An Optimist's Guide to Heartbreak (Heartsong #1)(60)

I’m flustered but relieved. Nervous but inherently soothed.

Pretending I didn’t hear the song request, I dive back into Sting and close my eyes, centering myself to the stage. To the music. To him.

It’s been just under two weeks since I spent the night in his guest room, having not felt right about making him drive me home after I’d agreed to come over. I slept soundly, the same way I had the first time I slept over. We danced around each other in his kitchen the next morning, neither of us bringing up the prior evening’s conversation and heady truths, and we danced around each other at work over the next two weeks, skirting and sidestepping, careful to avoid any dangerous rhythm. His feelings were made fairly clear. Mine were less clear.

Ultimately, the clearest takeaway has been that friendship is the safest option for both of us—even though I questioned that takeaway when I awoke Sunday morning in his guest bed with a familiar panda bear resting beside me. I’d left it on the couch when we got back from the festival, yet somehow, Pinky found her way onto my pillow.

Cal put her there.

So, yes, I’m questioning everything, but I’m forcing myself to choke back any hidden meanings and focus on the probability that it was just a token of friendship.

The start of a bridge.

His bridge.

Having him as my friend again is enough for now, and I hope and pray it always will be.

When I wrap up the set and voice my thanks to the resounding applause, I take a minute to put my guitar away and collect the tips before winding over to my table of friends in a rust-brown corduroy skirt and long-sleeved pinstripe blouse tucked into the waistline. My boots click atop the tile floor as I move, and I glance up at Cal who pushes up from the wall he was perched at near the back of the room. Alyssa calls out to me first.

“And she crushed it, as usual,” she chimes with a flash of teeth, holding up her empty wine glass.

I smile, my focus shared between the table and Cal stalking toward me. “It’s easy to perform well when I have the best audience.”

“Yeah, no shit,” she says, voice dipping. “Your sexy-as-sin boss was undressing you with his eyes the whole time.”

My heart palpitates. Alyssa hasn’t even met Cal yet, but she’s seen his picture. And he’s the kind of man she won’t soon forget, even if her acquaintance was limited to a low quality internet article. I hum an awkward laugh as Cal stops just short of the table, looking fidgety. “One sec,” I tell them, pivoting away.

He stuffs his hands into his pockets, glancing around the room before settling on me. “Hey.”

“Hi,” I beam.

I’m vaguely aware of him saying something—probably akin to “good show” or “nice job”—but the only thing I really hear is the echo of his words from two weeks ago:

I’m going to destroy you, Lucy. In the best fucking way.

Maybe he didn’t mean destroy, but somewhat ruin. Marginally maim. The way he said it made it sound tempting either way, so it’s been difficult to concentrate on things other than my brush with a seemingly good kind of destruction.

I don’t know what that means, exactly, but my ovaries do.

They know.

“Did you want to come sit with us?” I offer, fiddling with the button on my skirt.

His eyes skate over me, from my legs cased in umber boots, to my long waves of hair hanging over both shoulders. He clears his throat. “I just wanted to stop by. For support.”

“You can still show support at the table,” I try, hinting a smile. “I want you to meet my friends.”

Thinning his lips, he darts his eyes away again, then shrugs a little. “Yeah. Sure.”

Alyssa is already twisted around in her chair, drinking him like he’s her second glass of Merlot. Gemma and Knox give him a wave as he saunters over looking completely out of his element. It’s strange to see Cal act nervous—that’s usually my forte.

“Cal, these are my friends, Alyssa, Gemma, and Knox. And this is Cal—my boss.”

Gemma’s nose wrinkles. “Have we met before? You look really familiar.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t think so.”

“Oh my God, it’s so great to finally meet you,” Alyssa pipes up, standing to shake his hand. “Lucy never stops talking about you.”

My face flames. Never stops? She lives to mortify me. “Lys,” I scold.

“I’m just teasing. Sometimes she talks about dog neuters and muffins. Anyway, I’ve been dying to meet you, but Lucy says you’re kind of a recluse.”

I zone in on the way she’s still shaking his hand.

“Just busy,” he says, his tone clipped. His hand falls away to tug the beanie off his head, revealing a mess of shaggy hair. “But I try to make it to these things when I have time. She’s talented.”

Our eyes catch, and a kaleidoscope of butterflies take flight in my belly. “Well, thanks,” I say, pulling out two empty chairs for us. We take a seat. “It’s nice to have familiar faces in the crowd.”

Knox sips a craft beer as he trails his hand up and down Gemma’s back, toying with her auburn ponytail. He’s a country boy at heart, dressed in a plaid shirt and gaucho boots, his sandy hair pulled back into a man bun. “Lucy says she works at an auto shop with you. Do you own it?”