“Arwen tells me you’ve moved back to Shenandoah Falls.” Courtney gave him the tiniest of smiles, just a curl at the corner of her sweet mouth. By the spark in her eyes, Matt knew she was up to something.
“I’m working at my father’s law firm for the moment while I reassess my career choices.”
Her smile deepened. “I hope that means you don’t plan to hit on Arwen.”
She was so predictable. Standing there trying to protect her friends from the big, bad wolf. “Okay,” he said with a smile. “But what are you doing on Saturday?”
“Saturday? Are you kidding? It’s Memorial Day weekend. I’ve got three weddings on Saturday and another three on Sunday. And excuse me, but did you just ask me out?”
What a stupid blunder. He needed to remember that Courtney’s busiest workdays were Saturday and Sunday. So no long walks up to the falls or anything like that. “How about dinner in Winchester on Tuesday?”
She drummed her fingers on the top of the table, a nervous tic that suggested she wasn’t all that into him. And yet she’d cocked her head in a way that was most definitely a come-on. What else was new? Courtney was a master at sending mixed signals. A wiser man would cut his losses and move on. But for some reason, Matt didn’t want to. Courtney intrigued him.
After a very long moment, she said, “Sure. I’ll have dinner with you on Tuesday.”
The moment Courtney agreed, Ryan Pierce sat up straight. “But—”
Courtney interrupted whatever Ryan was about to say with the gesture. “It’s okay, Ryan. I know what I’m doing.” She gave Matt a big smile. “I’d love to have dinner with you in Winchester.”
Matt paused for a moment, his gaze flicking between Ryan and Courtney. Was she trying to make Ryan jealous? Maybe. In some ways, she was a player too, and she definitely had an agenda. He’d need to proceed with caution.
But then again, it might be fun to discover exactly what game she was playing. He nodded and smiled. “How about the Union Jack, at six thirty?” he said.
Ten minutes later, Arwen excused herself from the sparring match between Courtney and Matt. She headed to the café’s ready room, a large, concrete-floored area edged in metal storage shelves stuffed with paper products, giant-sized bottles of ketchup, and cans of tomato sauce. The room, which always smelled of French fries, doubled as a spot for musicians to relax and tune their instruments before they performed. A couple of beat-up sofas and a half dozen folding chairs occupied the space.
On open mic nights, the room got pretty crowded with a mix of serious musicians, wannabees, and amateurs, and it wasn’t all that unusual for Kent Henderson, who had an ego the size of Alaska, to initiate a jam session just to impress everyone by playing Doc Watson’s bluegrass version of “Tennessee Stud.” He always played it too fast and too loud.
But for some inexplicable reason, his rendition of “Tennessee Stud” made Kent the most popular performer with the Jaybird’s regulars. People listened to Kent even though he played the same songs week after week.
Arwen would be following Kent this evening, so of course, he was already in the back room playing his guitar so loud that no one else could possibly hear themselves, much less tune their guitars. Not that anyone else cared, since everyone, except Arwen, used electronic tuners.
Arwen had no problems with electronic tuners, but she used a variety of nonstandard, open tunings for her songs, which required frequent readjustments, so she’d honed the ability to tune her guitar by ear and to change the tunings on the fly. For that she needed to be able to hear herself.
She took her guitar out of its case and headed through the back door into the alleyway behind the Jaybird. A single streetlight dispelled the night like a spotlight. She stepped into it and adjusted the strap around her neck and shoulders. She tuned the guitar to open G and began practicing her new song—an ode to the rocking chair that used to sit on her grandmother’s porch. This new song had nothing to do with love or relationships. It told a sentimental story about a chair found by the side of the road, restored and repaired and handed down. It was sweet and not remotely commercial, but it pleased Arwen because it made her feel warm inside when she sang it. She’d loved her grandmother, who had passed away in February.
She finished the last chord and was startled by the sound of a single pair of hands clapping. “That was sweet, lass.”
She turned to find the Jaybird’s main bartender, Rory Ahearn, sitting on the back stoop. The night cast dark shadows across his deep-set blue eyes and accentuated the dimple in his chin. The rolled-up sleeves of his Henley tee exposed a pair of matching tattoos in a Celtic knot pattern, which wound around his arms like a pair of snakes.
He took a long drag on his cigarette, holding the smoke inside and then exhaling. No, wait, not a cigarette. The breeze blew the pungent scent of weed in Arwen’s direction.
“Want some?” he asked, holding the joint out in her direction.
She shook her head, her heart thundering in her chest. Was it some deep-seated need for adventure that had her second-guessing her response? Rory had been tending bar at the Jaybird for at least two years. He had a gift when it came to margaritas and a sexy-as-hell accent. He also listened when she played on open mic nights. She’d watch him going through the motions behind the bar, but she knew he paid attention when she sang. Which made him the only person, besides
