Chapter 5
Chapter 5
“CASSIE, YOU LOOK WONDERFUL. I like your hair like that,” Parker said, standing at my front door. He was dressed in a pair of khakis and a polo shirt, down to the very last detail like the kind of guy you want to take home to your parents.
“You, too,” I replied wistfully. Suddenly shy, I smoothed down my pale green, slim-fitting dress and clenched my toes in my silver heels. Since my favorite date dress got itself snagged on a barstool with disastrous consequences on its last outing, this dress has moved up the ranks to officially become Number One Date Dress.
Parker leaned in and kissed me on the cheek.
“Thanks.” I beamed at him—my future husband.
He smiled back at me, arching an eyebrow. “Thanks for kissing you?”
“Err, yes?”
He laughed. “Well, you’re welcome then. How’s the nose? It looks better I see.” He took my face in his hand and moved my head from one side to the other, like he was a doctor. Which, of course, he was.
It did not feel romantic.
“It’s a lot better, thanks,” I replied, my face still a little squished by his hold.
“That’s great.” He let go. “Shall we?”
I shrugged my jacket on and collected my purse from the table by the door. “Absolutely. I’m looking forward to this.”
He took my arm in his like we were in an old-time musical and were about to sing a happy number together as we sashayed down the street.
“We’re going to walk, if that’s okay with you. It’s nice out tonight, and the club is only about ten minutes away.”
I glanced down at my shoes. I was wearing the ones Marissa called my “killer” shoes, not because they looked good—although they most certainly did—but because they hurt my feet more than any other shoe known to humanity. They were high, adding a much-needed handful of inches to my diminutive height, strappy, and sparkly. In short, total shoe nirvana. Or at least in the looks stakes. In the comfort stakes? Not so much.
“Sure!” I replied brightly. “That sounds great. Just great.”
As we walked through the city streets—one of us in ever-increasing pain—we chatted about our respective days. I told him about my success with Nettco and about how I’d applied for the Regional Manager’s job. I left out the bit about Will “Poop Boy” Jordan acting as Interim Manager. I didn’t want to think about him while I was on my second date with my future husband.
With every step, my poor, battered feet screamed at me. And with every step I repeated in my head, Nearly there, Band-Aids in purse.
We stopped outside a boutique with pretty summer dresses in the window. My feet screamed at me some more.
I forced a smile.
“Here we are,” Parker said.
I looked up and down the street. “Where, exactly?”
“At the club. It’s down here.” He led me to a dark door next to the boutique. The sign above the door read “Sammy’s,” lit up by a spotlight. I hobbled along beside him, hoping Parker wouldn’t notice.
He opened the door and a cacophony of sound, which I had to assume was jazz, blasted out, up the stairs, and onto the street.
I swallowed.
Parker shot me a concerned look. “Are you all right, Cassie?”
“Yes. Absolutely. I’m just so . . . excited.”
“I bet you are. I remember the first time I went to a jazz club. It. Blew. My. Mind.”
Listening to the discordant noise from down the stairs, I could well imagine that.
We walked down the stairs into the boutique’s basement. I surveyed the room. The whole place was dark, and other than the bar and where the band was playing, the only light came from the small lamps on the tables covered with red and white checked tablecloths.
The band stopped murdering their instruments, and the crowd erupted into applause. I darted a look at Parker. He was also applauding, so I joined in.
A man in a black shirt and pants approached us. “Parker! Great to see you, man.” He pulled Parker into a hug, one of those manly types in which they punch one another’s backs. It looked to me like it hurt. Women would never do that to one another. Men are weird.
“You too, Ray. I’d like you to meet Cassie. Cassie, this is Ray, we go way back.”
I offered him my hand, hoping I would avoid the back punching, body slam masquerading as a hug. “Hi.”
Thankfully, he took my hand and shook it. “Hey, Cassie. Great to meet you.”
“Cassie’s a virgin,” Parker said to Ray, raising his eyebrows.
I snapped my head toward Parker, my color rising.
Alert! Alert! He thinks I’m a virgin?
“Well, I’m not exactly . . .” Words failed me. I tried again. “I am twenty-seven and a half and most women have . . . you know . . .” This was not working. I looked between Ray and Parker. I bit my lip and tried again. “It’s not like there have been that many guys, you know?” I tugged on Parker’s arm, pulling him down to me. “Is that important to you? That I’m a . . . a virgin?”
He threw his head back in laughter. “Cassie. I meant you’re a jazz virgin.” He reached for my hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
“Oh.” Mortification crept up my body. No no no no no! How embarrassing.
