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“I did.”
He smiles, then bends and kisses me again.
There’s no rush in this one either. I can taste the beer we had earlier and feel the cold wind against my back while his hand stays warm at my waist.
When the kiss ends, I rest my head against his shoulder and look out at the water.
Somewhere between photographing redwoods, eating sandwiches above the beach, dancing in a crowded little bar, and holding his hand all the way down the coast, the research trip disappeared.
This was a date.
A real one.
Chapter eighteen
ZANDER
By the time rehearsal wraps, my fingers are sore, but in a good way. We’ve spent most of the afternoon tightening two of the newer songs, and for once nobody is arguing over the bridge in the third one.
I’m unplugging my guitar when our manager calls. The four of us crowd around the phone on speaker, expecting the usual updates about studio dates or streaming numbers.
“Before any of you get too excited, this isn’t an offer yet,” he says.
That gets everybody’s attention.
“Macklin Row’s team is putting together a North American run. Dates are still being worked out, but they asked whether Hollow North would be interested if an opening slot becomes available.”
I straighten. “They asked about us specifically?”
“Your name came up specifically, yes. They liked how Europe went, and I guess you didn’t cause enough trouble to get crossed off the list.”
Somebody beside me laughs, but I’m barely listening anymore. “When would we know?”
“Could be a few weeks. Maybe longer. I’m telling you now because if it turns into something real, it could move fast. So don’t start packing, but don’t make yourselves unavailable either.”
The second the call ends, everybody starts talking at once, and I’m right there with them. Six months in Europe with Macklin Row changed everything for us. Bigger rooms, bigger crowds, more people actually knowing our songs instead of waiting for the headliner. If there’s a chance to do that again across the U.S. and Canada, I want it.
Badly enough, my brain is already running ahead, thinking about the new album, which songs would work best live, and how much stronger we’d be walking into another tour with everything we learned the first time.
Then, right in the middle of all that excitement, I think about Ruby.
Not in some vague way either. I picture her sitting cross-legged on my couch the night before, sketchbook open on her lap while she listened to one of our demos again. I think about her falling asleep beside me later, one hand tucked under my pillow because it seems like my side of the bed has become shared property now.
The thought comes so fast it takes me a second to realize what just happened.
I’m still thrilled about the possibility of touring. That hasn’t changed. I’m also already wondering how long we’d be gone. That part is new.
A few nights later, I meet Conlin for a beer at the bar near the marina.
He’s already there when I walk in, sitting at a high-top near the back with one beer in front of him and another across the table for me. He looks like he came straight from work, boots dusty, dark T-shirt wrinkled, and the faint smell of smoke still clinging to him.
I sit down and take the beer. “You look terrible.”
“Long day.”
“You always say that.”
“Because I have a job.”
