Satisfaction Guaranteed(3)

It’s what we’ve both wanted for the last few years. What we’ve both been planning for. The practice will belong to me, and I can take it to the next level.

Then I’ll have everything I could want: a successful business, a sweet apartment in the Village, and dates whenever I want them.

The icing on the cake is this—singing to a packed house tonight. Fine, that packed house might only be fifty people, but I don’t care. I’m not trying to make a career as a lounge singer. I’m just enjoying my second-favorite hobby.

Decked out in a sharp dark-blue suit, I have the audience enrapt with old standards. Men and women sip Moscow mules from copper mugs and gin and tonics from tall glasses garnished with lime wedges. Toes tap in rhythm to the music.

As I dive into the closing number, an update on “The Curse of an Aching Heart,” made famous by Frank Sinatra, my eyes land on a trio of women in jeans and black tops, likely on a girls’ night out.

A pretty brunette runs her finger along the rim of her glass and bats her lashes at me. Ah, the telltale sign that tonight could be another lucky night.

“You made me what I am today. I hope you're satisfied.”

I’m not saying I sing at Gin Joint a couple times a month to score.

I’m saying it doesn’t hurt.

Mic and the piano, the perfect prologue to my first-favorite hobby. But there’s something I want more than sex tonight, so I’m going to be an absolute choirboy when my set draws to a close.

“That's the curse of an aching heart,” I sing, finishing the tune.

“Thanks so much for coming tonight. Be sure to keep all your loved ones close. I’m A Good Man, and I’ll see you again sometime.”

I weave my way through the crowd, and the brunette nibbles on the corner of her lips and offers, “I can break that curse.”

“Thanks for coming tonight,” I say, setting a hand briefly on her shoulder, then make my way to the bar. I’m giving myself a commendation for good behavior.

“Whiskey for you,” says my sister, Truly, who owns Gin Joint, as she slides a glass over. “Also, do I need to grab you by the wrists and lead you out of here right away, so you’re not tempted?”

“Nah. I’m willingly leaving solo.”

She hums doubtfully and lowers her voice. “I saw the gal making eyes at you. Were they full-on fuck-me eyes or were they flirt-with-me-and-give-me-something-to-think-about-later eyes?”

I tap my chin, pretending to think. “I do believe they were take-me-to-your-sister’s-office-and-pound-me-against-the-door eyes.”

I down some of the drink as Truly smacks my shoulder. “Gross. That’s seriously gross. I need to get that image out of my head, stat. Talk about paper clips.”

I laugh. “Paper clips are a fantastic invention, not only known for their ability to hold pages upon pages together, but also for their ability to float.”

She blinks. “Wait. Paper clips float? Is it because they’re light?”

I shake my head. “Nope. It’s because of surface tension. The water molecules hold tight enough to support . . .”

She waves a hand. “That’s okay. That did the trick.” She presses her palms against the counter. “How is everything looking for the Friday night dinner?”

I rap the wood for luck. “If all goes well, the practice should be mine, like Doug and I have talked about for years. At last, right?”

She sighs happily. “We need to celebrate. It’s what Dad always wanted for you.”

“I know. I’m glad I can finally do it.” This has been the big dream since I left vet school—to finish what my father started. To take the step he couldn’t take.

“It’s going to be great.” She pours herself a Diet Coke and raises the glass to toast. We clink and each take a drink. “And when it’s all said and done, will you reach out to Sloane again?”

That name sends a jolt through me. “Sloane?”

Truly chuckles. “Yes. Sloane,” she says, like she needs to remind me. She doesn’t—the woman hasn’t slipped too far from my mind since that one intense week together that we shared seven years ago. “Sloane, as in the woman you had it bad for once upon a time. The woman you ask me about every time you bump into her, wanting to know if I’ve discovered some giant loophole that would enable you to pursue her, the woman who’s the reason you sing here.”

I stumble back, like she just blew me over with the force of her gale-strength words. “When you put it like that, I suppose the name does ring a bell.”

She laughs. “So, will you reach out to her?”

“Why would I?”

“Won’t things change once the deal is done? Can’t you finally be Sloane and Malone? Which, by the way, will never not be funny, the rhyming.”

“It’s a laugh a minute.”

“So . . .” Her eyes widen.

I shrug. “Don’t know. Hadn’t thought about it.”

She leans forward, a twinkle in her blue eyes, a challenging set in her jaw. “Liar.”

A high-pitched voice cuts in. “Oh my God, are you guys identical twins?”

Truly rolls her eyes. She is my twin, and because our coloring is so similar—dark-brown hair, midnight-blue eyes—we’ve fielded our fair share of this ridiculous question.