Chapter 10 #2
Phoebe sat in a booth next to Ivy, who was writing out pricing stickers for her newest candles.
Phoebe tried to act normal. She was catastrophically bad at acting normal.
Her accent was out in full force. She’d stopped hearing it, which meant it was bad, and her fingers kept pressing against her lower lip where his cold mouth had been.
Every time she caught herself doing it, she moved her hand to her pocket, and then five seconds later it was back on her mouth again.
She was thirty-eight years old. She’d been kissed before.
But she had never in her life been kissed by a man whose mouth tasted like Christmas and whose hand shook against her face and then pulled it away like it physically hurt him to stop.
Ember slid a warm cinnamon roll across the table and said with a wink, “You look like you slept well.”
Ivy’s head snapped up, and her eyes went wide.
Phoebe opened her mouth to deny everything Ember was assuming.
What came out instead was a laugh that was startled and real, and too loud for the tiny bakery.
It filled the space the way her voice filled a stage, but without a single ounce of performance.
It came from her whole chest. She sounded like herself.
Her actual self. The Brooklyn girl who sang in the church choir before anyone told her to smooth the edges off.
The sound of it surprised her so badly, she clapped her hand over her mouth.
Ivy’s eyes moved from Phoebe’s hand on her mouth to Ember’s grin, and a slow, knowing smile spread across her face. “Oh! Oh, good for you, girl.”
Phoebe buried her face in her hands and let herself sit inside this feeling without trying to analyze it or brace for the other shoe.
Just warmth and cinnamon surrounding her, and the sound of Kaelor’s low laugh and Ember’s delighted one, and the taste of peppermint on her mouth that she hoped wouldn’t fade too fast.
Phoebe, Ember and Ivy had so much to talk about, she ended up staying in the bakery until the lunch rush started.
It wasn’t the best time for Kaelor to accompany her back to the amphitheater, but Thorne had been insistent that she have an escort everywhere she went ever since the first incident in her dressing room.
The bakery was packed with visitors buying sandwiches, coffee, tea, and Ember and Kaelor’s famous baked goods. Their award-winning fusion recipe from last year’s baking competition was their most sought-after item, though Phoebe preferred the sesame shortbread cookies herself.
She was nibbling on one that she’d just dunked in her tea when she realized someone was standing next to her.
She lifted her head and noticed the journalist who had spoken to her a few days ago smiling down at her. She still hadn’t heard from the venue’s manager that a date for an interview had been set.
“My apologies for disturbing you, Miss Calloway,” he said.
The words were warm and professional. The collar of his coat was dusted with vanilla-scented snow, and his press credentials were clipped to his jacket.
“I just came in for some lunch and saw you sitting here.” He held up a paper bag with the bakery’s logo on the front, which she assumed was lunch.
“This might be a little presumptuous of me, but would now be a good time for that interview? If you’re not too busy, of course. ”
“I suppose that would be alright, Mr…” she said, searching for his name.
“Hale. Gavin Hale. Thank you so much. This means a lot to me. I promise it won’t take long.”
The journalist sat down, taking a comm unit from his pocket and setting it on the table between them.
Phoebe took the final bite of her cookie and brushed the crumbs from her hands. “Ask away.”
The journalist opened his mouth to say something and halted. He sat forward and frowned at the comm unit. “Oh, no. I’m so sorry, Miss Calloway, but the noise in here is interfering with the recording. Would it be possible to take the conversation outside?”
Phoebe’s stomach tightened. Thorne had told her to stay inside. She could still hear his voice in her ear before he dropped her off at the bakery that morning. Remain in the bakery until Kaelor walks you to the amphitheater. Until we catch this person, you’re to be escorted at all times.
“There’s a bench just across the street over there,” Gavin said, nodding toward the window. “If you don’t mind,” he said, standing.
She turned around and looked out the window.
The bench was just across the street, right in the middle of the square.
She’d be in sight of the bakery and several dozen other festival stalls and marketplaces.
She had already agreed to an interview. Refusing him now felt like paranoia she couldn’t justify to a man whose only crime was holding legitimate press credentials and asking polite questions.
“Sure,” she said. “Just a few minutes.”
“I promise to be quick,” he said, leading the way and holding the door open for her.
The festival hummed with midday activity around them: a Zingiberite vendor arranging spice displays, a pair of children chasing each other through the vanilla snow, a carol drifting from somewhere down the market lane in harmonics that blended three different tonal ranges.
They sat on a bench in the square. The bakery’s front window was still visible over the journalist’s shoulder, and Phoebe could see Ember moving behind the glass, flour in her hair. The sight grounded her enough to settle her shoulders and slip into interview mode.
The questions were typical. Her career trajectory. The cross-cultural experience of performing for an alien audience. How Frostfall’s amphitheater compared to Earth’s venues . The acoustics, the emotional response, the way the audience took part.
She answered on autopilot. She was gracious. Professional. She gave him good quotes, all the while being mindful of not giving him anything real. The questions continued for five minutes. Ten.
Then he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and asked, “Tell me, Phoebe, what do you do in the quiet before a show when nobody’s watching? What are the private sounds you make to settle your nerves?”
The hum of the festival market dropped away.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“Your warm-ups?” He smiled. “The sounds you make when you think you’re alone. I’ve always wondered what the process is like for someone at your level.”
The skin on the back of her neck prickled and tightened. She held her smile and gave him her usual answer about vocal preparation. Hydration, scales, diaphragmatic breathing. She watched his face while she talked about it. His expression didn’t shift. He remained patient. Interested. Waiting.
The interview wrapped up, and he extended his hand. She took it.
His grip tightened against hers. Not hard. Not painful, just tight. His fingers gripped hers, and his eyes met hers with an intimacy so genuine it turned her stomach.
“Phoebe,” he said, his voice warm and low. “I should have told you sooner. The frostlilies were from me.”
Her free hand inside her coat pocket found the security comm. She pressed the button without looking at it and held her face perfectly still.
“You should know that I’m your Truest Listener,” he said.
“I’ve been closer than you realized, and I want you to know that your private voice is the one that matters most to me.
The one you give them onstage is beautiful.
But the one you keep for yourself? The one nobody hears?
” His thumb moved across her knuckles. “That’s the real you. ”
Phoebe kept her breathing even and hoped with her whole being that Thorne could hear every word over the comm. She kept her eyes on the journalist’s face and let him continue to talk.
He described the melody she hummed when she was anxious, the specific bluesy three-note pattern she used to settle her breathing before the house lights dropped.
He described the path she walked home at night from the amphitheater.
He told her he’d noticed that she hadn’t slept in her own quarters last night, and he hoped that wherever she’d been, she felt safe, because he worried about her. He worried about her all the time.
His voice was gentle. Sincere. Certain. He wasn’t threatening her. There was no menace in his grip, no edge in his tone. He released her hand willingly and patted it once.
“I’ll see you at tonight’s show,” he said and stood. He brushed the snow off his coat and walked into the festival crowd.
Phoebe sat on the bench with the comm unit still in her hand, the print of his hand on her knuckles, and the taste of peppermint still in her mouth. She didn’t move until she heard boots hitting the snow-covered pavement coming from the direction of the security office.