I smirked around a mouthful of the juicy meat. “You’re talkin’ to a guido mick who grew up near a bodega that would go bankrupt if they didn’t sell Fanta and Mexican Coca-Cola. If there’s one thing I know, it’s good Mexican food. And Puerto Rican food—madonn’.” I kissed my fingertips. “It’s almost better than pizza.”

Almost.

He laughed softly. “I love how excited you get about food.”

I shrugged and smiled. I was a simple man.

“Anthony!” I heard Camden holler from somewhere. The sun had set, and the rows were packed with people, so it was difficult to see where he was. He appeared from the crowd a few seconds later with his mask pushed up to his forehead, out of breath and visibly excited. “I know where we’re gonna go next! There’s a seating area with a bar and stuff, and they’ve got live music!”

Sounded good to me. It’d be nice to get off my feet for a minute.

On the way over there, August stopped at a stand to buy candied almonds and a small bag of buttered popcorn.

“Daddy, we gots to go now!” Camden said, frustrated.

August lifted a brow and tossed a handful of nuts into his mouth. “Are we in a hurry?”

“Uh, yeah.” Camden nodded. “Maybe someone signed Anthony up for the open-mic thing.”

I did a double take at him. “Boy, you did what?”

“I said someone,” he grated. “Come on. Local radio is here, and you can tell everyone you’re playing at a big festival next weekend. It’s good PR.”

I…

“You’ve been hangin’ out with Clara too much.” August frowned.

“Camden, I didn’t bring any instruments,” I told him, at a loss. “I can’t play on a whim like that.”

Not that it would take me very long to come up with something.

“That’s okay! They have instruments you can borrow.” Camden grabbed my hand and tugged me along through the sea of people crowding the row, and I looked back to make sure August was following. “You’re a musician, aren’t you?” Camden threw over his shoulder. “I really, really, really want to hear you sing.”

I huffed a chuckle and shook my head.

Fine. No need to twist my arm—literally.

Bistro lights zigzagged over a dozen or so long picnic tables, which were filled to the last seat. People brought over food they’d bought, and wait staff rushed between the tables to take orders and serve beer. The bar wasn’t very big, and it wouldn’t take too many patrons to crowd it completely. Then at the back of the large deck was a stage lit up with red and blue spotlights.

A band was playing, but at a closer look, I deduced it was a solo guitarist with four musicians comping him.

He wasn’t very good. The band, however, was.