Page 17 of Say You Want Me
The apology in her office had been necessary, excruciating, and Taylor had accepted it with that quiet grace that seemed to come so naturally to her. But the acceptance didn’t settle the restless ache in Charlotte’s chest, nor did it stop the way her pulse would spike whenever their eyes met across the room.
This was the part where she was supposed to move on. To let professionalism override the reckless pull she felt every time Taylor’s eyes met her own.
But it was proving much more difficult than that.
The only thing that Charlotte knew was that this was going to be the longest academic year of her life.
12
Taylor stood in the middle of her loft and studied her reflection in the full-length mirror propped against the exposed brick. The soft glow from the vintage floor lamp caught the highlights in her hair. She tipped her head back, scrunching a few last spritzes of sea salt spray into her chestnut waves until they fell in loose, touchable curls past her shoulders. The spray left a faint, clean scent of salt and summer in the air, bringing a bit of the coast into the dry inland valley. She always treated her set with intention. Even for a relatively quiet venue like The Blackwood, every gig was a chance to be seen and heard, and she refused to walk onto a stage looking like she’d just spent six hours at college.
Her hands smoothed down the fitted black top she’d chosen—soft fabric with a wide, low scoop that left a subtle curve of cleavage exposed. Leaning closer to the glass, she smudged a line of dark kohl along her lashes, a quick, practiced habit that made her hazel eyes stand out under dim stage lights. Dark jeans sat low on her hips, worn soft in all the right places.
Olivia, the owner of this building, had spotted something in her during the apartment walkthrough. Taylor had mentioned her bartending experience in passing, and Olivia had offeredher three night shifts on the spot. Within days, after Olivia had checked out her Instagram and listened to the raw acoustic tracks, the gig slots appeared like an unexpected gift. The rent dropped to something almost laughable in exchange for her performances, and it still felt surreal. Olivia wasn’t just a boss or a landlady; she had become the kind of steady presence Taylor needed in her life right now.
The Blackwood sat directly beneath her with its salvaged-wood bar and amber lighting that made for a rustic feeling bar. No sticky floors or thumping bass for undergrads. The place drew in mostly professionals, quiet creatives, and locals who wanted craft beer and conversation instead of chaos. Tonight she would sing for them. The thought sent a familiar flutter through her stomach, not quite nerves but something close.
She ran her palms down the front of her jeans as she looked around her new home. The apartment smelled like her—coffee grounds, guitar polish, and the faint vanilla from the candle she’d burned earlier. It grounded her. This place was hers for the next year.
A low hum of voices rose through the floorboards as the early crowd filtered in. She let her breath out slowly, deliberately. She picked up her guitar case, the leather handle cool and familiar against her palm.
Taylor locked up and mentally ran through her set list as she descended the narrow wooden stairwell, each creak of the old boards vibrating up through the soles of her boots. She’d open with a couple of covers, slip one original somewhere in the middle, keep the mood right depending on what her audience was like.
Regular gigs had started to feel like breathing again. When she transferred, she had braced herself to let the music slide into the background while she chased the degree, but Olivia’s offer had stitched the two halves of her life together without a seam.The rent break, the stage time, the new friend she’d found in Olivia. It all worked.
If only the rest of her could line up so cleanly.
She shouldered through the heavy wooden door into the main room, the weight of it giving way to the press of bodies and the low murmur of conversation. The air hit her all at once—warm, thick with the scent of whiskey and polished wood, the hum of voices buzzing against her skin like an electric current. Her stomach tightened, a slow, familiar coil of anticipation and nerves.
The stage waited in the far corner.
“Hey Taylor,” Olivia called from behind the bar, wiping down a glass. “You good for tonight?”
Taylor set the case down on an empty table and unlatched it, the cool metal clasps clicking under her thumbs.
“Yeah. I’m ready.”
13
The second bottle of Pinot Noir sat between them on the small table. The bottle was half empty and glinted dark crimson under the low amber bulbs. It was nine o’clock. The sharp, persistent ache behind Charlotte’s eyes, the residual tension from a long week, had finally dissolved into a dull, manageable hum.
This was why she’d agreed to come. To spend some time with Sam away from work, to have a few drinks.
The ambient lights in the back corner dimmed, and Sam pushed back from the table, her chair leg scraping against the oak floorboards as she lifted it and placed it directly beside Charlotte’s. They sat shoulder to shoulder, facing the small, raised wooden stage in the corner.
Sam leaned close, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial purr that barely carried over the murmur of the crowd.
“Wait until you hear this singer,” Sam said, her shoulder pressing lightly against Charlotte’s arm. “I might have a crush on her. I heard her here last Friday. She’s beautiful. And her voice. Unbelievable.”
Charlotte scooted her chair over an inch to give Sam room, a faint, wry curve touching her lips. It felt refreshing to hearSam talk like this, completely detached from faculty politics and research grants.
“Is that right?” Charlotte said softly.
She took a slow sip, letting the dry, tannic fruit coat her palate.
Then a figure stepped up onto the low stage.
Charlotte’s throat seized.
