She lit up then. “Oh! Wonderful. What’s the name?”

“Johnson.”

The woman slid her finger down a list, and then smiled broadly, gathering up two menus. “Right this way.”

I had to admit I was shocked, so much so that Clay had to hold his arm out for mine to lure me from where I’d been rooted in place by the door. He curbed a grin as we followed the hostess through the dimly lit bar, one vastly different from the casual place on campus where Shawn usually played. This one was known for fancy cocktails that cost more than a full four-course dinner should.

Still, I marveled at the bizarre chandeliers and busy, yet not tacky, floral wallpaper as we wound our way through the tables. And we were deposited in a back corner booth.

Right near the stage.

My stomach flipped at the sight of Shawn’s guitar case, of the long, charcoal gray bandana that hung off the mic. It was his signature, one I’d never seen him play without, and it held my attention as Clay slid into one side of the small booth and I took the other.

“Your mixologist will be right over,” the hostess assured us, and her eyes lingered on Clay for longer than necessary — long enough that I cocked a brow like I was his actual girlfriend. She coughed when she saw me, gave a brief smile and exited stage right.

My face softened once she was gone, only to turn and find Clay watching me with an arched brow of amusement.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said, picking up the menu. “You just play your part well.”

I picked mine up, too. “She might as well have left her number on a napkin.”

“Coaster.”

I blinked, but Clay just smiled, holding up a thin white coaster with the bar name between his fingers. I saw without having to inspect closer that she, in fact, had sprawled her name and number on it.

I rolled my eyes.

“Don’t worry, Kitten,” Clay said, scooting closer and putting his arm around the back of the booth and thus around me, too. “I’m all yours.”

I fought the urge to roll my eyes again, mostly because our waitress came over. I ordered a grapefruit mocktail, because unlike Clay, I didn’t have a fake I.D., and I wouldn’t be twenty-one for another year and a half. Clay picked a whiskey drink that was so strong, I took a sip once it was delivered and felt like I was breathing fire.

“I’m impressed you made a reservation,” I said.

“I didn’t.”

I frowned. “But, you just—”

“With a last name like Johnson, I took my shot.”

“What if the actual Mr. Johnson shows up?”

He shrugged. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

I gaped at him. “Clay!”