culinary creations as payment. Actually, she offered to pay me, but all I need is the soul-healing vibe going on here and some of her pastries or whatever she made tonight.

With my guitar tucked away in its case, I make my way to the bar, weaving through the tightly packed tables, shaking hands along the way. At the corner of the bar, couples are leaning into each other, chatting on either side. I nod to the bartender and check the place out for real. I came running in—late, of course—and barely got my shit set up before I had to start playing. I stuck mostly with covers tonight, not wanting to draw attention to myself.

“Whiskey, right?”

Not sure why the bartender even bothered to ask when she places the double in front of me, grabs an empty plate from the couple to my right, and scurries off down the bar.