Chapter 4
BLAIRE
“It’s just one song, Professor.”
He frowns. “I’ve told you time and again, Blaire, you can call me Corbett now.”
“And I’ve told you time and again that it doesn’t feel right to me.”
He looks back over at Gunnar. “You can’t possibly be thinking about this collaboration.”
I shake my head. “I don’t know. I mean, I’ve already committed to the young artist program at Opera Livingston.”
“It wouldn’t look good for you to back out of that.”
“I have no intention of doing so. But Sarah says she can work around my schedule.”
He sighs and casts his gaze to the ground. “You’re so na?ve, Blaire. Do you have any idea how much work goes into cutting a whole album?”
“I minored in music business,”
I remind him. “I?—”
He puts his finger over my lip. “That’s all theory. This is practice. You’ll have to learn a whole new repertoire. There will be rehearsals. Then studio time. And then more recordings. This will take time you won’t have. Time you should be devoting to lessons and coachings. To molding yourself into the singer you’re meant to be.”
“But Sarah says?—”
“Sarah isn’t concerned with you,”
he says. “Sarah’s seeing dollar signs. She’s looking at the bottom line and thinks she may have discovered the next big thing. But she hasn’t. She’s wrong.”
“Ouch.”
“Don’t take that as an insult, Blaire. What I mean is this.”
He places both of his hands firmly on my shoulders. “I’ve been your teacher for six years. I know what your dreams are and I’m confident you can achieve them, but this isn’t the way.”
He brushes a strand of hair from my forehead. “I have your best interests at heart, Blaire. Don’t do this.”
I open my mouth to reply when Sarah rushes toward me. “Jamie’s all set. It’s now or never, Blaire. Come on.”
She grabs my arm.
I look over my shoulder at Professor Morgan shaking his head at me.
Singing one measly karaoke song isn’t going to run my career off its tracks.
I give him a quick shrug and a moment later I’m onstage, looking into the searing blue eyes that can belong only to Gunnar Healy.
“Before we open up the karaoke mic tonight,”
Jamie says, “we have a special treat for you. If you’ve been here for the last hour, you’ve heard both of these performers sing, and you know how talented they are. Tonight they’re going to team up to open our karaoke hour with their rendition of ‘Mellow’ by LaLa Queen and Brett Blake. Please welcome back to the stage the phenomenally talented Blaire Cavileri and Gunnar Healy!”
The applause is deafening, and I can’t help but smile. How different we look. I’m dressed in my dark-red velvet cocktail gown, my hair swept up, with black strappy sandals on my feet, my toes painted the same color as my dress.
Then there’s Gunnar…
Gunnar, who makes plain blue jeans look like they were made solely for him.
Gunnar, who oozes sexiness.
Maybe it’s his granite-sculpted masculine beauty.
Maybe it’s those corded forearms that come to life as he strums his guitar.
But his guitar isn’t strapped to him now.
And my God…
Once the applause dies down a bit, Jamie starts the karaoke machine. As the intro plays, I pick up a mic—it feels strange, as opera singers don’t usually use microphones—turn, and look straight into those scorching ice-blue eyes.
And when Gunnar sings that first line…
“‘Tell me what you want, girl…’”
Everything else fades away…
Gunnar is singing only to me.
“‘I’ll be your shooting star…’”
There’s no more audience. No Jamie. No Sarah. No Professor Morgan. No stage and no karaoke machine.
Just Gunnar.
Just me.
Just music.
“‘Just say the word babe, and I’ll meet you where you are.’”
I can’t help it. A smile creeps over my face. I stare directly into Gunnar’s eyes, into his very being, as the artificial karaoke track drones under us.
Gunnar’s eyes narrow, and he mouths the words “your part.”
Right! The song. LaLa Queen’s verse.
I come in a half-beat behind, but I make up the difference by singing the first line a bit faster than normal.
“‘In the moonlight we’ll dance, underneath a velvet sky…’”
I can’t remember the last time I sang in this style. I’m breaking every rule that Corbett Morgan spent the last six years pounding into my skull. No rounded vowels, no big space in the back of my mouth, no…
No anything except this love song to Gunnar Healy.
“‘When I’m in your arms, lover, I feel like I could fly!’”
On the word “fly,”
I bring my chest voice into a high belt that resonates with power and passion.
I take a look into the audience. They’re eating this up.
I forgot what it’s like to sing in English. There are operas in English, of course. My go-to aria is called “Must the Winter Come So Soon.”
But I mostly find myself singing in Italian and French. Beautiful languages, to be sure, but there’s something about singing in your audience’s tongue that bridges you together in a way that foreign languages can’t.
Heat swirls between Gunnar and me as we answer each other in song.
We alternate two more verses, and then we reach the chorus, where we sing at first in unison, then crescendo into a harmony that can only be described as ecstasy.
“‘With you, my lover, all time stands still. With every touch, my soul you fill. In our mellow vibe, we find our bliss, lost in a lifelong mellow kiss.’”
As I sing the lyrics, I can’t help but wonder what a kiss with Gunnar Healy would be like.
I have a feeling it would be anything but mellow.
And then, just as quickly as it started, the song is over… I drop my hand holding the microphone to my side and tilt my head back.
When the applause is so thunderous—more than I’ve ever heard—I lift my head, meet Gunnar’s gaze, and slowly…
Ever so slowly…
I move toward him as he moves toward me.
Until only an inch separates us, and his lips come down on mine.