Page 61 of The Comedown

I think she’s gonna say more, but she just picks up her drink with both hands, frowning at the clear liquid with green bits floating around.

Stealing hearts. Stealing hearts.

I snag the napkin that was under her mojito, flipping it over to scribble out the lyrics before I forget them.

All these hearts I’m said to be stealin’,

keep lining my pockets with the deals I’m signin’ and sealin’.

Never wanna let that ink run dry

just like the tears they pretendin’ to cry.

One by one, they weighin’ me down,

not gonna stop ’til I’m good and drownin’.

The sweat ring from the other side seeps through, making some of the words bleed, but I fold it in half anyway, sticking the napkin in my pocket along with the marker I always keep on hand.

“Can I see what you wrote?”

I chuckle, downing the rest of my watered-down soda. “Probably.”

Collette stares at me like we aren’t both trying like hell to ignore the phones pointed in our direction. The public apology backfired because now everyone, even the dishwashers, know we’re here. I should’ve filled her bus with roses or something. Does she even like roses? Peonies. I should’ve filled her bus with peonies. Roses are too basic.

Slamming the glass down on the bar, I take her hand and help her to standing again. “Let’s get out of here.”

“What do you mean? Holter’s here.”

“We’re not leaving. I just need some air.”

“What about our food?”

“We’ll be back in a minute. I need to talk to you without all this.”

She arches an eyebrow. “Just talk?”

“Unless?” I arch one right back.

“I’m kidding,” I tell her, placing my hand on her lower back to nudge her forward. I’m mostly kidding. My plan is to talk to her, but if she has other ideas, who the hell am I to turn the woman down?

As I steer her over to the emergency exit, she strains to catch a glimpse of Holter up until the very last second, but she pushes through the door without hesitation, finally turning a questioning look over her shoulder once we’re inside the stairwell.

I lift one finger, pointing above us.

“You didn’t say anything about stairs. My feet were already killing me before I squeezed them into six-inch heels.”

“Then why’d you even wear six-inch heels?”

Yeah, okay, that’s a dumb question. Collette doesn’t do dressed down very well. I mean, she does—she really, really does—but she chooses not to.

Bending down, I scoop her up with one arm behind her exposed back and the other under her knees.

“It’s like,” she counts, “four flights of stairs.”

“Then maybe you should stop moving.”

She’s wiggling like a worm on the sidewalk after a rainstorm and I have to readjust my hold every three goddamn stairs just so I don’t drop her. I’m usually strong, but damn, help a guy out.