Chapter Twenty-Two

The Tipsy Gull was pretty much exactly what she’d expected.

The one-room cement-block dive bar was surrounded by a gravel parking lot and advertised live music Friday and Saturday nights on a marquee at the edge of the road. It looked like the kind of place that didn’t serve drinks with more than two ingredients unless they were Long Island Iced Teas. Where hard-working men and women came on Friday nights to spend their paychecks and escape the reality of the rest of the week—at least that’s what it would have been in one of her movies. She’d never actually been in a dive bar. In her early twenties she’d been waiting in long lines trying to get into the trendiest places in Los Angeles, to be seen with the right people.

Maggie had to circle the crowded parking lot before she found a place to land the pink convertible. As soon as she turned off the engine, she started second guessing her decision to come here. In her vision of how tonight would go, she’d pictured the place as almost entirely empty and Ian sitting at the bar alone. She’d found her Dodgers hat and wore it along with the leggings she’d brought with her and a fitted sweater from Lolly’s closet—but what if someone recognized her? She didn’t have security with her and a bar full of drunken strangers didn’t exactly sound like the best place to lay low.

But she’d come all this way and she saw his truck on the other side of the parking lot—and the same crazy part of her that had always been willing to jump into the deep end of a lake for Ian wouldn’t let her leave without at least seeing him.

Before she could lose her nerve, Maggie climbed out of the car and strode purposefully across the parking lot toward the door. She threw it open and stepped inside—into an atmosphere that was nothing like she’d expected based on the exterior.

The ceilings were low and so was the lighting, but other than that it broke all her expectations. Instead of a rowdy crowd on the dance floor, the patrons were clustered at tables facing a small stage, like devotees at a jazz club. Even the customers seated at the bar along the far wall were all twisted to give the man on the stage with his guitar their full attention.

The very familiar man on the stage with his guitar.

Maggie had heard Ian play before, more times than she could count. She’d thought, over the years, that her teenage infatuation must have exaggerated his talent. That she’d only thought he was a mind-blowing rock god because she’d been so far gone for him.

She’d been wrong. He was better than she’d remembered.

Maggie froze just inside the doorway, caught along with the rest of the audience by the spell Ian was weaving with the song.

It was a cover, a familiar song, but he’d slowed it down and made it sound new, made her hear things in the lyrics she’d never heard before as his voice rasped over the words. She couldn’t move, her breath going short as she stared at the stage and goosebumps rose on her arms.

He’d always been an attractive man, but put a guitar in his hands and he transformed into unbelievably sexy. It was like taking off sunglasses and staring straight into the sun. Unfiltered. Undiluted. Pure, raw sex appeal. The stage lights haloed him and she couldn’t breathe, her skin tingling.

He was dressed as casually as the rest of the crowd—a t-shirt beneath a flannel button down, well-worn jeans, and a Mariners cap that had seen better days—but she couldn’t tear her eyes away.

When the song ended and the crowd erupted into applause, Maggie jerked out of her daze, realizing she was standing conspicuously by the door. She searched for an empty chair, threading through the crowded tables to an open space all the way at the end of the bar farthest from the stage.

She slid onto the stool and the bartender jerked his chin at her to let her know he’d get to her, his hands full mixing drinks halfway down the bar. A few other patrons glanced her way, one or two doing stealthy double takes, but no one came over to ask her for a selfie or an autograph. She wasn’t sure how long her anonymity would last, but she planned to enjoy it as long as she could. The vibe in the bar was casual, relaxed—or maybe that was just the atmosphere inspired by Ian’s music. He was so easy on stage, so comfortable and chill that it almost seemed impossible to feel any stress as he introduced the next song as “one of his” and launched into a ballad that wrapped the entire bar in that lazy, easy feeling.

His music wasn’t strictly Country—but then it never had been, for all that he’d run away to Nashville. He’d always been more attracted to acoustic, emotion-driven songs. He’d called it “the sweet spot”—where blues, classic rock, country, and folk all intersected.

What was he doing here?

He was brilliant. He’d said he’d had some success in Nashville before he moved back here and she could see why. She just couldn’t see why he’d never gone back. He could have been famous. She knew he said his dreams had changed, but they obviously hadn’t changed that much if he was still playing every week. Why would he keep working as a handyman when he could have been the next Ed Sheeran?

The bartender came over during the break before the next song and Maggie ordered a cider she could nurse for a while without getting tipsy. She watched the rest of Ian’s set, wondering over and over again why he was hiding himself in nowhere Oregon.

When Ian announced a break, Maggie sat up a little straighter on her stool, nerves suddenly whispering through her. Would he be glad to see her here? Or annoyed that she’d followed him here?

She watched him descend the stage and maneuver through the crowd, stopping again and again to chat with people along the way, his progress slow. He hadn’t seen her yet and she peeled the label on her bottle, waiting for him to look to the back of the bar. He reached the opposite end of the long oak bar and the bartender reached through the patrons clustered there to hand Ian a beer. Ian nodded his thanks, lifting it to his lips, his gaze tracking down the room—and landing on Maggie.

