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His laughter died off, and he dragged a hand through his hair. “I can only imagine.”
“Sing me a song.” A siren sounded behind them. The cops must be chasing another murderer or robber. Where was Spider-man when you needed him? “I want to hear you before anyone else does. Before you’re famous.”
He looked past her at the crowded sidewalk. Nearby, a mom with a screaming toddler stood, trying to rock the child to sleep. Next to her, a man practically shouted at his secretary over his cell. “Here? Now? You won’t even be able to hear me over all of this noise.” The mom shot him a dirty look and walked further away from him. He winced. “I didn’t mean the baby. I mean all of it.”
“All of it is New York City. Get used to it.” She motioned him on. “Now sing a song from Les Miserables for me.”
“I thought you hated musicals and singers.”
“I do,” she said softly, feeling the need to be honest. She liked the way he laughed. She liked the way he made her laugh. “But I like you.”
His eyes darkened, and he leaned in close. When he opened his mouth and sang low in her ear, her breath caught in he
r throat. He was singing of falling in love at first sight—about his world being turned upside down by the mere sight of a girl.
And he absolutely should be on a stage. He was tantalizing and perfect. He sang so quietly that no one else could hear him over the city noise. A few feet away, a fighting couple gestured wildly and drew attention. The screaming baby still screamed. And she saw another police car go by with its sirens on, but with his soft, perfect voice filling her head … she didn’t hear a single sound.
He surrounded her.
The fact that he sang for her and her alone made her shift on her seat. And it also made her want to throw her arms around him and kiss him. A lot.
And maybe tie him up in her bed so he could sing for her all day long.
He broke off, his cheeks red. “There. You’re the first to hear me.”
She took a deep breath. “Wow. You’re really, really good.” She nudged him with her shoulder. “I have no doubt that you’ll make it one day. Maybe I’ll even come see you when you do.”
“You’d brave the hated theater to see me?” He held a hand to his heart. “I’m touched. Truly.”
She scoffed. “I have seen a few shows. I just don’t like them. I mean, really, who sings while fighting a revolution?”
“French people,” he deadpanned.
She burst into laughter. “Remind me never to go to France, then. I wouldn’t fit in.”
“I don’t know. I think you’d fit in just fine. You’ve got a certain je ne sais quoi.”
Her heart skipped a beat at his compliment, but she forced herself to ignore the fluttering of attraction. Wrong time. Wrong man. “You’ve obviously never heard me sing.”
He latched onto her eyes, not letting go. “I showed you mine. You should show me yours.”
“Never. Happening,” she said, her voice sounding foreign to her own ears. He made her feel so different and alive. “I don’t sound anything like you.”
His fingers brushed against hers on the bench, sending a hum of electricity through her blood, and he took a deep breath. His gaze collided with hers, and he slowly slid his hand over hers and held on tight. She tried to look away from him, to break contact, but she couldn’t. Wouldn’t. There was something between them.
Something she was terrified to name.
Chapter Three
Justin took a sip of his beer and eyed Lexi over the rim. Why in the bloody hell did Americans insist on cold beer? Give him warm ale in a pub any day over this swill. But she had insisted he be “American” today, and … well … for her he would.
“I saw that,” she said, her brow knitted.
He pasted an innocent smile on his face. “Saw what?”
She pointed a finger at him. “You cringed when you swallowed the beer. You’re supposed to be American today, remember?”
“Of course.” He cleared his throat and used his best New Yorker accent. “I’m as American as they come, sweetheart. Didn’t you know? I’m not really British—I heard chicks dig guys with accents.”
