Page 80 of First Verse

Damn. He’s someone important, then.

Swallowing a sigh, I clasp the man’s forearm. “Sounds great.”

The expensive material of his suit tickles my fingertips as we walk toward the bar. This close, I can smell a light, expensive cologne. When his head dips toward mine, I fight the urge to pull away.

“It’s torture, isn’t it?” he asks in a soft, teasing voice. “Having to be polite to strange men?”

I’m so startled I almost trip. The arm under my hand flexes, warm fingers landing on mine to steady me. “Whoa there.” He chuckles, the sound warm and infectious. Drawing to a stop, he looks down at me with an indecipherable expression. Something in the realm of sympathy.

“I promise not to ask you twenty invasive questions, give you my business card, or invite you to dinner. In fact, we don’t even have to talk. I just know Anita. You had about thirty seconds before she sent someone far more annoying than me your way.” He shrugs. “You’ve been going nonstop all night, and I figured you deserved a break.”

I blame my tired brain for the fact I simply stare at him until he winks and draws me back into motion. At the bar, he releases my arm and orders two oat milk lattes, then chats with the bartender as she makes them. Feeling both grateful and baffled to be ignored, I watch as he leans across the counter and whispers something that makes her blush. The sight of his cheeky grin—totally different from the polite smile he gave me—does what his words couldn’t, allowing me to finally relax.

When he eventually turns and hands me a latte, I don’t have to force my smile. “Thanks… I’m sorry. I don’t know your name.”

“Clay Eaton. Nice to meet you, Eva.” He looks around us, then nods. “Follow me.”

He leads me outside the tent to a cluster of empty teak chairs set around a low table, the area thankfully well lit. A patio heater radiates nearby, chasing away the chill. I settle in the chair closest to the heater, closing my eyes briefly in relief. When I open them, Clay gives me a knowing grin.

“Thanks again,” I say haltingly. “My feet are killing me.”

He nods and sips his drink, gaze moving from my face to roam the crowd remaining in the tent. I scan the crowd, too. But the person I’m looking for is nowhere to be seen.

“Anita’s spying on us,” murmurs Clay. “She’s going to think I put that frown on your face. No, don’t look for her. Pretend I said something funny. Or better yet, think about that grandpa’s sick moves on the dance floor earlier.” My soft laugh brings a satisfied smile to his face. “Knew that would work.” He glances at the tent again. “Okay, we’re in the clear.”

I take a deeper drink of my latte, appreciating the creamy warmth and the faint bitterness of espresso, and try to relax. Easier said than done. Unlike me, Clay seems perfectly content sitting in silence with a complete stranger, his head tilted back and eyes closed.

When I catch a glimpse of Anita and Mallory staring in our direction, I’m almost relieved to have an excuse to socialize. “So did you order oat milk because you like it or because you know dairy messes with airways?”

His eyes open, humor creasing the corners. “The latter. Though I don’t dislike it.”

“Know a lot of singers?”

Another slight smile. “You could say that.”

I tilt my head, my eyes narrowing at his evasiveness. “How do you know Anita, anyway?”

Expensive fabric whispers as he straightens. “Haven’t you heard? If you throw stones at a publicist, nine out of ten times you’ll hit an entertainment lawyer, too.”

I blink in surprise, reassessing him. “An entertainment lawyer, huh?”

He grins. “You sound surprised.”

“I am, a little. No offense, but I figured you were the son of an Indigo exec or some other industry bigwig.”

His brows lift. “How so?”

Emboldened by the humor in his eyes, I wave vaguely at him. “All… that. The tailored suit. The shoes. Even the haircut is a tell. Plus, you can’t be more than thirty.”

He chuckles. “Well, I appreciate the compliment. Backhanded as it may be.”

I grin back at him. “You’re welcome.”

His eyes lock on mine and his smile changes. With a spark of panic, I realize it’s the same one he gave the bartender.

I blurt, “I’m not flirting with you!”

Clay laughs heartily. “Duly noted. For the record, I’m not flirting with you, either. I prefer women with fully developed frontal lobes.”

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