I patted my purse, thinking of the copy ofA Bride for the Dukeresting among old receipts and my plethora of fountain pens. By the end of this day I’d be peopled out, brain dead, and in need of being whisked away to Regency England to watch a reluctant peer of the realm fall in love with a compassionate country girl.
A man in a business suit rounded the opening of my office and stepped inside. Mr. McCormick crossed his arms over his chest. One of our wealthiest donors, he wasn’t a man to be crossed. Though he gave tens of thousands of dollars, it grated on me that he did so for the tax write-off and not from the goodness of his heart. I held in a snort. As if there were such a thing—either the goodness or the heart.
“A word, if you will, Miss Blake.”
The tone of voice, one of judgment, of disappointment, rested on my shoulders like a time-traveling cloak, transporting me back to a time and place all too familiar and not even a little welcome. The voice reminded me of my father.
Maybe I’d need to be rescued from this day sooner than I thought.
* * *
In Wednesday night tradition, I took the bus across town to where Tate would be singing. It was a cute restaurant with a vast outdoor patio. Exposed bulbs hung in a loose crisscross pattern over the tables. The place was packed during the summer months, when the constant mist of rain took a vacation and the sun gained residence and sported a perfect view of Mount Rainier. That, coupled with its award-winning food and live entertainment, made it a hub in the city outskirts.
I waved to Tate where he stood on the small stage, connecting wires from an amplifier to his acoustic guitar. Just a man and his guitar. Like Bing Crosby…but with a guitar. And without the ears that stuck out. Or the blue eyes. Okay, now that I thought about it, scratch that image. Bing Crosby and Tate had nothing in common. Except maybe how, when Tate sang, his voice was like velvet and he could turn your insides into a puddle. A single stanza and you melted into your seat, mesmerized by his ability to touch your heart with a simple song.
And like Crosby, when Tate sang, he was sexy. Not that he wasn’t sexy at other times and not like I’d admit that to him in a million years—after all, we were just friends—but when he sang, it was like watching a person experience complete joy. Do you know how attractive complete joy is? As if he forgot everything else that was happening in life—his sister’s battle with cancer, the threat of losing his job as his company downsized, the neighbor with the colicky infant whose screams through the night half the building could hear—and the only thing that mattered was that moment, that song, and for him it was…well, anyone could see it was his life.
I watched from a back table as he smiled at the crowd, dining over fresh seafood caught just outside our backdoor, and launched into his first set. He strummed the introduction, then leaned toward the mic, eyes closed as he sang the lyrics, his heart into words amplified and shared with all who’d listen.
I liked music as much as the next person, but I could never be called a connoisseur. I couldn’t list all of Bon Jovi’s hits and more often than most mixed up Frank Sinatra and Gene Kelly. Or Gene Kelley and R. Kelly, for that matter. But even to my untrained ear, I knew Tate had talent. More than that, he had passion. So what held him back from pursuing his dream?
Two women, whom I recognized as having come out to hear Tate play numerous times, sat near the front. They twisted their bodies and held out their phones, mouths pressed to form duck lips as they took a selfie with Tate playing in the background.
I didn’t even try to hide my eye roll. Wouldn’t have even if those women were right in front of me.
The Twitterverse would be buzzing tonight. I could see the hashtags now, the ones starting out normal and ending on the subjective: #livemusic #singer #hottiealert #hecanstrummyguitaranyday. I wasn’t exactly sure what that last one meant, but I was pretty sure it was a sexual innuendo and highly inappropriate. Tate laughed at me when I told him he should address some of these crazies. Not my problem. Got it.
I sipped my Shirley Temple as he faded from one song and started the next. Funny how I wasn’t dying to get a book in my hands. When I’d left work, tension had worked knots into my body. I’d daydreamed of a long soak in a hot bath, just me and the duke. But the music flowed through me now, releasing the pent-up anxiety that had built throughout the day. I watched Tate, nearly mesmerized by his ability, feeling relaxed and not at all itchy to escape into the pages of a fictional world.
He smiled at the crowd and set his guitar in the stand next to his stool before announcing a break. The two women stood and blocked his path, touching his bicep and practically fawning all over him. He posed for a picture with them, his smile tight, and then excused himself.
I held out the ice water with lemon and smirked as he drained the glass.
“They’re pretty,” I said even though it wasn’t true. One had on entirely too much makeup, and the other, well, I guess she was okay looking.
Tate looked over his shoulder, then turned back to me, his half grin in place. “Jealous?”
Yep. I laughed in his face. “You wish.”
His smile fell for a second before hitching back up. “Anyway…” He inspected the table. “No book?”
“In my purse.”
“Ah.” He said it knowingly and smugly. Like he knew and was proud of the fact that he and his songs were more mesmerizing and attention grabbing to me than even my beloved books. That irked me. What irked me even more, however, was the fact he was right. I hadn’t needed an escape from the real world to unwind. I’d just needed to listen to his voice and watch him do what he loved. He should have taken it as a compliment, although I didn’t hand those out to him very often. Maybe because if I did, his head would grow too big for his body. The image of Tate’s head inflating like a balloon filled my mind. Wouldn’t his adoring fans fawn all overthat.
“Where’s this one take place?”
His question popped the balloon-head cartoon, and I refocused on the real man across the table. The one with perfect head-to-body proportions, perfectly messy hair, perfectly disarming smile, perfectly—
“Regency England.” My answer came in a flash flood of words.
That infernal right brow cocked. “Trying to make it hard on me?”
I grinned. “Why would I make it easy?”
His smile widened from half to full. “What about the others?”
“Just one other right now. Africa. Contemporary setting this time though, if you think that will help.”
