Satisfaction Guaranteed(21)

Until the day I walked into a job interview and spotted a framed photo of her on the desk.

When I told her we had to end it, her eyes filled with sadness.

Now, tonight, those deep brown depths are filled with an intensity that’s so damn enticing as she watches me sing a Sinatra tune, since there’s nothing better to open an act with.

When I finish my first number, I dive into a brief chat with the audience, as I often do.

“Ever invite a girl to an event? A woman who you’ve maybe had your eye on? Maybe for a while. Possibly for a long time?”

A couple of guys in the front row nod. They get me. The sliver of a knowing smile sneaking across Sloane’s face tells me, too, that we both know the score. We’re both aware that we’ve stolen a moment tonight. That we’ve tangoed around each other all week, and we made our own loophole—one drink to celebrate.

Tonight is a bubble, and I’m going to enjoy the hell out of it until it pops. Because it will.

But for now, we’re in an alternate universe. And in this world, you bet your ass I’m going to let the woman know that I fucking love singing to her.

I make my way back to the piano. “And then she shows up. As soon as you see her, as soon as your eyes meet hers, you’re grinning. Because she’s here. Because she made it.”

I scan the audience, and now those guys are nodding. In her seat at a table in the front, the woman in question keeps her eyes on me. “Then you meet her gaze. And all you can think is ‘Doesn’t she look wonderful tonight?’”

A few women in the audience sigh contentedly. A couple of the guys look at their dates. Sloane glances down then back up, a grin tugging at her lips. When her eyes meet mine once more, I finish. “And then you understand a song completely.”

I launch into one of the greatest love songs of all time, and when I’m done with “Wonderful Tonight,” I can feel the energy vibrating from the crowd. It’s electric and palpable. It’s hot and bothered. A hum seems to radiate through the audience. Maybe everyone here is getting lucky tonight. Maybe everyone looks wonderful.

I ride that high, making my way through the rest of my tunes, sliding from Dean Martin to Tony Bennett, from Chris Isaak to Sam Cooke.

The more I sing, the more charged I feel.

My skin is buzzing; my bones are humming. I’ve been plugged in, and now I’m lit up from the music and the woman and the crowd. It’s a perfect storm of energy and electricity, and we’re feeding off of each other. Soon it’s time to finish the act with “I Ain’t Got Nobody.”

“Won't somebody come and take a chance with me? I'll sing you love songs, honey, all the time.”

When I’m done, I understand the words on another level.

Take a chance.

I haven’t figured out how to jump over those hurdles that still exist. I don’t know that I will anytime soon.

Sloane is off-limits, and probably always will be.

But I also know from her body language and her laughter that neither of us came here tonight for just one drink.

I thank the crowd and head straight to the woman who came for me.





16





Sloane Elizabeth’s Mental Voice Memo to Self on Things to Research when You Get Home

Look up if it’s possible to overdose on swooning.

Find out if other women have survived that song being sung to them, or if the objects of said singing are all now melted puddles.

Perhaps they’re being studied in a lab, to better understand the full scope of swoon-itus.

Note: research whether there is any swoonier song in the history of music than “Wonderful Tonight.”

Wait. No need to. There is obviously nothing else that can cause swoon overload like that tune.

And now you’re suffering from it big time, and there’s no cure.





17





I guide her to the bar, my hand on her lower back, since I’ve discovered her dress is better than an all-expenses-paid tropical vacation.

It’s the kind that has an open back.

I’d like to thank the inventor of this style. He or she deserves a Nobel Prize. Sloane’s back is perfection. Smooth, soft, pale skin, and all of it is exposed for a visual feast.

Maybe I am in Tahiti tonight.

Maybe that’s where my alternate universe exists.

“What did you think of the show?” I ask when we reach the bar.

A hint of a smirk tugs at her lips. “I think that you have a tremendously unfair advantage in life.”

I furrow my brow as I rest an elbow on the bar’s metal surface. “How so?”

She sets her hand on my arm and drags her fingers down the fabric of my suit jacket. That feels so much better than should be legal, even through the material. “You can’t be this good-looking, this smart, this caring, this charming, and this talented too,” she says softly.

I tap my chin. “Hmm. You’re right. Something must be terribly wrong with me. Perhaps you’ll find it.”

“Mark my words: I’m going to figure it out. I’m going to get to the bottom of this. Because there’s no way you landed all these panty-melting attributes without having terrible manners or bad breath or a closed mind.”

I flash her a smile. “You’re looking at a man who opens doors and says please and thank you, and my breath is minty fresh.” I lean in closer. “Also, my mind is all the way open. To just about anything.”