Page 61 of Falling for Gage

My gaze flew to Rory. We hadn’t gone over a cover story regarding how we met. But Rory simply patted my hand and said, “Open mic poetry night.”

“Oh!” Mrs. Quartermocker’s very young husband, whose name I’d already forgotten, suddenly sat up straight. “The poetry slam at Lighthouse Lounge?”

“That’s the one,” Rory said, perching her chin on the backs of her laced hands and gazing at me. “Gage’s piece was mesmerizing. So emotionally charged. I had to speak to him afterward. From there, it’s been…a whirlwind.”

“A hurricane,” I amended.

Her eyes danced. “Category five.”

“Utter destruction,” I added with a lowered voice.

“Sounds positively violent,” Mrs. Quartermocker said with a giggle before downing her drink.

“What was it about?” Mr. Siggins asked.

Rory paused as her eyes slid around the room. “Cymbals,” she said. She let out a small, tinkling laugh, her lower lip trembling as though she was holding back. I wondered what object or title behind me had tipped off her answer but didn’t turn around. Instead, I narrowed my eyes at her and she batted her lashes.

“That seems like an unusual topic,” Mrs. Quartermocker said.

“So much of poetry employs suggestion and metaphor,” her husband said. “It’s why it’s so powerful.”

“Romantic,” Maynard said dubiously, raising one brow. “I didn’t take you for a poet, Gage. You must perform the piece that stole Ms. Castle’s heart.”

The young man who clearly considered himself some kind of modern-day beatnik, stood and placed his martini on the table. “You absolutely must.” Before I knew it, he was pulling my chair out so I was forced to stand and being jostled toward the grand piano that was situated up a step on a higher portion of flooring. The young man returned to the table where cards were being played and took a seat next to his wife, four pairs of eyes staring at me expectantly, just as another older man walked in. “Timothy,” Maynard greeted. “I’m so glad you made it. Did the play get out early?”

“No, it was a wicked bore and I decided to leave.”

“Well, have a seat. We’re just about to hear Gage Buchanan’s metaphorically charged poem on…cymbals.”

“Oh, are we? How exciting. I used to dabble in poetry when I was younger. It’s been ages since I’ve heard a good poem.” Timothy pulled out a chair and sat down.

Now there were five sets of eyes peering at me expectantly, one pair of bright blue ones shimmering with barely suppressed mirth.

I would kill her after this. Slowly.

Cymbals…cymbals. I cleared my throat, my mind racing. I’d spoken at hundreds of business meetings completely off the cuff. I was great at it. As smooth as honey.

I could do poetry.

Poetry was easy.

I extended my arm and tipped my chin. “Cymbals clash and cymbals bang. I like cymbals, clang…clang. Clang.”

I lowered my arm and looked at the people watching me from the table. Mrs. Quartermocker coughed and then covered her mouth, the three men stared speechlessly, and Rory’s face was practically purple as she obviously held her breath.

Mrs. Quartermocker’s husband looked as if he was working a complex math problem in his head.

“Well, er, that was…” Maynard started.

“Unique,” the man named Timothy said, drawing the word out. I recognized him from a few social events, though I couldn’t recall what he did. All I knew was that he’d just saved me and presented the perfect opportunity. I stepped down from the higher area of floor. “Now that there’s another player, what do you say we leave this round to the professionals and have a drink, Rory?”

She stood up so fast, her chair wobbled. “That’s a marvelous idea. A drink. Yes,” she said breathlessly.

“The bar is just around the corner,” Mr. Siggins said. “Please, help yourself to whatever you’d like.”

We exited the room and turned the corner to the wet bar, featuring a marble counter and glass bistro shelving above, stacked with every type of liquor imaginable. Rory looked over her shoulder and then pulled me as we both hurried out of that room and down a hall, Rory holding her hand over her mouth as giggles obviously threatened to burst forth.

“I should kill you,” I whispered as we walk-ran.

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