A door clicks shut across the room behind me, the sound nearly lost beneath the music and hum of conversation. I’d never hear it if I weren’t so freaking attuned, my ears constantly straining for him.
My heartbeat trips—then restarts at double-time.
My grip tightens on my pencil.
“Red alert,” Maria breaks off to say, her eyes widening and flicking over my shoulder. “Mayday, mayday.”
Lips pursed, I nod and flick my sketchbook to another page. An innocent page, with a sketch I did earlier of two regulars sharing a smoke just outside the bar doorway, their hands cupped against the wind.
Nothing to see here. No weirdly loving sketches of a man I’ve barely met; a man who must be twenty years older than me, with the fine lines and silver flecks to prove it. No, sir.
“Okay?” Kyle mutters as
