Page 57 of Stolen Harmony
But Rowan’s eyes didn’t leave mine. Not once.
He stood there for a moment, chest rising and falling with exertion, sweat making his skin gleam under the lights. When his eyes found mine across the room, there was a challenge in them, a question I wasn't sure I was brave enough to answer.
He picked up his shirt but didn’t put it on, just slung it over his shoulder as he made his way back through the crowd. Hands reached out to pat his arm, people throwing compliments, but he moved through them like they were background noise. His eyes were on me.
“Jesus,” I muttered when he slid back into the booth, skin flushed, hair damp, still radiating stage heat.
“Too much?” Rowan asked, grinning like he already knew the answer.
“Definitely too much.” I took a steadying sip of whiskey. “Alsobrilliant.”
“I don’t do halfway.”
“I noticed.”
He leaned back, close enough I could smell sweat and cologne under the bar smoke. My pulse jumped, and judging by his smirk, he noticed that too.
“You should put your shirt on,” I said roughly. “People are staring.”
Rowan glanced around, unconcerned. “Let them. Maybe they’ll finally have something interesting to talk about.”
“You’ve just guaranteed this town will be buzzing for a month.”
“Good.” His grin turned wicked. “Better than them whispering about how you alphabetize tea bags for fun.”
I groaned. “I do not alphabetize them.”
“You strike me as the kind of guy who’d file chamomile under ‘C’ and ‘H’ just in case.”
Despite myself, I laughed. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet,” he drawled, leaning in until his bare shoulder brushed mine, “here you are.”
The contact sent a jolt through me. I should’ve pulled away, should’ve pushed him toward his shirt, but I didn’t. Couldn’t.
“One more drink?” he asked, casual on the surface but his eyes sharp, testing me.
I should’ve said no. I should’ve ended the night there. Instead, I caught Anna’s eye and held up two fingers.
Rowan’s crooked smile widened. He lifted his glass when it came. “To Harbor’s End,” he said.
I clinked mine against his. “To bad decisions.”
“To not being careful,” he said.
Chapter 14
Crossing Lines
Elias
Chalk dust and wood polish, that particular scent of institutions that never changes no matter how many decades pass. I sat on a metal stool at the front of Harbor's End Elementary, a guitar balanced across my knee, showing a group of third-graders how to tune the strings without snapping them in half.
“Remember,” I said, demonstrating on the low E string, “turn it slowly. The guitar will tell you when it's right.”
Twenty-two small faces stared back at me with varying degrees of attention. Some were genuinely fascinated, others were clearly planning their escape to recess. The air hummed with soft chatter, occasional laughter, and the uneven plucking of strings that sounded like a flock of dying birds.
“Mr. Grant, mine sounds weird,” announced Katie Sullivan, a gap-toothed seven-year-old who attacked everything in life with the same intensity she brought to guitar tuning.
