Nadia
Flynn gives me one of those panty-melting pirate smiles. I would love to see him without his beard. I’ll bet he’s even more devastating. I hold up his phone because this time, I do want to share. I want everyone out there to see Flynn sing a song for me.
“Sing it, Flynn!” someone yells, and the place erupts into cheers. I realize that, indeed, some of his fans are showing up. There are young people in the bar, and every seat is now taken. More people come through the doors every minute.
I glance in that direction, and my heart sinks. Ugh. It’s Cadence again. Will that girl never stop stalking Flynn? What is her deal?
She gives me a bright, friendly wave, and I turn back to watch Flynn without acknowledging it because I’m not going to let her ruin this moment.
My song. Or a song
