Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
brOCK
T he crowd shifts as I roll into another song, the steady rhythm of my guitar setting the tone. A group of people gathers near the stage, couples swaying and dancing to the music. The Rusty Note is alive tonight, buzzing with energy, but my focus keeps drifting to the table where Willow’s sitting.
She looks beautiful—hell, stunning —in that green dress that hugs her curves just right. Her dark hair falls in soft waves around her shoulders, and every time she smiles, it’s like the room gets a little brighter. She’s sitting alone now, her drink in hand, watching me with an expression that makes my chest tighten.
And then I see him.
A guy in a plaid shirt and a baseball cap strolls up to her table, leaning in as he says something I can’t hear. Willow’s eyes widen slightly, and she gives him a polite smile, but there’s a stiffness in her posture that I don’t like.
I grip the neck of my guitar a little tighter, my fingers pressing harder on the strings as I push through the last verse of the song. My voice doesn’t falter, but my focus is split, my attention locked on the interaction happening across the room.
The guy leans closer, saying something else, and I catch the way Willow shifts back in her seat, her fingers fidgeting with her glass.
That’s it.
I let the final chord ring out, nodding to the crowd as they clap and cheer. “Thanks, folks,” I say into the mic. “Gonna take a quick break—be back in a bit.”
The moment I step off the stage, I head straight for Willow’s table, my heart pounding harder than it should be.
As I get closer, the guy straightens up, glancing at me with a flicker of surprise before muttering something to Willow and walking off. Good. He knows better than to stick around.
“Hey,” I say, sliding into the empty seat across from her. “You okay?”
Willow looks up, her cheeks pink as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Yeah, I’m fine. He was just... trying to make conversation.”
I don’t respond right away, my jaw tightening as I glance toward the guy, now laughing with a group of friends by the bar. He better stay over there.
“Where’s June?” I ask, realizing she’s nowhere to be seen.
Willow nods toward the pool table in the back corner. “She’s over there, hustling some poor guys who thought they could take her.”
I follow her gaze and spot June leaning over the table, lining up a shot with a sly smile. Sure enough, a group of guys are standing around her, looking equally impressed and annoyed.
I laugh, shaking my head. “Figures.”
Willow laughs softly, and the sound melts away the last bit of tension in my chest. She looks at me, her brown eyes warm and a little unsure, and asks, “Can I buy you a beer?”
Her words catch me off guard, and I raise an eyebrow, leaning back in my chair. “Buy me a beer?”
“Yeah,” she says, fidgeting with her glass. “You’ve been playing all night, and I figured—”
I cut her off with a smile, shaking my head. “No, ma’am. That’s not how this works.”
She blinks, confused. “What do you mean?”
“I’m the one who buys you a drink,” I say, my voice firm but teasing. “That’s how it goes.”
Willow’s cheeks flush, and then she bursts out laughing, the sound light and carefree. “Okay, fair enough. I guess I walked right into that one.”
“You did,” I agree, smiling as I lean forward, resting my arms on the table. “So, what are you drinking?”
“Just a cider,” she says, still smiling.
“Cider it is,” I say, standing up. “Stay put. I’ll be right back.”
As I make my way to the bar, I glance back at her, and the sight of her sitting there—smiling, relaxed, and more beautiful than she probably realizes—sends a wave of possessiveness surging through me.
She’s mine. She just doesn’t know it yet.
When I get back to the table, I set her cider down in front of her and slide into my seat, holding up my own beer. “Cheers,” I say, tapping my bottle against her glass.
Willow smiles, her cheeks still tinged with pink. “Cheers.”
She takes a sip, and for a moment, neither of us speaks. The noise of the bar hums around us—laughter, clinking glasses, the distant crack of pool balls—but it all feels distant, like we’re in our own little bubble.
“So,” I say, breaking the silence, “are you enjoying the music?”
Her lips curve into a soft smile as she nods. “You’re really good. I mean, you told me you played, but I didn’t expect... that.”
“That?” I tease, raising an eyebrow.
Her blush deepens, and she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “You sounded amazing, okay? Happy?”
“Very.” I smile, leaning back in my chair. “I’m glad you came. It means a lot.”
She looks down at her glass, tracing the rim with her finger. “I wasn’t sure if I should at first. But... I’m glad I did too.”
There’s a vulnerability in her voice that tugs at something deep inside me. I want to ask her why she hesitated, what she’s thinking, but I don’t want to push too hard. Instead, I take another sip of my beer and let the moment stretch, comfortable and easy.
“You seemed pretty popular out there,” she says after a while, her tone light but curious. “Everyone loves you.”
I shake my head. “They love the music. There’s a difference.”
She tilts her head, studying me like she’s trying to figure something out. “You don’t like the attention?”
“It’s not that,” I admit. “I just don’t need it. I play because I love it. It’s... grounding, I guess.”
She nods, her eyes softening. “I get that. Baking is like that for me. It’s my happy place.”
“Yeah?” I lean forward, resting my arms on the table. “What’s your favorite thing to make?”
Her smile brightens, and she starts talking about her favorite recipes—how much she loves experimenting with flavors, the satisfaction of pulling something perfect out of the oven. Her whole face lights up as she speaks, and I can’t help but hang on every word.
“You’re passionate about it,” I say when she finally pauses.
“Yeah, I guess I am,” she says, a little shyly.
“That’s a good thing,” I tell her. “It’s rare to find someone who loves what they do.”
Her gaze meets mine, and for a moment, the air between us feels charged, like something unspoken is passing back and forth.
“Do you want to sit down?” I ask suddenly, motioning to the empty seat beside me.
She laughs softly. “I am sitting down.”
“No, I mean up there,” I say, nodding toward the stage.
Her eyes widen. “Absolutely not. No way.”
I chuckle, holding up my hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. I won’t make you. But you’d look good up there.”
She shakes her head, laughing. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe,” I say, leaning forward again. “But I mean it.”
She looks at me, her expression softening again, and I feel that pull toward her, stronger than ever.
“Thank you,” she says quietly.
“For what?”
“For being... you.”
Her words catch me off guard, and for a moment, I don’t know what to say. But then I realize I don’t need to say anything. I just need to show her that I’m not going anywhere.