I glanced at Ray, blushing profusely, glad the room was dark. He regarded me with lightly veiled amusement.
“Cassie’s never been to a jazz club,” Parker continued by way of explanation. “You’ve never even listened to it, right?”
“No.” I tried my best to recover. “Well, I have heard Michael Bublé on the radio. My mum likes him. He’s pretty good.”
Parker and Ray both laughed heartily, their hands on their bellies.
Okay, clearly not the right thing to say.
My mortification crept higher. If Parker wasn’t my future husband and my shoes hadn’t committed a serious crime against my feet, I might have considered running home to hide under my bed. With a tub of ice cream. And chocolate. A lot of chocolate.
Parker gave my hand another squeeze, and I shot him a thankful look. I may be a jazz-illiterate non-virgin with a serious blushing problem, but he still seemed to like me.
“Let’s get you two seated. The band will be back soon for their second set,” Ray said, his face shining.
I followed Ray to a table for two directly in front of the stage, shots of searing pain in my feet with every step I took. I thanked him with as much dignity as I could muster and sat down in the chair Parker pulled out for me—such a gentleman—my embarrassment mercifully beginning to subside.
“Would you like a drink?” Parker asked once he was seated.
“Sure, thanks. I’ll have a glass of Chardonnay, please.” Make that a bottle.
Parker gave our drinks order to a waitress, and we began to peruse the dinner menu.
“The pizza here is really good.”
“Oh, I love pizza. I could eat it all day. My dream would be to move to Italy and eat pizza and gelato from sunrise to sunset.”
Why am I saying this? I sound like some kind of bizarre food addict.
Parker chuckled. “That sounds like quite the dream. Shall I order pizza for two?”
“Sounds great.”
I have got to get on top of these nerves.
“So, tell me all about—” I began, only to be interrupted by the band sauntering back on stage.
“Oh, look. They’re back,” Parker said as he sat back in his seat, smiling at me.
I shot him my most excited smile. “Awesome!” Surely, they were just tuning their instruments before and now they were going to play actual music. I got myself comfortable in my chair, happy to be experiencing this with Parker.
“Hey,” the lead singer said into his microphone to hoots, claps, and cheers from the audience.
I looked him over. I didn’t know quite what I’d expected a jazz singer to look like. Probably old, wearing a black turtleneck, with a sax slung around his neck. This guy looked like my high school chemistry teacher, right down to the brown cardigan and Velcro shoes.
“Here’s a little number we like to call ‘Saturday Sanity,’” Singer Guy continued to more excitement from the tables around us.
Parker leaned closer to me. “This is an original piece.”
“Oh. How wonderful.”
The band began to play. Unlike the noise we’d heard when we arrived, this “piece” actually had a melody. Singer Guy sang his first few notes, and I sat up in my chair in surprise. He had a lovely voice, a little like Harry from One Direction, only on a guy who looked like your dad. Which was a shame, really.
After another couple of sips of wine, I started to relax and enjoy the music. Singer Guy wasn’t going to give Michael Bublé a run for his money anytime soon, but the music was nice enough, and it didn’t try to violently assault my eardrums like the earlier stuff.
I stole a look at Parker. He was swaying to the music and bobbing his head, a half smile on his handsome face, clearly reveling in the music. He looked so darn adorable it made me warm inside. He turned to me and smiled. I smiled back. So what if I don’t know anything about jazz? I could learn. And Parker liked me.
I relaxed into the music, confident in our burgeoning relationship. As I shifted in my seat, I moved my feet and had to stop myself from wincing. My feet were actually throbbing. Well, there’s one thing to be said for this evening: I seemed to have the answer to that age-old question, “What is the cost of beauty?” It turns out it’s four blisters, feet that feel like they’re on fire, and a touch of blood, squelching between the toes. Not pretty, but there you have it.
As the music carried on—and Parker continued to move his head in that cute way—I began to fantasize about taking my shoes off and soaking my poor feet in iced water. But I knew if I slipped those killer heels off, I’d be a dead woman. There would be no way on this sweet earth I’d ever get them back on again.
I sighed.
“Good, huh?” Parker said, his face bright.
“Oh, yes. So good,” I confirmed, reaching across the table and giving his hand a little squeeze. “Thank you for bringing me here.”
“My pleasure.” He beamed at me.
It was at that point the music changed from having a melody to totally losing the plot. For reasons known only to Singer Guy and his cronies, without warning, he stopped singing actual words and let out a barrage of weird sounds, his eyes closed as he clutched onto the microphone.
