13. Distractions #2
“And I live in the booth,” David said easily. “Mixing tracks, repairing cables, swearing at amps. Basically, if it hums, buzzes, or explodes, it’s my problem.”
Rowan smirked into his beer. “So you’re the ones actually keeping his dream afloat.”
Sarah and David laughed, and I shot him a look across the table, equal parts warning and reluctant amusement.
The conversation flowed easier after that, settling into general small talk that felt safe. We discussed Harbor's End's changes over the years, the challenges of small-town life, the way technology had connected everyone to everything while somehow making people feel more isolated.
Rowan was charming when he wanted to be, I realized.
He drew Sarah and David into stories about life in New York, about the differences between city and small-town attitudes, about the strange intimacy that developed between strangers on subway platforms. He was funny, self-deprecating, engaging in ways that had nothing to do with his looks or his talent.
But I caught the way he kept glancing at me when he thought I wasn't looking. The way his fingers drummed against his beer bottle when the conversation lagged. The slight tension in his shoulders that suggested he was performing normalcy rather than feeling it.
“I should probably eat something,” Sarah announced around nine o'clock, checking her phone with the slightly unfocused attention of someone who'd been drinking steadily for hours. “Real food, not just peanuts.”
David nodded agreement. “Early morning tomorrow. That conference call I told you about.”
They began the elaborate process of gathering coats and calculating tips.
“You don't have to go,” Rowan said to me quietly, his voice just loud enough for me to hear over the bar's ambient noise. “I mean, if you want to stay. Have one more.”
There was something vulnerable in the request, something that suggested he wasn't ready for the evening to end either. Against every instinct that warned me this was dangerous territory, I found myself nodding.
“One more,” I agreed.
Sarah and David left with promises to check in tomorrow and reminders about weekend plans I'd probably forgotten. I watched them walk out into the Harbor's End night, their laughter carrying on the cold air, and realized I was now alone with Rowan in a way that felt both inevitable and terrifying.
“Another round?” Anna called from behind the bar, already reaching for bottles.
“Just one,” I replied, though I was already thinking it wouldn't be just one.
Rowan slid from his side of the booth to mine, close enough our thighs nearly touched. The shift was casual on the surface, but the heat rolling off him made my pulse stutter.
The bar was louder now, locals shouting over the music, tourists pretending they belonged. It gave us a strange kind of privacy, like the world had blurred into background noise .
“Your friends seem nice,” Rowan said, tone light but edged. “Though I noticed how carefully you steered me around their job descriptions.”
I smirked into my glass. “You make it sound like espionage.”
“Maybe it is.” He leaned in, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Studio manager and sound engineer… sounds suspiciously like people who keep you out of trouble.”
“Somebody has to,” I said.
He let out a short laugh, softer than I’d ever heard from him. Then his eyes caught mine, and for a moment it felt like he’d dropped the act.
“Tell me about New York,” I asked, shifting the spotlight back to him. “What was it really like?”
Rowan tilted his beer, watching the bubbles climb. “Loud. Fast. Full of people pretending to be someone they weren’t.”
“Including you?”
“Especially me.” He glanced at me, daring me to press.
I did. “And did the pretending work?”
He gave a crooked grin. “Worked well enough to get free drinks and bad decisions.”
I huffed a laugh. “Sounds like you perfected the role.”
“Yeah, but the problem with roles…” He tapped the table like it was a drumbeat. “You forget who you are when no one’s watching.”
For a second his voice went raw, the honesty hitting harder than anything else he’d said all night. And then, just as quickly, he flashed me a grin, armor snapping back in place. “What about you, Mr. Stability? Still alphabetizing your tea collection?”
I rolled my eyes, but my mouth tugged toward a smile. “Better than drinking mine straight from the bottle.”
“Debatable,” he said, leaning a fraction closer, like he enjoyed watching me squirm .
Rowan smirked, tilting his head until our shoulders nearly brushed. “You really hate when I get too close, don’t you?” His voice was pitched low, playful, but threaded with something sharper underneath.
I steadied my glass on the table. “I don’t hate it.”
His grin widened. “Interesting. Because your heartbeat’s saying otherwise.” His fingers tapped lightly against the wood, right next to mine, like he was drumming out the rhythm only he could hear.
“Rowan,” I warned, but my voice betrayed me, softer than I wanted.
“What?” He leaned back just enough to look smug, eyes dancing. “I’m just pointing out the obvious. You get twitchy every time I breathe in your direction. It’s kind of adorable.”
“Adorable,” I repeated flatly.
“Yeah. Like a librarian who’s secretly judging me for dog-earing pages but won’t admit he likes the attention.”
Despite myself, I laughed, the sound breaking through the tension like a crack of light. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet…” His hand brushed mine—light, fleeting, but deliberate. “You haven’t moved away.”
The touch sent a jolt up my arm, and I hated how much I wanted him to do it again.
