24. Play Along #2
“Yes. Why is that a surprise?”
“I don’t know. Maybe for the same reason you were surprised when you learned I sang. I wasn’t expecting it.” But what I really want to say is…so you’re musical too?
“My mom was a piano teacher when I was growing up, so I had no choice. And I’m the accompanist for the entire show. The guy who was supposed to do our closing number broke his leg, and we need someone for the finale. Someone who can bring down the house.”
“No.”
“Sawyer,” she pleads.
“Absolutely no,” I say.
“But you’re so good.”
Love a compliment, but still. “Nope.”
“You’re going to sound amazing. As good as Frank Sinatra did.
Please,” she says, batting her lashes. “I kept your secret. I double kept it with the night-golf thing. We really need someone. It’s such an important fundraiser.
Did you know that the university has had its science research funding slashed in the last few years?
We’re trying to raise enough money for them to reinstitute some of their studies into cures for movement disorders. ”
Ah, hell. She’s pulling on my heartstrings. “Chloe, I appreciate the offer. Truly, I do. And the cause matters deeply to, well, any human,” I say, because fuck slashed funding for science. “But I wanted a fresh start when I moved here, and that means I don’t want the whole town knowing about Sam.”
“Oh you don’t need to do it as Sam,” she says brightly.
“Just do it as you. Owner of Dog Tails. I’m not asking you to sing Queen or Foreigner.
Just an old standard that Ella and Frank have covered.
We need someone who’s incredible to replace Noah.
And really the only one who can fill his shoes is you,” she says, and gone is the cat-who-ate-the-canary Chloe.
In her place is this earnest, hopeful woman who’s asking me for a big favor.
Do I owe her? Yeah, I do. Twice over.
“Everyone at work is going to know.”
She laughs. “Yes, they’re going to know you can sing. That’s a cool talent. And the song is an old standard sung at weddings. Made famous by Frank Sinatra. I’m not asking you to sing ‘Master of the House’ from Les Mis.”
“Fair point,” I say, and that’s a fun-as-fuck song, but she’s right—it’s too comical for me to tackle.
I take a beat to weigh her offer, but Chloe jumps on the silence, adding, “And half the business owners in town are doing it. Delilah is singing ‘(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction’; my dad and Luca are doing ‘Dancing Through Life.’ My mom’s boyfriend is taking part by directing his cousins who are doing ‘It’s Raining Men. ’”
Chloe lists more names. Josiah’s taking on Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” And by the time she gets to Salma—who’s tackling “The Man” by Taylor Swift—it’s clear I’d look like a poor sport if I said no. Even the mayor is doing a number.
I scrub a hand across my jaw, considering it seriously now. It is for a good cause. “I’m thinking about it,” I admit.
She beams, but then soldiers on. I’ve got a feeling she’s been practicing her pitch all day. “And hey, I know you’re into the whole serious-businessman thing, but you do own a dog spa,” she says. “And at least I’m not asking you to sing ‘Who Let The Dogs Out.’”
“That would be a hard pass,” I say.
Her smile brightens. “This is a hard go then?”
This woman is as relentless as she is beautiful. And she’s, evidently, irresistible to me too, since I’m saying words I didn’t plan to utter mere moments ago. “I’ll do it.”
She throws her arms around my neck, her sexy scent invading my thoughts once again. Frying my brain. Rerouting blood south of the border as I imagine threading my hands through her hair, yanking it back, and kissing the fuck out of her.
I could get lost in her. I need to remember I’ve got a demand too. I pull back, untangling myself from the woman I can’t stop thinking of. “Under one condition,” I add.
Her shoulders slump. “You have an if?”
“You bet I fucking do.”
She gives me an I’m waiting look. “Fine. What is it?”
I take my sweet time before I say, “If you juggle the ducks for me sometime.”
She rolls her eyes, then says, “You’ve got yourself a deal.”
Esmeralda swings by with our drinks, and I thank her, then lift my glass to Chloe. “To blackmail.”
“It was soft blackmail,” she corrects.
“Still blackmail.”
“But you liked it.”
She has no idea how much. We clink glasses, and I knock back some of the drink. When I set it down, I nod to the menus on the counter. “Mango salad? I hear it’s the special.”
I might have scanned the menu online on my way over.
Chloe’s eyes pop. “Yes!”
“See? I’m not fighting you on it,” I say, a callback to her earlier ode to the tropical fruit.
“You need to get one too. They’re amazing. It’s only on the menu a few times a year.”
“When in Rome.”
She waves Esmeralda down again and places the order. When she’s gone, Chloe turns back to me, clears her throat, then says, “There’s one more thing. Regarding the fundraiser.”
I groan. “Chloe.”
“There’s a short thirty-second-long dance number at the end.”
“I told you—I don’t dance.”
She licks her lips and lets her gaze drift to my arm. My sleeves are still down all the way, cuffs buttoned. But Chloe reaches for a cuff and slowly, deliberately, undoes the button.
I fight off a shudder as her fingers coast lightly over my skin. She keeps going, her gaze returning to my eyes as she folds back the cuffs till she reveals the temporary tattoo. She traces the rose with her finger, reverently, like a caress.
Her touch scrambles my brain. It melts my bones. It knocks all the sense out of me. “I can dance,” she says in a sexy promise. “It’s an easy number. A little swing, a little jazz, then you dip me. And there’s a dance studio in town across from the community theater. We’ll take lessons.”
Dance lessons with the woman I’m fighting like hell to resist? Sounds like a bad idea. And since bad ideas are my stock-in-trade lately, I find myself saying yes.
Pretty sure I can’t say no to Chloe Troublemaker Rivers.