Page 30 of Broken Instrument

Be. Inconspicuous. Hadley!

“It’s a good thing my dad owns the bar and wouldn’t care,” Sammie, the bartender, returns. “How’s he doing otherwise?”

“He’s…” I catch the man raking his fingers through his hair from the corner of my eye. “I guess we’ll have to wait and see.”

“I guess so. But he better hurry. The crowd’s getting restless.”

“Yeah. I don’t know what he’s waiting on.”

“Maybe his new friend can help,” Sammie offers, turning her attention to me.

Crap!

“Hawthorne, this is… I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name,” she adds with a light blush.

Forcing a smile, I twist in my seat to face the guy fully while pretending I most definitely wasn’t eavesdropping on their previous conversation. Nope. Not me. I was just minding my own beeswax.

“I’m Hadley. Hi.”

“Hi.” Sammie smiles and turns back to Hawthorne, shooting him a look I can’t quite decipher.

With his massive hand outstretched, he says, “Like my girlfriend said, I’m Hawthorne. Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too. I’m Hadley,” I repeat with another awkward smile as I shake his hand.

“So, Hadley. You know Fen?”

He says it like I belong to some inside club, eyeing me with interest.

“Um…yes?”

“And? How is he?” he prods.

I laugh, déjà vu hitting me square in the chest. I toss Sammie a knowing look. “I see whatcha did there.”

“And I’m not even sorry about it,” she volleys back and heads toward the opposite end of the bar to help another customer.

“So?” Hawthorne’s attention shifts from me to the empty stage. “How is he?” he repeats.

“He’s fine, I guess?”

“Just fine?”

I let out a huff, surprised by my overprotective self who wants to ask why he needs to know but bite my tongue then explain. “Okay. I think he’s going through some things, but he’s processing it the best he can. Better?”

Hawthorne’s chin dips as the lights on the stage flicker on, and Fender approaches the stage with Pixie right beside him. No leash. I don’t know why, but the sight makes me smile. Like they’re a team.

Clearing his throat, Fender heads toward the mic on stiff legs, looking uncomfortable yet still sexy as hell in a black T-shirt and dark jeans hugging his thighs. If I didn’t know any better, I’d said this is his first show. He looks nervous. A little jittery. He’s refusing to maintain eye contact with anyone. It’s adorable and a little nerve-wracking at the same time. I want to climb on stage and give the guy a hug, but I wipe my palms against my jeans to restrain myself.

For now, anyway.

“Hey,” he starts, his voice like warm honey. “Uh, I guess I’m gonna play you guys a song.” His attention somehow finds me in the crowd, making me want to squirm on my barstool as I force myself to hold his gaze for another second, making my heart skip a beat. A soft smile flickers across his features, hinting at the confident rockstar everyone in this bar knows him to be. But the look quickly disappears. Hell, if I’d have blinked, I would’ve missed it. I’m glad I didn’t. Because that look? His ghost of a smile? It could keep a girl warm in the middle of a freaking blizzard.

With another quick glance my way, he takes a seat on the barstool and cradles an old, beat-up acoustic guitar in his lap.

Pixie plops down onto the stage, spreading out and yawning as if settling in for a long night as Fender plucks the first notes from the strings of his guitar.

It’s hypnotic. Watching him up there. As if the rest of the world doesn’t matter. As if it all floats away. As if the soft, smooth notes sounding nothing like the harsher, more adrenaline-filled songs from Broken Vows are a lullaby. Something to soothe while casting a melancholic spell over the crowd.

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