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I snap on fresh gloves. “Like someone who doesn't understand indoor volume.”

My client grins. “That definitely means he’s hot.”

“Devastatingly hot,” Nell agrees.

“Are we done gossiping?” I ask, snapping the latex against my wrist.

“Not even close,” Nell says cheerfully. “My next appointment is here, but we’re circling back.”

I turn back to my station, but the damage is done. The image of him is already burned into my brain. Him leaning against the doorframe, barefoot in worn jeans, radiating an effortless confidence that made me want to kick his amplifier. Worse, he knew I’d checked him out. That smug little half-smile had made it painfully obvious.

A very attractive asshole. But I am under no obligation to appreciate that fact.

By early afternoon, my client leaves happy, and I’m at the front counter checking tomorrow’s schedule when Nell suddenly says, “Come over here for a second.”

I look up to find her staring at her phone.

“That neighbor. Is he dark-haired with blue eyes?”

“Yes. So are half the men in Northern California.”

“Tall. Musician. About thirty.”

I look up. “Did you put out a local APB?”

Instead of answering, she turns her phone toward me. A photo fills the screen: four men onstage beneath blazing concert lights, a wall of amps behind them, soaked in sweat and raw performance energy.

I recognize the guy in the center instantly.

My loud neighbor is leaning into a microphone, a guitar slung low against his hips, dark shaggy hair falling into his eyes.

Nell’s grin is insufferable. “That him?”

“Unfortunately.”

She glances back down at the screen. “Ruby, that’s Zander Hale.”

“Should that mean something to me?”

“Hollow North?”

That name rings an immediate bell. “Oh.” I reach for my cold coffee and take a sip anyway. “They opened for Macklin Row in Europe, right?”

“Six months on arena stages,” Nell says, scrolling rapidly. “They came back with a massive following. Around here, Zander is basically local royalty.”

“He lives in a duplex.”

“So do you.”

“I don’t act like a rock star.”

“You’re well on your way to being Redwood Point’s top tattoo artist.”

“Sounds like a lot of work.”

I glance at the photo again despite myself. Stage lights turn Zander’s eyes almost electric, his guitar hanging low across his hips while his T-shirt clings to him with sweat. My gaze drops before I can stop it, and I immediately hand the phone back to Nell.

Absolutely not.