“I meant about him having a little thing for you,” she says, and I roll my eyes immediately in response, and cover my face again.

“Claire, Mason does not have a thing for me. He likes to get to me, he likes the attention—that’s it!” I say, swallowing hard, probably with a bit of disappointment.

“Right. So that’s why his eyes were glued to you the entire time he sang that song, huh?” she says, and I sit up quickly in response to this. “Yeah, I thought that might get you to see my side. Aves, he stared at the back of your head, and the only time he wasn’t looking at you was when his eyes were closed, probably imagining your face. Dude is a little smitten, that’s all I’m saying.”

My mouth betrays me, and slides into a fragile smile. Claire notices—I can tell because her eyes light up a little. But she doesn’t call me out on it, probably because she knows how quickly I’ll retreat back into hiding.

“Maybe…and just hear me out, okay,” she starts, swinging my legs to the floor to force me to sit up. “Maybe you can just go out there, do your job, and…I don’t know…stop when you have a minute, and just think about it. Just see if you get any vibes.”

I can’t help but snort-laugh at her suggestion. I’m pretty sure the only vibes I’m going to get are the ones that travel all the way down my spine. But I guess it can’t hurt anything to indulge a little—I’ve always loved to listen to that man sing. And pretending he’s singing to me isn’t anything new to me either.

“I can do that…but I’m not doing any vibe testing,” I say, tucking my shirt back in, and pulling my hair from its tie so I can rebuild the bun on top of my head.

“And Aves? How about you leave it down?” Claire says, reaching her hands around mine and urging me to let go of the small band holding my hair up. “It won’t look like flirting—I know that’s what you’re worried about. It’s just a hair tie.”

I hold her gaze for a few seconds. I’m not sure I want to do anything different. It feels like giving in. But, it is just a hair tie—something I take out and put in every day at work. No big deal. I finally nod okay, and shove it back in my pocket before straightening out my work clothes and marching back to the kitchen door. I turn to Claire one last time for reassurance.

“Max is happy, so we can stay as long as you want,” she says, knowing what I need to hear. I smile softly, and take in a deep breath before I head back out to the crowded bar, hoping I blend in with the sea of prettier girls out there and fly under the radar. Or maybe I hope I don’t. Maybe I hope I stand out, and that I’m all Mason can look at. My heart is sputtering at the thought—it’s fear. I fear the pending disappointment, and I know it’s inevitable.

He’s finishing up “In Your Eyes” when I get up the courage to walk to the tall tabletops that line the back. They’re right in view of the stage, and if there was ever a time to sneak a look at Mason, this was it. I load my tray with empties, sliding my hair behind my ear so I can see better, and that’s when I take my moment.

Max is always telling me about gravity, and how it pulls two masses together. Gravity. That’s what I’m feeling right now. I’m sure I’m flushed, and despite Dusty’s being filled beyond fire code, I can’t hear the crowd. I’m completely locked to Mason, his eyes squared to mine, and he’s the only thing I see. The background…gone. It’s just Mason.

Sitting on that stool with a small spotlight on him, he’s wearing a worn-out pair of jeans and a tight black T-shirt that hugs his biceps; the tattoo on his right arm finally showing enough to let me know it’s a tiger. Dusty’s is never formal. It’s not a place where performers dress up—but tonight Mason is making that look so unbelievably sexy. His hair is twisted in all different directions, and he keeps brushing away the long strands that fall in his eyes.

He licks his lips and bites his tongue before letting a smile slide up into his cheeks. I actually have to catch myself on one of the chairs when he does. A few faint whistles from the women in the crowd break through my tunnel.

“I’ve got a few more, if you guys don’t mind,” he says, toying with the audience. They eat him up—they always did. “Good, good,” he chuckles.

Adjusting the mic a little, he props one knee up on the top ledge of the stool, letting his guitar slide to the side and fall on the strap. The whistles start again—I get it, he’s downright dreamy right now. But I still roll my eyes. It’s annoying when Mason gets this kind of attention, and I’ll admit that I’m probably a little jealous.