And it went on. And on. And on .
I glanced around the room as I began to wonder whether anyone else had noticed Singer Guy had totally lost his marbles. I looked at Parker. He was still doing that adorable head bobbing thing, as were most of the members of the audience.
Needing to understand why Singer Guy had abandoned the use of actual words and no one seemed to mind, I leaned over to Parker. “What’s he doing?” I stage-whispered over the music in his ear.
“That’s scat,” he replied.
I leaned back in my chair. “Oh, of course.” I pretended I understood what he was talking about. But, at least no one else was wondering about Singer Guy’s sanity.
The music finished—not a moment too soon—and we applauded along with the rest of the audience. Our pizza was delivered, and we tucked in as Singer Guy launched into another “piece.”
Eventually, after a lot more head bobbing and incoherent babbling—and that was just the band—they left the stage to much applause and calls. Our pizza long gone, Parker ordered us a second round of drinks.
“So, what did you think?” He had an eager look on his face.
“It was really, really great.” Damn you, eye twitch!
“I’m so pleased you think so. I thought they were amazing.”
I nodded along. “Yes, so amazing. And you’re right, his voice did have a very feline quality to it. He did it well.”
“A what?” he asked, looking confused.
“Singer Guy . . . I mean, the lead singer. When he did the cat, I was confused, but then when you explained it to me, I totally got it. He sounded a bit like a cat in a bad mood to me. Especially in that last song . . . ah, piece.”
His face crinkled in a smile. “It’s called ‘scat,’ not cat.”
My old friend mortification came flying back. “Oh.”
Parker reached across the table and took my hand in his. “You know what, Cassie? I think I like your take on jazz so much better. I’m going to think of it as ‘cat’ from now on.”
I looked up at him through my lashes. “You must think I’m pretty dumb.”
“Not at all.” He scooted his chair around the table so we were sitting side by side, our arms touching. “In fact, I think you’re adorable. And you don’t know much about jazz. Yet.”
He slid his arm around my seat and pulled me into him, brushing his lips against mine. I closed my eyes and reveled in our kiss, allowing my embarrassment to seep out of me, down through the floorboards.
“Adorably dumb?” I questioned, only half teasing him.
“Adorably adorable,” he confirmed with another kiss. “Now, can I walk you home?”
Forgetting my debilitated feet, a smile crept across my face. “That would be nice.”
Parker paid for our drinks and dinner like the gentleman he was, and we headed back up the stairs to the street. I tried my level best not to wince with each step. I know I failed because Parker asked me what was wrong.
“It’s just these shoes, that’s all. They’re not great for walking in.”
He chuckled. “That’s kind of a fundamental flaw, don’t you think? We may not ask a lot of our footwear, but to be able to walk in them seems to me to be a pretty basic requirement.”
I rolled my eyes playfully. “You’re not a woman.”
“Take them off. It’s warm out.”
The idea of being free from these devices of extreme torture was very appealing. I leaned down and undid the clasps, slipping the shoes off with a relieved sigh. I stood back up next to him, feeling like a small child next to his six-foot-three height.
He took one of my shoes in his hand. “They are pretty hot, though, despite the blood.”
I laughed, embarrassed once more. There was certainly a theme to this evening.
“Are you okay to walk? I could carry you.”
Not wanting to appear any more ridiculous than I’d already been, I declined the offer and we walked hand in hand through the moonlit streets of Auckland together. It was picture-perfect romance.
“I’m so pleased you enjoyed the music. Jazz means a lot to me, sharing it with you feels somehow . . . important.”
My heart squeezed. I floated on air the rest of the way, reaching my place all too soon. “Thank you for a lovely evening. I had a great time.” I stood on my tippy toes and wrapped my hands around his neck and kissed him good night.
“Would you like to get together at the weekend?”
I grinned at him. “Absolutely. I’ll call you.”
“Great. Night, Cassie.”
I slipped my key into the door and turned to say good night, only to be swept up by him in a fresh kiss, leaving me breathless.
“Sorry, I had to do that.” It was his turn to look embarrassed.
“That’s okay. It was really nice. You can do it anytime.”
“Anytime? How about Saturday night, then? Dinner?”
I nodded at him, smiling. “Dinner would be lovely.”
“And kissing. Lots more kissing.”
I watched him walk down the street. Once he was out of sight, I pushed my door open and floated inside, trying to decide whether white or ivory would best suit my complexion when I walked down that aisle to Parker, my future doctor husband.