Page 9 of Sweetly Yours

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.

CHAPTER SEVEN

WILLOW

June and I stayed at The Rusty Note for another hour, listening to Brock’s set. I tried to focus on the music, but my attention kept wandering back to him. The way his fingers moved over the guitar strings, the way his voice wrapped around the lyrics like they were written just for him.

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