Chapter 2
2
Sloane
When I was getting ready, I thought these earrings were mesmerizing.
Mesmerizing?
Puh-leaze.
They’re a Kit Kat next to a French artisanal morsel of chocolate.
As I listen to this man sing, I understand the word mesmerize in a whole new way, as if his voice is rewriting the dictionary definition at this very moment.
This is the Museum of Modern Art and gazing upon Starry Night . This is opening night at a Broadway show when the lead brings down the house.
This man has that kind of voice.
I feel like Hugh Grant’s character in Love Actually when he goes searching for Natalie and is asked to sing carols at the houses and his bodyguard or driver—which was he?—turns out to be operatic.
The whole audience here tonight knows they’re witnessing a Love Actually moment. They’re enrapt, stopping their conversations to focus on that voice .
The bartender hands me my champagne, and I thank him absently, never taking my eyes off the man onstage, singing kara-freaking-oke like he’s Sinatra.
The dark-haired man with the mic wears a crisp blue suit, a charcoal shirt, and a purple tie I want to tug off.
Whoa.
Bone zone much?
But I’m not really thinking about the bone zone. I’m thinking I want to hear him. I want to experience all of this song, up close and personal.
I weave through the crowd and make my way toward the stage like a groupie. My God, I am a freaking groupie, and I don’t care. I push past women in cranberry and purple evening dresses, past men in sharp duds, until I reach the front.
When I’m there, something happens. A cosmic shift, as if the world slows down. As if the room disappears. Everything else is a blur, and I swear there’s a spotlight on him, and his spotlight is on me. His dark-blue eyes find me immediately, and when they do, I ignite. This is some kind of dream. I pinch my arm to make sure I’m still real.
Ouch. Yep, I am.
He slides into another verse in the crooner tune made famous by Ella Fitzgerald, Harry Connick Jr., and countless others, singing about music of the night. He pulls the mic closer to his lush, full lips, and—I shudder as awareness strikes me—he sings to me.
Only to me.
Absolutely to me.
I’m not imagining this. He’s singing about being young on a night like this to me.
Goose bumps sweep over my skin as the song rises to its crescendo. It’s as if I’m glowing, as if he’s turned on a golden light inside me that spreads throughout my body with each delicious verse.
When he finishes, claps and cheers resound and fill the ballroom.
No one expected this kind of serenade during karaoke. Who could have expected Old Blue Eyes to get onstage?
The man receives another round of cheers, and a woman in the front shouts, “Encore, encore.”
He bows his head humbly and says, “Thanks for listening.”
That’s all he says. He doesn’t bask in the glory or the moment. He walks offstage, and then he’s gone. My heart crashes. My shoulders sag. I wanted him to jump off the stage and take me in his arms.
As soon as the thought materializes fully, I’m struck with its utter ridiculousness. I leave a mental note to myself.
Girl, get your act together. He’s just a guy singing onstage. Don’t think this is going to become some sort of moment. It’s ridiculous to even think he was singing to you . He probably picks a woman in the crowd every time he gets behind a mic. That’s probably how he makes it through the song.
I take a deep breath, nod, and spin around. That’s all it could have been. I was simply swept up and let myself believe it was real. No big deal. It was three minutes in my life and hardly a waste when I enjoyed the hell out of them.
I take the last sip of my champagne and try to clear my head of all these warm, yummy thoughts of a blue-eyed, five-o’clock-shadowed, golden-voiced man with matinee idol looks.
I make my way to the exit, searching for a waiter with a tray so I can deposit my champagne glass. As I hunt, a hand brushes my arm. I startle, turn, and look into midnight-blue eyes that pierce me.
Like in a movie, or a book.
Okay, I’ll admit, I’m a certified romantic. I grew up on a steady diet of romantic-comedy flicks, historical romances, and all sorts of delicious poetry. That’s what happens when you’re raised by a hippy.
But this is fantasy made real. It’s happening. His eyes are piercing me.
“Thank you for coming,” he says, emphasizing you . A rush of heat sweeps down my chest. I tell myself to be smart, to be witty, to be clever. But I also need to keep it simple.
“And thank you for singing like that.”
His lips curve up in a smile. Oh my, he has great lips. They look soft and full, and I bet they taste delicious. “Did you like it?”
I rein in a smirk, playing with him. “No.”
He appears taken aback. “No?”
Emboldened by the night, by the moment, by those piercing freaking eyes, I lean forward and tug on his tie. “No. I was blown away.”
Laughing, he runs his hand down my arm. “Blown away is even better than liking it.” He nods towards the door. “Do you have to go?”
I tilt my head in a question. “Are you asking me to stay?”
He reaches for the glass in my hand, takes it, and sets it on a tray behind him. It’s such a James Bond move. I don’t even think I realized there was a waiter next to him. But he did.
“Considering I just caught your eye in the audience, sang the rest of the song to you, and rushed offstage to find you then catch up with you before you got out the door, yes, I am absolutely asking you to stay.”
Backflips. Somersaults. Handsprings. My stomach executes an entire floor routine.
The judges give me a ten for Desire to Stay.
I keep up the coy routine. “True. You did make quite an effort. I suppose, though, if you’d actually run over to me, I’d have said yes.”
He snaps his fingers. “Darn. I guess I didn’t try hard enough. I guess I’ll hang my tears out to dry.”
I’m a sparkler inside, lit up and bursting. Like a contestant on Jeopardy! I hit the buzzer. “Who is Linda Ronstadt?” I blurt out. “I love her version of that song.”
He gazes heavenward, mouths thank you as if to his lucky stars, then sets his hand on my back. “You, me, a drink. That sounds like the perfect nightcap.”
I don’t bother to flirt or play coy this time. “It sounds like a dream.”
He leans in closer and brushes a few strands of my blonde hair from my shoulder, making me shiver. Making me heat up.
His eyes find mine once more. “Let’s make it come true, then.”