She smiled nervously, lifting her bottle in a little toast, and Ian’s smile kicked up on one side. He lowered his bottle and began weaving through the crowd again, this time making his way to her side, his gaze never leaving her.

There wasn’t another stool by her, but Ian slid his body into the space between her stool and the wall, propping his elbow on the bar beside her. “Lori Terchovsky. What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”

She smiled at his use of her real name—as if that would stop people from recognizing her. “I could ask you the same thing,” she said. The noise level in the bar rose now that Ian was no longer holding the room captive with his voice, giving them the illusion of privacy as he bent his head close to hers to hear over the din. “Why didn’t you tell me you still played?”

He shrugged. “It never came up.” She arched her brows to show him what she thought of that answer and he laughed. “I don’t know. Maybe I was intimidated. It always made me nervous, playing for you.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh yeah. You look so nervous up there.”

“I didn’t know you were here, hiding in the back.”

“It was the only chair I could get. You appear to be rather popular. Standing room only.”

“You should have seen it last week. There were plenty of empty chairs.” He took a draught of his beer. “I was actually thinking of calling it quits. Or at least cutting back.”

“You’re kidding.” He couldn’t be serious.

Ian shrugged. “I thought maybe the time had come.”

“How long have you been playing here?”

“About three years, I guess? Every Friday. It was actually Lolly who encouraged me to do it. I’d more or less given up music when Sadie was small. Then about three years ago, Lolly came over and said she’d arranged a gig for me and was taking Sadie for the night.” He grinned at the memory. “She practically shoved me out the door. But then when I got here, I realized it was an open mic night rather than an actual gig—I guess she wanted it to be my call, but I had my guitar and she was watching Sadie so I decided to stay for a drink. Then I put my name on the list. And the next week I came back.” He shrugged. “A few weeks later the owners asked me to do a set after the open mic night. Then it just sort of became my night. Voila.”

“I’m not surprised. You’re that good. You could be doing this for real.”

His mouth twisted skeptically. “I’m a handyman who plays once a week.”

“Are you? You think every handyman who plays once a week can pack people into a room like this and hold everyone completely hypnotized?”

“I think you might be exaggerating a little bit.”

“I’m really not,” she insisted. “I’ve seen the people who really have it—do you know how many musical guests I have been booked with on talk shows? And you have it, Ian. I don’t understand why you’re wasting your talent in some little nowhere town.”

His eyebrows bounced up as he took another drink. “Maybe I like this nowhere town.”

“You could give Sadie a better life—”

“She has a good life. A normal life. With a father she actually knows because he isn’t touring three hundred days a year.”

“You wouldn’t necessarily have to tour—”

“Maggie.” Her name was hard on his lips, and loud enough that she glanced around nervously to check if anyone else had heard, but if they had they were doing a good job of pretending they hadn’t. “I just don’t want it anymore. Okay? I never wanted the fame like you did. Since when has that shit ever made anyone happy? Are you so happy?”

She pressed her lips closed, lowering her gaze to the shredded label of her cider.

Ian groaned. “Shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that—”

“It’s okay—”

“No, it isn’t. I shouldn’t take it out on you just because I did want it once and having someone tell me I could have really made it makes me wonder if I made the right call by walking away.”

She chanced a glance at him beneath her lashes. “You could still make it.”

He shook his head. “That’s another life.” He bumped her shoulder gently with his, making an effort to get them back to a comfortable place. “You know when you starred in your first movie, I knew you were going to be huge. I used to imagine that the story of my first kiss—the fact that it was with the great Maggie Tate—would be this amazing anecdote for when I got interviewed on a late night talk show someday.”

“I used to think maybe we’d meet up again someday. That you’d be a famous singer and I’d be a famous actress…” She smiled, shaking her head. “God, I was such a sucker for you when you played.”

“Yeah?” His grin was cockiness personified and she laughed.

“Ian.” The bartender’s deep voice had them both sobering as Ian turned to him and gave him a nod.

“I’ll be right there.” He drained the last of his beer and turned back to Maggie. “I’ve got one more set to do.”

“Right. Of course.” She smiled brightly to hide her disappointment at the interruption. “Knock ‘em dead.”

One of his hands gently brushed the small of her back and he lowered his head close to her ear. “You gonna still be here when I get done?”

A dozen questions seemed to whisper behind that one, as if he was asking so much more than just whether she was planning to stay for the whole set—and all those questions had the same answer. “Yeah,” she murmured. “I’ll be here.”

Ian grinned and shifted around her, weaving slowly back toward the stage. The patrons noticed him moving and conversations began to die, the general din in the room lowering to a hum by the time he stepped up behind the mic again. When he picked up the guitar again, he didn’t have to say a word for an anticipatory hush to settle over the room—

And he thought he could give this up. He was made for this and everyone in the room knew it.

Ian flicked a glance in her direction, a little smile curling his lips, and leaned into the microphone. “This one is an old friend,” he said, introducing the song, and the first few chords of Van Morrison’s I’ll Be Your Lover Too twanged through the room.

Maggie’s breath caught and held as the aching sweetness of the song reached into her chest and squeezed. He’d played this for her a hundred times that last summer, the slow promise of it seeping into her skin and permeating her thoughts—and she couldn’t escape the feeling that this time he was playing it just for her too.

