Page 16 of Unfinished Noise

Spencer froze. “Your… uncle?”

“Yep,” the man said, sticking out a hand. “Bob McAllister. Jamie’s mom’s brother.”

Spencer shook his hand, feeling like an idiot and a balloon deflating at the same time. “Right. Okay. Good to meet you.”

Uncle Bob chuckled. “You looked ready to throw me out the door.”

Jamie nudged Spencer’s hip under the table. “He gets protective.”

Spencer muttered, “I get accurate,” but the tension in his chest eased. A lot.

Everything settled after that—Bob turned out to be loud in a way that filled the space without taking it over. He talked with his hands, tapping the table when he got excited, and he had this habit of tilting his beer bottle in tiny circles while he listened, as if he were keeping time with a rhythm only he could hear. Alfie excused himself to grab a drink with Nathan, leaving an empty chair beside Jamie.

Spencer took it.

The second he sat down, the room shifted.

A girl squealed.

Then another.

Then suddenly there was a line—an actual line—forming beside the table.

“Spencer, can I get a picture?”

“Can you sign my shirt?”

“Oh my God, you’re even hotter in person!”

Spencer blinked. “Uh—yeah, sure.”

Jamie laughed into his beer, eyes sparkling. “Rock star problems.”

Spencer shot him a look. You’re enjoying this way too much.

But he signed napkins, ticket stubs, arms, even one girl’s phone case. They kept coming—mostly young women, some shaking, some giggling, all of them talking at once.

“You were amazing up there!”

“Are you single?”

“Can you write ‘To Kayla, love Spencer’?”

Spencer kept glancing at Jamie, needing that anchor. Jamie didn’t look bothered. If anything, he looked proud. Relaxed. Like he loved seeing Spencer get attention. That helped. A lot.

Still, Spencer made sure every photo he took, every autograph he signed, he angled himself so Jamie stayed in his line of sight.

One girl leaned in close for a selfie. “You smell so good,” she whispered.

Jamie choked on his beer.

Spencer cleared his throat. “Uh—thanks. But let’s keep it PG.”

Uncle Bob laughed so hard that he slapped the table. “Boy, you’re popular.”

Spencer shrugged, cheeks warm. “Comes with the job, I guess.”

But his hand found Jamie’s knee under the table, thumb brushing slow circles—quiet, steady, claiming without making a scene.