Chapter 13 Gracie #2
“So, a Corpse Reviver. You think this will be my new favorite drink?” I lift the glass and take a sniff. It smells delicious, but I say, “I didn’t realize our conversation made me look that desperate for resuscitation.”
“You could never be mistaken for a corpse, Gracie.”
“Wow, I’m blushing,” I say dryly, except I think I might be.
“I’ve noticed you’re pretty into them.”
“What, corpses? So, I accuse you of an admittedly weird sandwich kink, and you retaliate by immediately jumping to necrophilia? That seems extreme.”
“If you want to play Guess My Kink, I’m game, but I was actually referring to your equally weird zombie fixation.”
“How do you know about my zombies?” I say defensively.
“Were they supposed to be a secret?”
“Well, no, but I thought only my best friend and Cal—” I stop. “I didn’t realize I was broadcasting it.”
He leans in close and says in his pillow-soft voice, “Well, I hate to break it to you, but you were wearing nothing but a NICE TO EAT YOU T-shirt when you answered the door for me the other night. It left an impression.” He leans back, and I hope the dim lighting is doing a sufficient job of disguising the flush I feel pulsing in my cheeks.
“Well, congratulations, Sherlock, you found me out,” I say unsteadily.
I hesitate a moment. “I spent most of my time at my best friend Sofia’s house growing up,” I tell him, not entirely sure why I’m sharing this.
“After her parents would go to bed, I’d sneak downstairs with her and her siblings to have these all-night zombie movie marathons.
” I smile as some of the best memories of my childhood send a tender ache through me.
“They used to terrify me, but now, they remind me of hiding under blankets with my best friend and popcorn fights with her brothers and sisters.”
Jude’s eyes are on me like he wants to absorb every word I’ve said. “I’d probably love them, too, if I’d grown up like that.”
“So, not a fan of blood and gore?”
“Not unless I want to pass out. Could be handy on a sleepless night, though.”
“Cheers to that.”
He lifts his glass to clink it against mine, and we both take a sip.
I can’t remember the last time I had a fancy cocktail, much less one that was zombie-themed, and this one has everything I love packed into it, including the novel sensation of being seen.
I close my eyes in pleasure, letting the cold, sweet-sour liquid swirl in my mouth before swallowing it.
When I open my eyes again, Jude is looking at me—more specifically at my lips.
“You’re welcome,” he says preemptively, but his usual velvet baritone has a sandpaper texture that makes me think of early mornings and tangled bedsheets.
Stop it, Gracie. The only tangled bedsheets in my future are the ones I’ll tangle myself in during sweaty nightmares about losing my home and job.
I’m about to give him a belated thank-you when the sound of microphone feedback cuts through the room. Swiveling on my barstool so that my back is to Jude, I see our chipper bartender standing on the low platform and velvet-curtained backdrop that serves as the bar’s stage.
“Hello, everyone! I know you’ve all come out to hear the Love Notes perform, and I promise they’ll be here soon. But until they get some car trouble sorted, I’m opening up the stage to karaoke. If you’d like to sing, just sign up at the bar!”
There’s an automatic increase in chatter around the room as everyone begins cajoling their dates and friends into embarrassing themselves.
At this point in my life, Sofia has dragged me onto so many karaoke stages, I’ve become numb to the requisite humiliation.
But something tells me Jude hasn’t. I turn back to him with a wicked smile on my face.
“No,” he says, before I even open my mouth to speak.
I pout and say, “Is Broody Jude afraid I’ll destroy him at karaoke?”
Jude shifts in his chair and averts his eyes from me, opting for a long sip of his nearly empty drink. Eventually, he says, “I’m already threatening your livelihood. I didn’t want to crush your ego, too.”
I let out a delighted laugh of disbelief and wave down the bartender, who lets us sign up first. After scrolling through a list on an iPad to find my go-to song, I grab my drink and—without letting myself overthink it—his hand, before dragging him up to the stage.
“What are we singing?” he asks.
“You think I’m going to give you a heads-up?”
He smiles, while above us a disco ball turns on and begins refracting its sparkling, swirling light. “You know, most people who sign up for a duet don’t want their partners to suck.”
“I guess I’m not most people then.”
He shakes his head, his gaze softening. “I guess that’s one thing we can agree on.”
