He laughs and reaches across the table to pry away my fingers. “I think that might be the cutest damn thing I’ve ever heard.”
My skin still prickles from his touch after he removes his hand.
“Okay, but seriously,” I say, lowering my voice barely above a whisper. “He’s not joking. I thought this was just something that Parker made up or did of his own accord, so on that first night, I didn’t do it, and that cat howled for seven hours straight. I didn’t miss his nightly lullaby after that.”
Oliver’s shoulders shake with laughter. “But how did you sing that song for eight minutes? Isn’t, like, half the song a guitar solo?”
I nod, giggling. “Uh-huh. A guitar solo that I hummed quite terribly, I might add.”
“I’m going to need to hear this.”
“Here we are,” Parker says, returning with the wine, pouring it into our glasses. “Have you had a chance to look at the menu? What’s sounding good to y’all this evening?”
“Oh,” I say, lifting the single page from the table, scanning it quickly. “I’m sorry. We haven’t even looked.”
Parker gives a good-natured laugh. “That’s okay. I get it. Y’all are busy getting to know each other. How about I bring you some of our crostini to munch on while you decide?” He gives me a wink that’s about as subtle as a puppy pretending it didn’t just chew a hole in the sofa. “It’s on the house.”
“Thank you,” Oliver says as Parker disappears once more.
I return my focus to Oliver. “Okay, now you need to tell me something embarrassing about yourself so I can feel less like a loser, please.”
“Only cool people can sing ‘Purple Rain’withthe guitar solo.” He takes a sip of his wine. “That’s a fact.”
“You wouldn’t think that if you’d been forced to witness it.”
He grins and shakes his head. “Okay. Something embarrassing.”
“Humiliating, even.”
He taps his fingers along the table for a moment before raising his pointer. “I wanted to be in New Kids on the Block when I grew up.”
I take a pull from my wine, giddy with this new information. “Does that mean you can sing?”
“Not even a little. And definitely not in public, so I’m not sure how I thought that was gonna work.” He leans back in his chair, his picket-fence-straight teeth gleaming. “But that didn’t stop me from learning every one of their dances. Honestly, I still remember them, which is kind of impressive, considering I don’t know where I put my car keys half the time.”
“Stop.” I cover my mouth with my hands. “No, you don’t.”
“Oh, I do. And I may or may not still sing ‘Hangin’ Tough’ in the shower.”
My giggles become a full-on cackle. “Oh my God.”
He blushes, his smile still intact. “Now you think I’m crazy.”
I shake my head and take another drink. “I used to pretend to be Dolly Parton.”
He leans forward, folding his hands on the table. “Okay, I’m going to need to hear more about that.”
“I used to dress up like her when I was a kid. I’d sneak into my mom’s makeup drawer and smear lipstick on my face, put on her heels, and stuff my shirt with a throw pillow. I used a turkey baster as a microphone.”
“Not a hairbrush?”
I shrug. “Five-year-old me thought a turkey baster more closely resembled a microphone.”
“I bet you were a cute kid.”
I press my palm to my forehead, warm with embarrassment. Though this time, I didn’t have Parker to blame for spilling the beans.
My laugh fades into a contented sigh. “I was a mess and a half. That’s what my dad used to say whenever I dressed up, pretending to be Dolly, or I invented some silly game he’d play along with. He’d laugh and say, ‘Lindsey Loo, you’re a mess and a half.’ I guess I still am.”
