Page 50 of Naked Coffee Guy

“What, you don’t like the Hillside concerts I hold?”

He gives me a sideways smirk. “Well, I’m sure you’re great when you’re not mocking me in front of a whole crowd.”

I shoot him a dirty look, but then take his hand back. “Well, show up with another woman at any other one of my performances, and I’ll sic the crowd on you.”

He brings my hand to his lips, pressing gently. “There’s no other woman but you, Maren,” he says, his tone serious, “And I’d like to keep it that way.”

I bite my lip and look out the window. My heart is bursting, but I don’t want to tell him. I don’t want to jinx this. For some reason, Mac Dermot likes me.

As for me? I don’t even care that he was the one who sold my apartment, because if he hadn’t, I wouldn’t be sitting in his car, ready to go wherever he wants to take me.

“Well?”

I turn, tilt my head in confusion. Then I remember his question.

“Professionally,” I repeat, “Of course I’ve thought of it. It’s honestly all I’ve ever wanted. But it seems so far away. Between working all day and performing small gigs, I’m beat. I send out singles and I hear nothing back. Sometimes there’s a nice form rejection letter, but mostly it’s crickets. I don’t know if I have much more to give because loving this music dream means I hate every other part of my life. And honestly, I’m tired of being disappointed.”

My eyes fill with tears as I’m talking, and I discreetly swipe them away while looking back out the window. It’s more than I’ve ever admitted to anyone, even Claire. I’m embarrassed by how much I want music to be my whole world. I don’t need to be rich, but I’d like to be able to quit my job because music pays the bills and affords me a comfortable life. I’m tired of watching every damn penny, knowing that I’m just one disaster away from being back on the street. To be able to work on my music all day wouldn’t even feel like working.

Just thinking about this while traveling in Mac’s luxury Jaguar makes me feel even more embarrassed. Silly even. I’ve played music all my life and been more serious about it ever since I got sober. But I make double digits at every show, which is barely enough to afford a meal out. Thank goddess for my tips at Insomniacs, because it’s the only way I’ve paid my bills.

“You’re really good,” Mac says, cutting into my thoughts. I wipe the last tear, offering a grateful smile, hoping he can’t see my shiny eyes in the darkened car and that my makeup has stayed intact.

“Thanks,” I say, and leave it at that. Because good is subjective, and I can be good all day long and still fail to get anywhere with this damn dream.

We finally reach our destination, which is basically a large parking lot lit by streetlamps with a dome-like stone building at the far end. It looks kind of like a…

“A cave?” I ask, peering closer. It’s large—definitely man-made—and it offers a warm glow, though I can’t see anything else inside. I turn to Mac, who still isn’t saying a word about what we’re embarking on. He gets out of the car and jogs to my side. I feel more grown up and elegant than ever as he opens my door and holds out his hand. Have I ever been on a date before? Looking back, I realize this could be the first. I didn’t think I had many firsts left in my life.

I take Mac’s hand, and he pulls me to my feet. Even in my heels, I have to look up at him, and I warm at the way his blue eyes watch me, as if he can see inside my soul. This is different. How have I never experienced this before, any of this? The sexual energy between us is electric, but it’s more than that. I can see myself in the reflection of his iris, and it mirrors the connection I’m feeling with him…as if my whole being has been breathlessly on pause until Mac stepped into my life.

It is said that time is irrelevant, that everything that has ever been or will be exists in a sphere without beginning or end. It’s a complex theory I never understood until this moment now. In Mac’s arms, my whole life making sense. I have always known this man. I just hadn’t met him yet.

“Ready?” he asks. He’s talking about whatever lies beyond the threshold of that cave. But he could also mean whatever is in store for us, whatever this is, and whatever will happen to my heart as a result.

“I don’t even know what to be ready for.”

He leads me to the cave, which is glowing from soft artificial lights, and we pause at the entrance so the attendant can scan the tickets from Mac’s phone. I peer ahead of us, curious at a stairwell within the cave that appears to curve into the earth without giving anything away.

“Always looking ahead,” Mac murmurs, his hand at my back as his lips brush the side of my ear. “Trust me?”

The warmth of his breath travels through me, bringing me back to the first night he said those words. On a night like this, under a scarlet sky lit by the city lights, barefoot and on top of the world via a rooftop bar—before I knew his role in losing my apartment. It seems like ages ago, including all the reasons I was once mad at him. I’m no longer mad. I’m grateful.

“I trust you.”

He stays close as we walk down the stairwell, as if to protect me from hurtling to my death as I navigate the stairs in six-inch heels. I’m perfectly capable of walking down any stairs on stilts, and yet, I find comfort in letting someone else take charge in my safety and care.

The staircase winds deep into the underground, lit only by sconce candles drilled into the stone walls. The air feels cooler the deeper we go, and I pull my wrap closer with my free hand, hoping wherever we’re headed will have some sort of heat source. I’m not prepared when we finally reach the bottom, and I discover that, yes, there will be heat.

We’re met by a large circular room filled with hundreds, maybe thousands, of tiny flickering candles on the ground and walls, creating a comforting glow. Even more, the thousands of candles make the underground warm feel almost toasty.

I’m so distracted by the candles, it takes me a few moments to notice the darkened shape of people sitting in chairs, and then the small stage at the center of the room, also covered in candles. I know better than to ask Mac what to expect, and instead submit to the surprise. He leads me to our seats, two solitary chairs in a private alcove, and I wordlessly take in our surroundings and the holy silence from everyone else. We’re all waiting to know what’s going to happen. And yet, I am perfectly content in this moment, warmed by the ethereal glow of candlelight, and completely distanced from whatever is happening above us on the surface of the earth. Here in this underground cave, my hand resting in Mac’s on his knee, nothing else exists.

Just when I think nothing could get better though, it does. We watch as men and women dressed in black file into the room, holding various stringed instruments. My heart swells as the silence in the glowing cave is replaced with a cacophony of sound from the orchestra’s warm up. Then the dissonance becomes one long, drawn out note, reverberating off the cave walls before falling into silence. But only for a moment, because the orchestra begins playing, sweeping us all away with them through a symphony of sound that echoes within this underground chamber.

I take in a deep breath, the passion of the music hitting me with such force I can’t stop my hot tears from streaming down my cheeks. Makeup be damned. But in the midst of my emotional response, I realize I know the song I’m hearing. I wait a few lines, wondering if I’m imagining what I’m hearing.

Holy shit. It’s “Still Into You,” by fucking Paramore, but played as an orchestra. I turn to Mac, eyes wide and then narrowed as I take in Mac’s shit-eating grin. He hands me a program and I look at the headline.

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