Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83358 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83358 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
I’m glad the lounge is dim because I still feel the heat in my face and the nausea of extreme embarrassment in my stomach. No one has ever called me a name like that before and I don’t know why it shames me, but it does.
I settle down next to Lucky, who’s talking to Rafferty seated perpendicular to us.
I listen quietly as they discuss the merits of compression sleeves versus superstition, as if either one’s the reason the puck finds the net.
Then the lights go even dimmer and a spotlight shines on the stage. Lucky angles toward me and curls an arm around my shoulders. Thunderous clapping erupts as Mazzy and a very good-looking guy I assume is Leo take the stage.
They move with relaxed confidence, each grabbing a stool and adjusting their mics. Leo slings his guitar over his shoulder while Mazzy scans the room, clearly at home under the lights.
She leans forward, smile easy and warm. “Hey y’all—I’m Mazzy and this is Leo, one of my favorite people to sing with.”
Leo leans forward, mouth near his mic, and in a deep voice, rumbles, “I’m the only person you sing with.”
She doesn’t spare him a glance but chuckles. “That’s true. So we’re gonna play some songs you might know, maybe a few you don’t, and if anything makes you want to cry into your cocktail or call your ex—just know that’s on you, not us.”
A ripple of laughter travels through the room. I glance at Foster, see him staring up at Mazzy with pure adoration. But it’s Bowie Jane, on her knees, bouncing with excitement as she claps for Mazzy that has me all up in my feels.
“If you’ve got a request,” she adds, “scribble it down on a napkin, drop it up here, and we’ll see what we can do. No guarantees, but if you bribe Leo with compliments, he’s a sucker for flattery.”
Leo chuckles, already picking out the first few notes of a warm-up.
Mazzy winks at the crowd. “All right, let’s get to it.”
The room settles as they begin their first song—something soft and moody, the kind of melody that wraps around you slow and steady. The stage begins a gentle spin, and for a minute, I don’t understand what I’m seeing. Then I realize… it’s a circular platform that slowly rotates, giving every corner of the bar a front-row view of the performance once it turns their way. And beside me, Lucky’s hand squeezes my shoulder again. I lean my head onto him and let the embarrassment of that bathroom confrontation flow out of me.
Mazzy is radiant. Effortless. Her voice floats through the room like silk and Leo adds enough grit to her harmony that I’m sure he melts women’s panties everywhere. They sing two covers—both bluesy and warm—and then Mazzy settles her guitar on her lap and says, “This next one’s original. I wrote it for someone who once made me believe in the best version of myself. And now he’s stuck with her.”
Another round of laughter floats through the room. Mazzy handles this one alone, the spotlight on Leo dimming. He sits quietly on his stool in the shadows so she’s the focus.
Foster watches her like she’s the sun, and as I listen to the lyrics, I realize it’s their love story. A lump tightens my throat, and glancing around, I see the emotion on all my new friends’ faces.
When the last note recedes, Foster rises from the couch. His movement catches Mazzy’s attention and she blinks in surprise as he advances on her.
“I thought he was waiting until their set was done?” I whisper to Lucky. Because that was the loose game plan.
He chuckles. “I’m guessing that song accelerated the schedule.”
Mazzy looks around, confused when he steps onstage. Leo stays in the shadows, the spotlight now on the couple.
The bar goes silent.
Foster reaches for the mic stand and adjusts the height upward. I hold my breath, giddy with anticipation.
“Check, check,” he says, and laughter cuts the silence. “Hi, everyone… sorry for this interruption in what is the best music you’ll ever hear.” Someone wolf-whistles from the back. “But if you’ll indulge me.”
Mazzy leans forward, her brow furrowed, and she hisses loud enough that the microphone picks it up. “What are you doing?”
“Mazzy,” he says, ignoring her question, eyes locked on hers as the room hushes around them. “I’ve been turning this over in my head for weeks, trying to find the perfect words. But the truth is, the feeling’s always been simple.”
He pulls the ring box from his pocket, still closed, cradled carefully in his hand, but several people gasp. Mazzy’s mouth falls open in astonishment, her eyes bouncing between Foster and what’s held in his palm.
“I fell in love with you,” he continues, and her eyes snap back up. “And the reasons are too many to count. I love the way you sing, the way your laughter fills a room, and the way you love Bowie Jane like she’s your own. I love how you show up, every single day, with that big heart and even bigger voice, and somehow make the world feel steadier just by being in it.”