I push back my stool and hop up. The world tilts a bit, but only a little. I’m definitely a little, teensy bit drunk. Grabbing the remote, I crank up the volume. “What are you doing?” he says loud enough to be heard over the music. Barefoot, I climb onto the bar. Waylon’s eyes go wide as I stand over him, his fingers clutching the guitar. I offer him my hand. “Let’s go, Rock Star.” His brow furrows. I crouch down and reach for the whiskey, fisting it by the neck, and I meet Waylon’s wary hazel gaze head-on. “We’re taking a time-out, okay?” “A time-out,” he repeats slowly. I search his eyes.
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