The next song was another familiar one from those long ago summer afternoons—a sexy ballad off Lorenzo Tate’s solo album. If he was trying to seduce her with music, he couldn’t have chosen a better set list. When he played Maggie May, she noticed a few people stealing glances at her, though no one bothered her. The bartender asked if she wanted another cider, but she’d mostly been ignoring the one in front of her so she shook her head, thanking him.

The bar started to empty as the night wore on. The original age group of the crowd had been more diverse than she’d expected when she walked in the door and a few senior couples were the first to depart, followed in trickles by others who each waved to Ian and the bartender before hitting the road. A few empty seats began to open up around the room, but the bar stayed largely full until Ian announced his last song.

It was after midnight when the last note faded and the mass exodus began. Someone turned on the jukebox, but the conversation level stayed low as the patrons shuffled toward the door. Ian took a few minutes up on stage, putting away his gear.

As a Sam Smith ballad began to wail through the jukebox, Maggie became uncomfortably aware of all the people in the room. A few glanced her way and even tossed her a nod, but Maggie only gave them a small smile, calculated to acknowledge them but not invite them closer. She fished out a fifty and tucked it beneath her half-empty cider bottle as a sort of apology for taking up space and only nursing the one drink all night, then slid off her stool.

Ian met her halfway to the door, his guitar case in hand. “You okay to drive?” he asked as he appeared at her side, instantly reading the situation and acknowledging that she didn’t want to stay here with all these people watching them.

“Yeah, I don’t, I mean, I didn’t drink much.”

“I’ll tail you back,” he offered. “Make sure you get there all right. We don’t have many streetlights and the roads get really dark around here at night.”

Maggie glanced up at him beneath the brim of her hat. “Thanks. I’d like that.”

The parking lot was emptying and Ian walked her over to her car even though it was the wrong direction from his truck. “What’d you think of the show?” he asked as they drew up beside the pink convertible.

“You know it was incredible.” She leaned against the car, looking up at him. “I recognized a lot of those songs.”

“Blast from the past,” he murmured, and she had a feeling he wasn’t talking about the music as his gaze traced her face, the seconds seeming to slow down. He rested his hand on the hood of the car beside her. “What are you doing here, Maggie Tate?” The question was soft, a whisper in the cool night.

“Listening to you play?” she whispered back, though she knew that wasn’t what he was asking.

He leaned in, closing the distance between them, and even in the darkened parking lot she could feel his gaze lowering to her lips.

It felt like he’d been slowly seducing her for the last two hours, every song auditory foreplay. She came up on her toes, taking a half-step closer, her hand coming to rest on his chest—

A pair of headlights panned over them. Ian shifted back suddenly as Maggie turned her face away from the glare—and the reminder that they shouldn’t be doing this here.

Ian dropped his hand from the hood of the car. “I’ll be right behind you,” he promised, and Maggie nodded, opening the driver’s side door and sliding into the car with anticipation whispering across her skin.

She set her navigation and pulled onto the dark country roads, headed back toward Long Shores with Ian’s headlights in her rearview mirror. He stayed far enough back that he didn’t blind her, but never so far back that she couldn’t see him.

He was being a gentleman. A friend. Looking out for her. Making sure she got home all right.

It wasn’t the first time she’d had someone watching over her, not by a long shot, but usually it was her security team. Usually it was professionals she paid to protect her. When was the last time someone had looked out for her just because he wanted to? Not because he expected something from her—because even though she would have been more than willing to give him that kiss and see where it went, she knew on some instinctive level that Ian would have watched over her even if she had shut him down. It was who he was.

She pulled into her driveway and climbed out of the car, hesitating in the driveway to see if he would join her, but he merely slowed to a crawl at the mouth of Lolly’s driveway and lifted one hand in a wave before continuing on to the beach house.

Maggie cursed under her breath as his taillights disappeared. Had he had second thoughts on the drive home? Had his good judgment taken hold? Because she was still firmly in the bad judgment zone and wanted him to join her there again.

She unlocked the door to Lolly’s house, greeting a sleepy Cecil and letting him out in the back yard to do his business as she stared at the trees separating her from the Summer house. Sadie was in Seattle tonight. If Maggie was going to make a fool of herself throwing herself at Ian, there was no time like the present—especially because he’d given her several reasons to hope he might not think something between them would be entirely foolish.

Maggie was impulsive, so why not chase this impulse? She wanted him, and he’d seemed to want her too. What could it hurt to go over and knock on his door? She let Cecil back into the house and paused to look in the mirror, pulling off her baseball cap and smoothing her hair.

She’d just knock. If he didn’t answer, she wouldn’t ring the doorbell, but what if he was as awake as she was? What if he was waiting for her, hoping she would make the first move just like she had when they were thirteen and she’d ambush-kissed him on the beach?

Maggie smoothed her sweater over her hips and strode to the front door, pulling it open quickly, decisively—

And freezing before she could run into the man holding the screen door open, his hand raised to knock.

“Ian,” she murmured, the word breathless.

“Maggie.”