The slipped-down-a-step feeling in my stomach is back, but I don’t have time to acknowledge it because the bass starts thumping from the karaoke speaker. I lift my drink to take a last sip for courage and then bring the mic to my lips.
Jude immediately recognizes the iconic sounds of “Ice Ice Baby” and starts to laugh.
Not a sardonic chuckle but the real deal, complete with a mile-wide smile and possibly the most adorable nose scrunch I have ever witnessed.
I blink, wondering how he managed to hide it from me this whole time, but then it’s time for my opening verse.
I don’t need to look at the lyrics on the screen in front of us, so instead, I keep my eyes on Jude, reveling in his shock and pleasure at my perfectly executed rhyme, complete with some well-timed hair tosses and a poke at his broad chest when the chorus breaks loose and is sung by the entire bar.
With one last smirk, he snatches the mic from me when it ends and launches into the second verse, shocking me down to my pinched toes when he doesn’t bother sparing a glance at the screen either.
Instead, he knows every word as well as I do.
By now, the entire crowd is cheering or singing along, and Jude is standing so close that I have to arch my neck to keep looking at him.
We may be in front of a crowd, singing about 9’s and Lamborghinis, but suddenly, in this cocoon of his whiskey scent and whirling, mirror-ball light, I feel suspended in a world of our own.
Once the second chorus is finished and the grin on my face begins to hurt, it’s time for the last verse.
When he leans down and holds the mic out for us to share, it’s the most natural thing in the world to slip my hand over his to center it between us.
Joy and something new and sparkling fizzes in my stomach like I’ve swallowed a whole packet of Pop Rocks in one go.
His skin is so warm and electric beneath my own, and as we launch into the final verse, I don’t attempt to create distance between us as he leans in closer to me, his eyes crinkled at the corners from the smile he can’t seem to get rid of either.
I’m breathless when we finish, and it’s like someone has turned the volume back on the cheering crowd.
We make our way back to our seats as the new singer begins an incredible rendition of “Killing Me Softly.” When we sit, I take a thirsty drink of my Corpse Reviver, which seems to travel directly to my brain and blocks its capacity for rational thinking.
Because that was fun, and for a moment under the disco lights, all I wanted was for Jude to kiss me.
“So,” he says, taking a sip from the fresh Old Fashioned that’s waiting for him at the bar. “A wedding planner with a secret passion for fine tailoring, zombies, and 90s hiphop. What other secrets are you hiding from me, Gracie Holland?”
I take another sip of my drink, trying to look enigmatic and not like he’s just summed up my whole personality in a thimble. “Where’s the fun in spoiled surprises?”
For the next few songs (some wonderful, some wonderfully terrible), I pretend that Jude’s knee isn’t touching mine beneath the bar.
He pretends not to notice the way my gaze keeps falling into the vertical crevice of his bottom lip like it’s a canyon I leaned too close to look at.
I’m on my second cocktail when the band finally shows up to a round of applause.
“Wow, I kind of forgot they were coming,” Jude says.
“You mean you forgot the whole point of this outing?” I ask, even though I’ve had the same memory lapse.
“I think the ‘whole point of this outing’ is up for debate.”
“The whole point is the guilt trip I’m taking you on when we talk to my friends later.”
He raises an eyebrow. “And here I thought the whole point was for you to lure me in with strong drinks, your charming quirks, and red dress until I had no choice but to do your bidding.”
He says “red dress” like it’s a swear, and a shiver goes through me that feels like a rush of power. I take a slow sip as the band hurries through a sound check. “And is it working?”
“Feeling guiltier by the second.” His voice is a rasp.
It’s definitely the alcohol, and maybe also the way his eyes make me feel like I’m standing too close to a furnace, that makes me lean in and whisper near his ear, “Then maybe you should just give up now and give me what I want.”
His cologne must wrap silken fingers around me because I can’t move when he turns his face toward mine—so close that I can feel the warmth of his breath while my own hitches.
His eyelids are heavy, like they’re suddenly tired from holding up such a wealth of eyelashes.
My heartbeat is less of a beat and more of a vibration in my chest when his thumb comes up to brush the underside of my jaw. My lips part, and—
“Hellooo, and thank you for your patience! We’re the Love Notes and we do not know how to change a flat tire!”