I snorted. “Okay. And then?”
Clay leaned back, crossing an ankle over the opposite knee before taking a long pull of his whiskey. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”
“Is that the phrase of the evening?” I asked flatly.
Before I could lure more information out of him, Shawn took the stage. And unlike the coffee bar at NBU where he would have had a round of applause from all the groupies that followed him around campus, he received only a courtesy glance up from where customers were conversing here. Most of them went right back to talking, not bothering to listen to his intro — though there were a few tables of girls right up by the stage who leaned in eagerly.
One of them popped a cherry in her mouth, her lush lips rolling over the swell of it until she plucked it free from the stem.
Clay gave me a look, and I shoved him under the table.
“Good evening. I’m Shawn Stetson, and I’m going to play a little music for you tonight.” He smiled, running a hand back through his long hair as he settled on the barstool and propped one boot underneath him on the lower rung of it. I’d seen him do it a hundred times before, and yet I still found myself sighing, smiling, and leaning my chin into my hand as I dreamily watched him pull his guitar strap overhead.
Clay’s brows bent together, gaze drifting from me to Shawn and back again before he shook his head.
“If there’s anything you’d like to hear, I’m taking requests. But for now, let’s start with a little Harry Styles.”
Butterflies flitted in my stomach as the first chords of “Cherry” smoothed over the crowd, and I found myself singing along, feet bopping under the table. I traced the stubble on Shawn’s chin, wandered over the silver of his lip piercing, and fell into his trance as he crooned the sad, somehow seductive song.
A flash of a scene from Thoughtless hit me out of nowhere, and my heart jumped with the memory, with the fantasy all of this could potentially unlock.
When the song was nearly over, Clay covertly slid a twenty-dollar bill flat on the table toward me, and I swallowed, staring at it like it was a bomb, instead.
“Come on. Lesson number one — make him notice you.”
He all but shoved me out of the booth then, and I caught my balance just as Shawn finished playing. Again, where I was used to a full-on cheer after he ended a song on campus, here there were just a few tables that clapped before it was silent again, save for conversation that went on regardless of him playing.
I held my chin up, moving with as much feminine swagger as I could muster as I weaved in between the two tables separating our booth from the stage. Of course, my swagger was about as strong as my will to resist a good Hallmark movie, and so I tripped over a tablecloth and stumbled on my way up. I righted myself, though.
Just in time for him to look up.
My knees wobbled when Shawn’s golden eyes flared at the sight of me, faint recognition at first, and then pleasant surprise as I dropped the twenty into his tip jar.
“Thank you,” he said into the mic, and I watched curiosity dance in his eyes before he added, “Any request?”
For a split second, panic zipped through me. We hadn’t discussed what I was supposed to do if he asked if I had a request! But somehow, I held it together, and surprised even myself as I offered a slight shrug of one shoulder and said, “Play one of your favorites.”
Shawn’s eyebrows rose a little higher at that, an appreciative smile on his lips as I turned and walked slowly, so slowly, back to the booth.
I managed to get there without tripping this time.
Shawn was still watching me when I sat down, something… new in his eyes. He started strumming out the first notes of his next song, and he was still watching me.
It felt like someone had cranked the heat up the longer he watched me, and I realized in that moment why it felt so intense.
Because he didn’t just look at me and then look away. He didn’t wink at me as his gaze swept over the rest of the crowd.
He noticed me.
I was still high on that thought when I felt a touch that stole my breath.
Under the table, a warm palm splayed the length of my thigh so fast I sucked in a sharp inhale at the contact. I jerked my head toward Clay, who met me with low, lazy eyes and a cocky curl of his lips that lit me on fire almost as much as his hand slipping a few more inches up did.
“Clay,” I whispered, though I’d intended on it being a scold. It was more breathy and questioning than anything else.
He descended on me, one arm behind me along the back of the booth, and the other still on my thigh as he did. I instinctively backed away until his hand left my leg and reached up to cup my face and hold me still.