Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
The Next Evening
CATE
Sunday’s crowd is always on the smaller side.
It’s a mellower group, generally the same few dozen people gathering to enjoy their fifteen minutes in the literal spotlight as they take turns on the stage.
So, when the usual respectful silence abruptly becomes murmuring loud enough to interrupt Gwen’s rendition of “The Rose,” I pause restocking the fridge and pop my head up from behind the bar.
“Oh my god, is that…” My bartender, Jane, loses her ability to finish the question as the reason for the commotion moves deeper into the room.
“Grüsh. Yes, it’s him,” I say, rising to a full stand beside her, both of us watching the troll who towers over everyone now crowded around him.
“What is he doing here?”
“He was in town for his brother’s wedding yesterday.”
“Okay, but why is he here, here?” my awestruck employee asks without taking her eyes off the unexpected main attraction.
“Good question.”
I’ve booked some really talented musicians and bands in the years I’ve owned The Corner Bar.
Especially since the Great Revelation, which saw Harmony Glen’s tourist industry boom because of our community’s genuine inclusiveness and open-armed welcome to all nonhuman species.
But none of those acts had Grüsh’s level of fame.
Not only did a legit rock star just walk into this small-town bar, he’s carrying his guitar. He wouldn’t have brought it if he didn’t intend to play. But why?
For a solid five minutes, he shakes hands and signs autographs. He even smiles while doing it. Something I haven’t seen a lot of in recent years.
As much as I’ve tried to put my feelings for him out of my mind, supporting his music didn’t end with our goodbye six years ago.
Even brokenhearted, I was happy for his success, and loved seeing the joy on his face in pictures and reels in the early years of his career.
Joy that’s been absent from his expression for a while, at least in all the media I’ve seen. And I’ve seen a lot.
Standing halfway across the room, chatting with respectful but rapt local fans, he appears relaxed and in his element. Growly, grumpy rocker Grüsh is appealing in a bad-boy way. But this Grüsh is my Grüsh. And the longer I watch him, the more I want to keep watching him. Just like this. Forever.
“Oh my god, here he comes…” A nearly silent squeal accompanies Jane’s excited whisper.
Odds are high that Grüsh heard it. Heard everything. Trolls have better hearing than humans.
My heart picks up speed with each step he takes toward me.
By the time he reaches the bar, my stomach feels as if it’s full of butterflies.
Six years of building up my walls shot to hell because of a couple slow dances and a surprise visit to my bar.
I’m old enough to know better than to let him affect me this way.
And foolish enough to let him, though maybe I don’t truly have a choice in the matter.
“Cate, it’s good to see you again. I heard it’s open-mic night and wondered if there’s space for one more.”
“Pretty sure I’d face an angry mob if I ever declined to let you play here.” I cough when the employee practically glued to my hip digs a very pointy elbow into my ribs. “Grüsh, this is Jane. Jane, Grüsh.”
“Huge fan,” she says, thrusting a hand toward him. “I have all of your studio albums on vinyl, plus the limited special editions for being a top fan on Spotify, which I have been every year.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. I never would’ve pegged Jane as a fangirl type, but she’s practically swooning. Not that I blame her.
“Thanks for listening. Everyone in the band is a fan of our fans.” He releases her hand, acting as if he doesn’t notice the way she cradles the fingers he just touched. “If you’d like me to sign the albums, I can swing by tomorrow night.”
“Whoa, seriously?” This time, her squeal is the opposite of silent.
“That would be amazing!” She leans forward, her motion halted as her waist hits the bar.
Because she can’t get to Grüsh, she pivots and hugs me, nearly squeezing the life out of me before getting ahold of herself.
“Oh my god, sorry, Cate,” she says, ejecting me from her strangling embrace. “I know you hate that kind of thing.”
“It’s fine. Extenuating circumstances and all.” I motion toward the customers leaning in and signaling for service a few steps away. “How about taking care of them while I get Grüsh in the queue for the mic.”
Nodding like a bobblehead doll, she bounces away to resume her bartender duties.
“Oops, looks like she drooled a little,” I say, wiping the bar while smirking at him. “Just another day in the life of a hot rock star, I suppose. Are you disappointed I sent her away before she had a chance to throw her panties at you?”
