Page 71 of The Professor's Wife

Back at the pub, we grabbed tacos from a stand nearby and ate them perched on the edge of a planter box, laughing as salsa dripped down my chin. He wiped it away with his thumb, lingering just long enough to make my breath catch.

Then he set up.

I found a place among the audience and watched him get ready.

Beneath the string lights, his guitar case lay open on the patio stones, and he perched on a stool an outdoor server had offered him. The crowd was casual—locals, couples, a few tourists—but as soon as he began to play, the atmosphere shifted.

Conversations dimmed. Heads turned.

His voice was low and magnetic, curling around the lyrics like velvety smoke. It wasn’t just the music; it was his presence. He didn’t just sing the song. He inhabited it.

I sat there, absorbed, in my new dress and sandals, feeling like someone else.

Someone softer.

Someone less tainted.

And Tristan…he was incandescent.

He sang “Golden” by Harry Styles, but it was different. Slower. With just the guitar, every word that fell from his lips felt intimate and raw.

Shivers ran down my spine. I felt my skin pebble with goosebumps, the urge to shut my eyes overwhelming. I wanted to block out everything else and focus only on the sound and feel of his words.

I wasn’t the only one.

His voice pulled people in, but it was more than that. It was the way he looked at them. The way he looked at me. Like he was offering something sacred. Like he was unraveling something inside himself and letting us watch.

I was smitten.

Completely absorbed in the way he magnetized the world around him.

When his eyes found mine mid-song, I felt it again—that quiet ache in my chest. The one that whispered:This is what it feels like to be wanted.

And for a moment, under the fairy lights and the hush of the crowd, I let myself believe I deserved it.

But I didn’t.

Not at all.

After his final song, the applause was generous. A few women lingered near him, smiling too brightly, asking his name andcomplimenting his voice. One even touched his arm, laughing at something he hadn’t said.

But Tristan’s gaze kept flicking toward me. If he’d given them even an ounce of attention, I might have felt jealous, but I didn’t. Not since that gas station where he ignored those other women. He didn’t care for them. Not when his eyes followed me with such intensity.

He packed up slowly, then walked over to the pub’s manager—a stout man with a salt-and-pepper beard and a clipboard tucked beneath one arm. He’d been outside more than once during Tristan’s performance, looking delighted as the crowd swiftly became customers. He and Tristan exchanged a few words, and I caught the manager nodding before clapping Tristan on the shoulder.

When Tristan finally made his way toward me, the women watched him go. One of them called out, “You should come have a drink with us!”

He didn’t even glance back.

Instead, he stopped in front of me, his eyes warm. He looked me over slowly, like he was memorizing the dress he’d chosen and the way it fit me.

“You’re so beautiful, Daze.”

I smiled. “You said something like that earlier.”

“I mean it more now.”

There was a pause. A charged silence. I licked my lips, searching for words…and composure.