Well Matched (Well Met #3)(95)

Good thing I was over my bad boy phase.

The trio bantered and joked with the audience members, raising wooden tankards in toasts before, after, and even during the songs. There were only three of them up there, but their instruments and voices combined in rich harmonies and richer laughter, the music feeling greater than the sum of its parts. I leaned back on my hands, closed my eyes, and tipped my face toward the sun, practically feeling freckles pop out over the bridge of my nose. While the breeze teased strands of hair out of my ponytail and danced them across my cheek, the notes of “Whiskey in the Jar” flowed over me, carried on the air from their guitar, fiddle, and hand drum. Hard cider hummed through my bloodstream, and music surrounded me, soothed me. For a blissful few minutes nothing could touch me, and my worries slipped away, forgotten.

Then the show came to an end, and reality came crashing back, along with the beginnings of a panic attack. I took a shaky sip of water, trying to stave it off. I needed to get out of here. Out of the sun. Out of this whole damn day. But white static crept in the edges of my vision, making it hard to see. Standing up was impossible, walking out of here even more so.

I bent forward, putting my head between my knees, and breathed deeply. Tears pricked my eyes as the panic attack took hold. All my life I’d been on this path, and now the path was gone. I was alone, lost in the woods.

“Is she all right?” A man’s voice spoke over my head, and I chanced a look up. The audience had mostly gone—a couple stragglers were taking pictures with the band. The man next to me was tall, dressed in black jeans and a T-shirt, a baseball cap eclipsing his vivid red hair. He wasn’t dressed for a day in the sunshine, but he acted like he belonged here. His attention was on Stacey, threading her way through the maze of benches toward where I was sitting.

“She’s fine.” Stacey waved him off.

“Are you sure? She doesn’t look so good. Do we need to call someone for her?” The redhead’s eyes flicked from me to Stacey, a question in his eyes. By “someone” I had a feeling he meant “paramedics.”

“I already did.” Stacey brandished her phone like it had all the answers. “Here.” She sat down next to me, handing me her phone. “It’s for you.”

“Me?” But when I looked down at the screen an almost tangible relief swept through me. “Hey, Mitch.” The words were a sigh, directed at my cousin on the other end of the video call. My favorite cousin. He was five years younger, but I loved him more than my own brothers. Mostly because they were dicks.

“Hey, Lulu.” He looked as happy to see me as ever. “What the hell are you doing in North Carolina? Stace says you’re making a scene there at the Renaissance Faire.”

“You know me,” I said weakly. “Always a troublemaker.” I finished off my water, and Stacey took the empty bottle from me, replacing it with a fresh one. I watched as she took the arm of the redhead, pulling him away to give me privacy. His head bent toward hers as they talked intently.

Mitch snorted. “Yeah, right. We both know that’s my job.” His brow furrowed, and his voice gentled. “What’s going on, Lu?”

I pressed the heel of my hand to my forehead, staving off more tears. “I was here for work, and . . .”

Mitch blinked. “Who needs lawyers at a Renaissance Faire?”

The ghost of a smile tugged at my lips. “North Carolina, you weirdo. I was in North Carolina for work, and then I got one phone call too many from my boss and . . .”

“Yeah, Stacey filled me in on that part. You wanna tell me why you made your phone part of the laundry wenches’ show?”

“Okay, technically the show was over.” I sighed. “I’d just had enough, you know? My boss made it clear that no matter what I did, I was never going to make partner and I just . . . I’d had enough.” The memory of that last phone call made my chest ache, but there was one part that had given me grim satisfaction. The part where I’d told him I quit, followed by tossing my phone in the oversized laundry tub onstage. The one that was filled with water. “Turns out phones didn’t skip like stones do.”

That made Mitch laugh, his boisterous laugh that always made me feel better. I glanced up again. The guy in black had his arm around Stacey—so they were a couple—and the band had joined them. They looked to be having a serious discussion, and when Stacey threw a glance my way I had the sinking feeling the discussion was about me. Probably how to get the half-drunk, unemployed lady out of the audience and on her way.

The last thing I wanted to do was overstay my welcome. “I’ll be fine. I just need to get home. Regroup, you know? Get a new phone.” I pushed to my feet. Time to get going. “Thanks for talking, Mitch, I really appreciate—”

“Oh no, you don’t.” Mitch put out a hand like he could stop me from where he was. “I know you. You’re gonna go right back to work on Monday.”

I had to scoff at that. “I think I burned that bridge pretty well.”

“Then you’ll get another job. The same shit, different office. Is that really what you want?”

“I don’t . . .” My mind went blank. I had no answer for him. My goals had been just that—goals. High school valedictorian, summa cum laude at college, top percentile in law school, position with an established, high-profile firm, a partnership at said firm—they’d all been laid out in front of me like landmarks, but no one had ever asked if I’d wanted any of them.