Rowan leaned in closer, grin tilting dangerous now. “Relax, Elias. I’m only teasing.” His breath ghosted warm against my ear. “Unless you don’t want me to stop.”
I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. “You’re drunk.”
“Sure,” he said, pulling back just enough to smirk at me. “Let’s blame the beer.”
Before I could ask what he meant, Rowan was sliding out of the booth, standing with the loose-limbed confidence of someone who’d had just enough alcohol to take risks but not enough to stumble .
“Where are you going?” I asked.
He jerked his chin toward the corner stage where a battered acoustic guitar leaned against an amp. “Research.”
I watched him weave through the crowd, the easy sway of his body pulling more eyes than just mine. Conversations faltered as he passed.
He picked up the guitar like it belonged to him, tested the strings with a few clipped strums, then stepped up to the mic without asking permission. The bar noise ebbed. Anna caught my eye from behind the bar and gave me a resigned little shrug — she’d clearly seen this act before.
“This isn’t planned,” Rowan said, voice carrying clean and sharp over the speakers. He strummed once, hard, the chord jagged and raw. “But then again, the best things usually aren’t.”
The first notes weren’t gentle — they were a growl, a pulse. This wasn’t pretty background music. This was a challenge, an announcement. His voice came in rough, rising over the chords like it was too big to contain, like he wanted to shake the walls with it.
It wasn’t a sad song, though grief bled through every lyric. It was anger made melody, defiance wrapped in rhythm. He leaned into the mic, shouting notes like they were accusations, and every eye in the bar locked on him. Mine most of all.
And then he did it. Without breaking rhythm, he shrugged out of his leather jacket and let it fall to the floor. The crowd whooped, but he wasn’t done. He dragged his t-shirt over his head in one smooth pull and tossed it aside, bare chest gleaming under the stage lights.
The room erupted — catcalls, cheers, laughter — but Rowan didn’t even blink. He kept his gaze on me. Every chord, every lyric, every wild, reckless note was aimed straight across the bar like an arrow. My throat went dry under the weight of it .
The heat in his voice matched the heat rolling off his body as he threw himself into the chorus, head tilting back, sweat already slicking his skin under the lights.
His muscles shifted with each strum, lean lines cut sharp by the shadows, his tattoos flexing as his arms moved.
He didn’t just play the song. He owned it. Owned the room. Owned me.
The audience clapped and shouted in time, swept up in his energy, but I barely heard them. All I could hear was him. All I could feel was his gaze, pinning me where I sat like I was the only one here.
By the last verse, he was grinning that dangerous grin, the kind that dared me to look away. I couldn’t. Every word hit like it was meant for me alone, a confession wrapped in distortion and defiance.
He ended with a sharp, ringing chord that left the bar breathless. Silence held for half a heartbeat, then applause crashed like a wave, people stomping, shouting, cheering.
But Rowan’s eyes didn’t leave mine. Not once.
He stood there for a moment, chest rising and falling with exertion, sweat making his skin gleam under the lights. When his eyes found mine across the room, there was a challenge in them, a question I wasn't sure I was brave enough to answer.
He picked up his shirt but didn’t put it on, just slung it over his shoulder as he made his way back through the crowd. Hands reached out to pat his arm, people throwing compliments, but he moved through them like they were background noise. His eyes were on me.
“Jesus,” I muttered when he slid back into the booth, skin flushed, hair damp, still radiating stage heat.
“Too much?” Rowan asked, grinning like he already knew the answer.
“Definitely too much.” I took a steadying sip of whiskey. “Also brilliant.”
“I don’t do halfway.”
“I noticed.”
He leaned back, close enough I could smell sweat and cologne under the bar smoke. My pulse jumped, and judging by his smirk, he noticed that too.
“You should put your shirt on,” I said roughly. “People are staring.”
Rowan glanced around, unconcerned. “Let them. Maybe they’ll finally have something interesting to talk about.”
“You’ve just guaranteed this town will be buzzing for a month.”
“Good.” His grin turned wicked. “Better than them whispering about how you alphabetize tea bags for fun.”
I groaned. “I do not alphabetize them.”
“You strike me as the kind of guy who’d file chamomile under ‘C’ and ‘H’ just in case.”
Despite myself, I laughed. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet,” he drawled, leaning in until his bare shoulder brushed mine, “here you are.”
The contact sent a jolt through me. I should’ve pulled away, should’ve pushed him toward his shirt, but I didn’t. Couldn’t.
“One more drink?” he asked, casual on the surface but his eyes sharp, testing me.
I should’ve said no. I should’ve ended the night there. Instead, I caught Anna’s eye and held up two fingers.
Rowan’s crooked smile widened. He lifted his glass when it came. “To Harbor’s End,” he said.
I clinked mine against his. “To bad decisions.”
“To not being careful,” he said.