“And the private rooftop,” I confirm. “It’s a loft.”
“Cool,” he says slowly, like he isn’t sure he means it. I try not to take it personally. I’ve been to the house he grew up in because that’s where the wake was for his parents. It’s a lovely two story farmhouse. Quintessential old Vermont. My loft is far from quintessential old Vermont. It kind of looks more like classic New York. Bowen walks further into the large, open space, and his eyes slowly scan the room, taking in the charcoal gray polished concrete floors and the velvet and leather furniture and the thick wood beams and powder coated black metal railing that skirts the stairs that lead to the bedroom.
He doesn’t look impressed so much as intrigued, which is fine. My loft wasn’t bought to impress anyone. It was bought to piss off my parents. My dad mostly. “Glad you came. Can I get you a beer? Wine?”
“Beer is good, thanks,” Bowen gives me a small, relaxed smile. “Good tune.”
“How’d you get into music?” I ask as I walk past the oversized island, which is also my dining table, to the fridge to fetch his beer. He follows along behind me, eyes still scanning every surface and corner. He even tilts his head up to take in the floor to ceiling windows on the wall that faces the front of the building.
“My mom was raised by a Laurel Canyon hippie. Used to sing at jam sessions Grandma would hold at her house every Sunday. My dad was more about the grunge and nineties alt rock scene. He grew up in Seattle. He not only played guitar, he started building them too.”
“Cool,” I reply as I hand him his beer. “How did a California love child and a Seattle grunge guy end up in Vermont?”
“They met at a college party in Northern California, decided to form a band and play gigs and busk in the street together for tuition and beer money. They fell in love. My dad’s parents didn’t approve of the band thing, or my hippie mom, so they decided to run away together and become farmers.” Bowen says it like it’s the simplest, most common tale in the universe instead of one of the most unique ones I’ve heard in a long time, maybe ever. “I’m sure there was more to it than that, but that’s the gist of it.”
He holds my gaze for a moment without saying anything. His eyes are a really cool mix of amber and moss green. He’s got a hint of a smile on his face, and I swear he’s flirting with me, which makes me happier than it should. I can’t be the guy who costs us two drummers… can I? He puts the beer to his lips, eyes never leaving mine, and takes a sip. “Thanks for the beer.”
He turns and walks over to Grant and Joe. I follow behind and make a mental note to put an ad on Craigslist for a drummer tomorrow. Because if this guy is interested in playing with more than my drum kit, I’m not saying no. Before I can sit down across from Bowen, who dropped down on the couch next to Joe, the buzzer goes again.
“Must be the girls,” Grant grins as I get up to let them in. I swear I see Bowen’s face fall a little, and I take that as a good sign. If he’s disappointed women are coming to the party, it’s likely because he thinks I invited him for more than just a band bonding thing, but I didn’t invite them at all.
Monica, Andrea, Colleen and Becky saunter into the loft as soon as the elevator doors slide open. Grant and I work with Monica, so she came to the show. He also has a thing for Monica’s friend Becky, which is why he invited them here and I guess they decided to bring friends who were also at the gig. I realize, looking at Bowen, who is surveying the scene unfolding in front of him, that it looks like a set-up. Four guys and four girls. I probably should have thought of that when Grant asked if he could invite them. Oops. Nothing I can’t fix later, I hope.
I play the happy host, pouring drinks for everyone, chatting, laughing at stories. After I introduce him, Bowen slides right into the middle of everything, like he’s not the new guy. He chats with Grant about hockey, debates the best local burger place with Joe, and gets into a long debate about a Netflix show with Monica. But he doesn’t talk to me much. He’s not rude or anything, just distant. I’m hoping it’s because he thinks I’m straight and he misread the situation, but to be honest, I have no idea if he’s gay. Even though Vino and Veritas is gay-friendly, it’s not exactly an employment requirement. And when I met him as a kid, which he still shows no indication he remembers, I just saw a devastated college kid. His sexual orientation wasn’t even a consideration at the time, obviously.
“How do you all know each other?” Bowen asks me as I peel away from the group to pour more wine and he follows me to the kitchen for a fresh beer.
“I went to college with Joe. Grant and I have been friends since we were sixteen and we work together with Monica,” I say as I hand him another beer. “At a local marketing and public relations firm.”
“Oh. Cool.” He seems genuinely impressed.
“Thought I was just some dead-beat musician?” I ask with a smirk so he knows I’m kidding.
“I thought you were a talented musician,” he replies with ease, like he’s not giving me a compliment just stating the obvious, which my ego likes even more. Then his eyes dart around the loft again. “And then I thought you were some kind of mafia king pin on the side.”
“Part-time mafia man, full-time cover band member?” I laugh so hard I lean on the island. “In Vermont?”
“Could happen.” He shrugs and laughs with me. “What firm you with?”
“It’s called Dauntless. It’s on the first floor of this building.”
His eyes light up and an impressed smile hits his very kissable lips. I have a feeling that it’s quite the feat to get a reaction out of Bowen. He’s one of those guys who is so mellow he probably doesn’t react to much. All night he’s given nothing more than a casual smile or a jovial but relaxed laugh, no matter what ridiculous things my friends have managed to say. “Is that the company that’s done some freebie stuff for a couple places that are struggling to stay afloat?”
“We offer seminars and free one-on-one consults sometimes, yeah,” I say and I’m trying not to look too proud, because I don’t do it for my ego.
“You’re the firm that helped the music shop with learning how to do social media ads,” he says. “I went to college with Barry, the owner, and he said he’s increased his private lessons, and his sales, and is finally in the black again.”
“Really? Good for Barry!”
“The owner is a great guy for doing that. Or girl,” Bowen muses as I watch way too closely as he lifts the beer bottle to his lips. I’m a lips guy. Weird, I know. But I like a good wide mouth with an enticing smile and lips that are symmetrical. Bowen checks all those boxes. I can’t help but picture other things between them, besides the beer bottle.
“Thank you,” I say.
Bowen pauses, the beer bottle hovering near his bottom lip before he drops it, and cocks his head. The ends of his long blond hair skimming his shoulder because of the angle. “You own it?”
“Yep.” I sip my wine. “You didn’t think it was odd I live above my place of employment?”
Bowen shrugs. “Thought maybe you liked a short commute.”