Hook, Line, and Sinker (Bellinger Sisters)

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true.” She laughed.

“We’ll lose that job, too, now that you’re here.” The fiddle player stood, taking her hand and kissing her knuckles. “You’re definitely easier on the eyes than us ugly bastards.”

Fox’s comically forced laughter lasted five seconds longer than the rest of theirs.

Hannah turned and raised an eyebrow at him over her shoulder.

What is wrong with you?

Seeming to realize the spectacle he was making of himself, he coughed into a fist and crossed his arms, but remained close. Was he jealous?

If she wasn’t so shocked, she might have been . . . thrilled? Last night, she’d done a lot more than work on the grunge playlist to end all grunge playlists. While selecting songs, her determination to fight to change Fox’s mind about himself had only built. She wasn’t going back to Los Angeles without him knowing he could be more than some beautiful joke. A man who everyone expected to fulfill some bullshit destiny simply because he could. Not happening.

And maybe the fact that he could feel jealous was an indirect sign of progress? Maybe being jealous over her would prove to him he could want to get serious with . . . someone else someday?

If, for instance, he and Hannah weren’t meant to be.

Hannah ignored the horrible burning in her breast and turned back around. “Have you had a chance to look at the songs I sent over last night?”

“We have. Been burning the midnight oil working on arrangements.”

“You’ll be happy with them,” the bass player said, definitively, a musician’s arrogance on full display. “No question.”

The fiddle player gave her a look that was half chagrin, half apology for his bandmate. “Soon as Alana is done in there, we’ll run through the shanties, make sure it all works for you.”

She smiled. “That would be great, thank you.”

The trio went back to their conversation, and Hannah returned to the glass to watch Alana, Fox coming up beside her. “What was that?” she whispered at him.

“What was what?”

“You’re being weird.”

“I’m being helpful. They were looking at you like a ten-tier birthday cake just walked in the door.” He wasn’t quite succeeding in pulling off a casual tone, an agitated hand lifting to scrub at the bristle on his jaw. “Musicians are bad news—everyone knows that. Now they’ll leave you alone. You’re welcome.”

Hannah nodded, pretending to take him seriously. “I see.” A few seconds of silence passed. “Thanks for the consideration, but no thanks. I don’t need you running interference. If one of them is interested, I’ll deal with it myself.”

Now his eye ticced. “Deal with it how?”

“By deciding yes or no. I’m capable of doing that on my own.”

Fox studied her as if through a microscope. “Why are you doing this to me?”

Hannah exhaled a laugh. “Doing what? Calling your bluff?” His jaw looked ready to shatter, his eyes revealing a hint of misery. “If you’re jealous, Fox,” she said quietly, “just say you’re jealous.”

Conflicting emotions waged a war on his face. Caution. Frustration. And then he visibly gave up the battle, standing in front of her naked with honesty. “I’m jealous as fuck.” He seemed to be having a hard time getting breath into his lungs. “You’re . . . my Hannah, you know?”

She tried very hard not to tremble or make a show of what was happening inside her. But there was a Ferris wheel turning at max speed in her stomach. Did he really just say that out loud? Now that he had, now that it was out there, she couldn’t disagree. She’d been his for months. Don’t freak out and put him back on guard.

Instead, she went up on her toes. “Yeah. I know,” she whispered against his mouth.

Fox let out a relieved breath, his color returning gradually. He looked like he was right on the edge of making another admission, saying even more, his chest rising and falling. He wet his lips, his gaze raking over her face. But before he could say a word, the door of the booth was kicked open and out came Alana, stomping into the lounge area. “All right, folks.” She clapped her hands twice. “Let’s talk shanties before these two start making out, yeah?”

* * *

Dealing with her imposter syndrome on the heels of Fox’s admission was no small task. Hannah felt pulled in several directions, acutely aware of the man stationed like a pillar at her side, his exposed energy vibrating like a raw nerve, while also determined to watch her artistic vision come to life.

Who was she to give an opinion on musical arrangements?

But after the third take, there was something not working about the refrain in “A Seafarer’s Bounty.” It fell horizontal in the middle, and as a listener, her interest flatlined, too, when it should have been absorbed. The band seemed satisfied with their angle, and, man, they were so good. Way better than she should have expected on short notice. Why not just be grateful and move on?