Page 89

He looks at me. “You’re not tired of music yet?”

“No. It might be fun.”

Inside, the room is small enough that the band barely has space for their equipment. There’s a bar along one wall, scattered tables, and a section in front of the stage where people are already standing with drinks.

We find two seats near the back and order beers.

The band is good. Not polished, but good in the way live music sometimes is when everyone in the room seems happy just to be there.

I expect Zander to analyze them. Instead, he just listens.

Sometimes his fingers tap lightly against his glass. Once he leans closer to tell me the guitarist is using an old pedal he loves, but mostly he drinks his beer and watches the stage like everyone else.

There’s something unexpectedly nice about seeing him this way. No spotlight. No people calling his name. No expectation that he should be entertaining anyone.

Just Zander beside me, relaxed and happy.

By the second drink, more people have moved toward the front, and when the band starts another song, Zander glances at the dance floor.

He looks back at me. “Come dance with me.”

I smile and take the hand he offers as he gets to his feet. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

It’s crowded enough that there isn’t much room to do anything complicated, which is probably for the best. We dance through the rest of the song, laughing when somebody bumps into Zander from behind and nearly sends him into me. When the next song begins, slower than the first, neither of us heads back to the table.

I slide my arms around his neck as his hands settle at my waist.

The room is still noisy, people moving around us, glasses clinking somewhere behind me, but being this close to him feels strangely private.

Zander looks at me for a few seconds before he lowers his head.

The kiss is slow enough that I feel it everywhere without it turning into anything we need to chase. I kiss him back, my fingers sliding into the hair at the back of his neck, and when he pulls away, his forehead stays close to mine.

Neither of us says anything. We just keep dancing.

We stay for another song after that, then another, until I lose track of how long we’ve been there.

When we finally leave, the air outside feels colder against my face, and I’m pleasantly tired in a way I haven’t been in a long time.

Zander opens the passenger door for me, one hand resting on the top of it while I climb in.

“Thanks.”

He smiles. “Anytime.”

Then he closes the door and walks around to the driver’s side.

The drive back toward Redwood Point is quiet and comfortable after talking most of the day. A few minutes in, Zander reaches across the console and takes my hand, his thumb brushing slowly over my knuckles while he keeps his eyes on the road.

A few miles up the road, Zander pulls into a small turnout overlooking the water. The ocean is mostly darkness now, but there’s still enough light along the horizon to separate it from the sky.

We get out and lean against the front of the truck.

I tuck myself against his side when the wind comes up, and his arm settles around my shoulders like it belongs there.

“We didn’t do much album research after lunch,” I say.

“Did you get what you needed?”