Page 117 of Don't Bang a Bandmate

“Oh,” he mutters with recognition at Jonah. “Hey, Jonah.”

Vincent Silva, the proud owner of Muffin Top, isn’t what you’d expect a baker to look like. At all. He’s tall and built like a truck, appearing more likely to smash a pie in your face than bake one to culinary perfection.

What the public might not know is that the guy used to be a Navy SEAL back in the day. He worked with Jonah’s older brother, Ira, and his wife, Veronica, but the exact details of that work are redacted in some file buried deep beneath a government building somewhere.

Yeah. Vincent’s a total badass.

“Hey, Vin,” Jonah greets him. “Got any cherry-cherry’s back there?”

“About a half-dozen left,” Vincent answers with a light shrug.

“We’ll take them all,” Knox demands.

“And one of those almond pastries, please,” Harmony says, poking the glass case in front of us.

“And an almond pastry, please,” Knox adds, unable to deny her whatever she wants.

With a nod, Vincent gets to work, sliding open the case and packaging our goodies to go.

After stuffing ourselves silly, we make our way next door to Ryan’s House to finish up our evening bar crawl. While the others dance and mingle, I park myself on the corner bar stool with the best view of the entrance.

And I wait.

The moments stretch on. More and more patrons come and go. Every time the entrance opens, I look up, hoping to see her face, needing to know they weren’t really off somewhere together.Togethertogether.

Finally, the door opens, and Jordan walks inside with Christian a close step behind her. I sit slightly forward, drawn to her. Her tight shoulders. Her sunken expression.

Something’s wrong.

Jordan quickly scans the bar. Her eyes land on the others first, and she blinks with relief. Throwing on a smile, she shuffles forward, carefully weaving through the other people as she makes her way toward the group.

“Hey-hey-hey!” Chrissy says, greeting them. “About time you showed up!”

Everyone else joins in. Meanwhile, I sit on my stool, watching her as she beelines toward Chrissy and whispers something in her ear.

Chrissy frowns.

What’s going on?

“Rough day, Bronson?”

I turn forward, drawn by the sound of my name. A redheaded woman stands behind the bar, stout but cute. I instantly recognize her as the owner of the bar and Vincent’s adorable wife, Evey. She drags a damp dishcloth across the bar, picking up bits of old peanuts and pretzels as she looks me over with a friendly smile.

“Uh...” is all I can manage before submitting a shrug. “Maybe.”

She shows a supportive pout. “Girl got you down?”

“A little.”

“Aw, it’ll work out. Just have to stay positive!”

To that, I can’t help but crack a smile. Evey’s positivity is quite infectious. “I’ll do my best,” I tell her.

“Great!” She looks me over again, her head tilting to one side. “You’re my favorite, you know.”

“Favorite?”

“In your band,” she says. “Criminal Records.”

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