With an embarrassed nod, Dane tells him, “I’m nowhere near as good as you but I practice every night. I write my own songs, mostly—they’re not much but they’re mine, you know? My boyfriend likes them—”
“Is he here?” Blake asks.
Dane points out where he thinks their booth is, and the older musician scans the crowd, a perfunctory gesture before he loses interest.
“You should let me hear them sometime,” he says, almost absently. He’s looking at Dane again, not at his face so much as the hair falling to his shoulders, the jeans hanging from his narrow hips. For the first time all evening Dane feels just how snug his turtleneck is across his arms and chest. “I’m sure you’re pretty good.”
Excitement thrills through him. He wants to hear my stuff… Dane can’t believe it. Did he really just say