“I only want one woman’s panties.” The heat in his eyes and conviction in his deep voice initiates a wave of heat that ripples through me before settling between my legs.
Time seems to stand still while we stare at each other, Grüsh awaiting my response, me at a loss about which way to go.
Humor? Snark? Denial that I still want him that way?
Any of those would keep the door open on the topic, and nothing good can come from a conversation about Grüsh taking possession of my panties.
“I thought you would have left town by now,” I say instead. “I know Harmony Glen isn’t where you want to be.”
His jaw shifts, drawing my attention to the two lower tusk teeth that sit on top of his upper lip.
They felt strange the first time we kissed.
I didn’t just get used to it, I quickly grew to love the sensation of those smooth, hard surfaces pressed against my skin, and not just on my face.
Which is not something I should be thinking about now. Or ever.
“Anyway,” I say, flapping a hand as if the motion can wave away my pointed dig. “Here you are, your gorgeous Gibson Hummingbird Cherry Sunburst in hand, so let’s get you set up.”
The corners of his lips curve with a hint of smile. “Good eye. Develop an interest in guitars since I left?”
“A selective interest.” Narrowing my eyes, I point at him.
“And before your smile verges into cocky territory, that’s an admission that I’ve kept track of your career.
I haven’t forgotten about the guitars you dreamed of owning one day, so every time I see a picture of you holding a new one, I do a little Googling and match it up to your list from our old conversations.
I’m happy that all your dreams have come true. ”
“The Sunburst wasn’t on my list back then.”
“I know.” The words are an admission that I’ve done some deep-diving on the subject of his guitars, not just checked items off an old, mental list.
“I saw it in a shop one day, and the colors reminded me of the sunsets we used to watch.”
“Those were good days.” I don’t try to keep the softness or warmth out of my voice. To do anything other than honor those beautiful memories would be a lie. A tragedy too.
“Some of the best,” he says, his gaze locked with mine.
The question of why he’s really in my bar tonight sits on the tip of my tongue. Even if he decided to stay in town a few extra days to spend time with his brother, that wouldn’t require him to come into my bar.
Things were okay between us when we parted ways last night. Not a full resolution, because I still carry ghosts he’ll never know about, but by the time we said our final good night, my anger was gone. I was at peace with it all.
“It’s nice of you to pop in and treat some of the locals to a mini-show.” I tuck my bar towel into my waist apron as I come around from behind the wooden bar. “Follow me.”
“I’m not here to perform for the locals,” he says, catching my fingers and curling his around them. “I’m here to play a song I wrote for you, on the guitar I bought because it reminded me of time with you.”
“Why?”
“Pretty sure you know why, Catherine.”
Time stretches between us while we stare into each other’s eyes as if we’re the only people in the room, not surrounded by dozens of patrons waiting for Grüsh to go to the mic.
When enough beats of silence pass without a word leaving my lips, he sighs and drops my hand. “If you want me to sit on that stool, play a couple of fan favorites, then leave your bar and this town, that’s what I’ll do.”
This is a moment I never saw coming. If I let Grüsh sing something he wrote for me, I might as well serve up the heart I’ve spent years mending on a silver platter. Even if he doesn’t mean to break it again, it’ll happen. How could it not?
“Play the song. I want to hear it.”
With a nod, he turns and strides to the stage.
There are significantly more people in the bar now, probably the result of excited texts and calls from the original group while Grüsh and I were talking. It’s not wall-to-wall bodies, but it’s getting there because people continue trickling in steadily enough that the main door never fully closes.
Everyone is either clapping, whistling, or making some other type of appreciate noise as Grüsh settles on the worn wooden stool and adjusts the microphone to his level.
“Thanks for the warm welcome. It’s good to be back in Harmony Glen. I’ve been away too long. Didn’t realize how much I missed it until I got here.”
Are they just polite words to please the hometown fans? My heart wants to think they’re more, that he’s being truthful, and that it’s not merely the town he realized he missed.
“I’m sure you’ve got a lineup for the mic, so I’ll just play a couple songs, then turn it over to the next talented local.”
“Play all night!” someone hollers.
The other patrons show their agreement with claps and whistles.
Grüsh’s deep chuckle travels through the mic to the speakers, then straight to my barely protected heart.