An Optimist's Guide to Heartbreak (Heartsong #1)(23)
I nailed the ending.
Unable to keep my eyes from skating over to Cal, I brighten my smile and bite my lip, watching as he spins his drink between long fingers, takes a slow pull, then averts his gaze.
I sigh with renewed confidence and grip the microphone in my hand, addressing the audience as the cheers begin to dwindle. “Thank you all so much for coming out tonight. I can’t tell you how much performing for you every week means to me. It fills my heart and brings the biggest smile to my face.” Someone whistles from the crowd, and I spare Cal another tiny glance, but he’s not looking at me anymore. “I’m Imogen, and I’ll be back again next Friday to serenade you. And if all goes well, hopefully you’ll be smiling, too. Goodnight.”
More claps and hollers ring out, soon replaced by idle chatter and a bluesy music station, and I inch my way off the stool, smoothing down my mini tiered dress. It’s rust-colored with a floral pattern, the sleeves long and ruffled to match the cooler weather that rolled in with September.
I put a little extra effort into my hair tonight, leaving it down and curled, the light brown ribbons hanging loosely over my shoulders that peek out from the dress.
As I pack up my guitar, my cell phone buzzes from my purse strewn across an adjacent stool.
It’s Alyssa.
Alyssa:
GIRL! I got stuck in a horrendous meeting with Wilshire and I’m running late. Don’t people realize that the phrase ‘Any questions?’ means THE MEETING IS OVER? Nope. People just assume it’s time to ask questions. Idiots. Anyway, I’ll be there soon to smoosh and love on you. ?
Grinning wide, I text back a quick response.
Me:
Don’t worry! I just finished, but there’s still wine to be had.
Cal showed up, so I’m going to go talk to him.
Alyssa:
*eyeball emojis*
Me:
I know. Shock of the century.
Alyssa:
Holy shit.
Okay.
Shit.
Me:
Oh look, my problematic speech patterns are rubbing off on you.
Alyssa:
Shit.
Me:
LOL.
See you soon!
I slip my phone into my dress pocket, lock up my guitar case, and step off the small stage. Patrons send me smiles and waves as I breeze past and make a beeline toward Cal. He’s hunched over the bar with a big palm wrapped around his half-empty glass, his body language equivalent to a neon sign flashing, “No Vacancies.”
The kind of sign you take one look at, then keep driving.
But I realize it’s no coincidence that he’s sitting at my signature wine bar at the precise time I perform every Friday night, so he must be here to show his support.
Right?
Cal shifts a bit on the stool, eyes panning over to me when he senses me marching over to him with my hair swinging back and forth, a wide-eyed stare, and troves of nervous energy. While his attire is consistent with his usual clothing ensembles—a plain white t-shirt, dark denim, black boots—his hair is sans a cap or beanie, mussed with some sort of styling gel. Bed head with effort.
And, oh—he smells sensational.
I step into a heady cloud of manly scents, consisting of his usual woodsy soap or deodorant, and mingling with a new cologne designed to lure women into spontaneously removing all of their clothing.
Women who aren’t me, of course, but Alyssa is a definite goner.
Straightening more on the stool, Cal brings the glass to his lips, scanning me in a slow sweep from head to toe when I approach. His eyes rest on my chest scar for a heavy beat, the one I lied to him about, telling him it was from an accident when I was just a toddler.
When our eyes lock, and his body heat travels over to me, my stomach clenches with an unfamiliar feeling. It triggers my heart to gallop and my skin to flush.
Inhaling an unsteady breath, I realize I’m being ridiculous.
This is Cal.
My boss. My friend.
I tell myself to be cool.
Dear Lucy,
Please act sane and rational.
And please, for the love of God, say something normal.
Flashing him a dazzling smile, I blurt, “Wow, hey. I saw it and almost blew you.”
And then all color drains from my face.
Cal chokes on his bourbon, which might be the strongest reaction I’ve gotten out of him since the day I walked into his auto shop. Clearing his throat, he doesn’t look at me as he mutters, “Nice to see you, too, Lucy.”
Stars twinkle behind my eyes like I was clobbered in the back of the head with a frying pan, and it takes every ounce of strength to remain in an upright position. “That’s…completely, totally, and not at all what I meant to say,” I croak out, placing both palms against my cheeks to hide the scarlet splotches. “Blew it. I saw you and almost blew it. Up there on stage—when I was singing. Meaning, I was surprised to see you and stumbled over the words. That’s all. God, I’m so sorry.”