“I got it, thanks.” He shakes his head, trying not to smile as he takes a drink of whiskey. He cuts me a sideways look as his throat works with his swallow, and fuck, that shouldn’t be as hot as it is.

Jesus.

I quickly swipe the bottle from him. “Sharing is caring.”

“My bad, Grumpy Bear,” he murmurs.

I force another eye roll, ignoring the way my cheeks heat. It’s just the fucking whiskey. “Don’t call me that.”

He sighs. Nodding at the guitar, he says, “You working on something?” At my frown, he adds. “I heard you write—that all of you do—even though I’ve yet to hear any of your guys’ originals. What’s that about?”

I start to open my mouth to respond.

“Not that your covers aren’t fucking amazing,” he adds quickly. “Seriously. You guys are talented.”

I pull out my pack of smokes. “Yeah, well, it’s one thing to perform, another to create.”

“Bullshit.”

My fingers pause.

“Anyone watching you guys, listening to your sound...” He shrugs. “Look, I’m not exactly musically inclined—I can barely play Hot Cross Buns on a kazoo—but I like to think I have a good ear, and I’m telling you, you guys are good.”

“Shut up.” A beat. “And dad-rock hardly constitutes good music, so, sorry-not-sorry if I don’t trust your word.”

He gasps in mock-outrage. “Dad-rock laid the foundation for your so-called good music. So I wouldn’t be knockin’ it if I were you.”

I grunt.

“Just take the compliment.”

“Sure.”

He huffs, then waves his fingers at me. “Can I?”

I arch a brow and shove the cigarettes his way. “Since when do you smoke?”

“Only when I’m drinking. As I was saying,” he mumbles around a cigarette. He brings the lighter to the end, flicking it to life with his long, tanned fingers. He takes a couple puffs before tossing the lighter across the bar so it skips a few times. I catch it just before it rolls off the edge. “What was I saying?”

My lip curls into a disbelieving smile. “Are you already drunk?”

He makes a so-so gesture with his hand. “My tolerance is shit when it comes to liquor.”

“Noted,” I murmur.

“I also haven’t eaten.”

I hop off my stool and round the counter. Grabbing the bag of chips we keep under the register, I toss them in front of him. I also fill a couple glasses of water. “Soak it up before you end up flat on your ass. I’m not taking care of you.”

“Noted,” he throws back at me sarcastically, popping a chip in his mouth.

I flip him off and pull a stool over so I’m sitting across from him. Dragging over my make-shift ashtray—one of the old, wooden bowls we typically use for snacks—I tap off some of the ash of my cigarette before grabbing my guitar.