I miss the first line, my cheeks instantly flaring hot. I bite my lower lip, my gaze flicking over to Milo. He begins to mouth the words intentionally and quite dramatically until my lips sync with his and my voice finally releases from my throat into the microphone.
My eyes startle wide as I hear myself loudly in the speakers, but a slow smile begins to part my face as I begin to remember and feel the rhythm of the song.
By the second chorus, I can feel my legs again, enough that my body begins to sway along with the melody. My voice grows steadier, louder, until I’m belting out the words from somewhere deep within.
I glance over at Milo, his hands in his jeans pockets, and he’s grinning that sunset of a smile that makes the world feel brighter and better. I grin back, the words now part of me as I finish out the song while dancing on the stage, the way I used to when I was a kid.
When the song ends, the crowd claps. Some even whistle. I start to walk toward the stairs when someone from the bar shouts, “Another song!”
I look at the guy with the clipboard, and he shrugs, showing me the list with no names after mine.
“Do you have ‘Bye, Bye’ by Jo Dee Messina?” I ask.
“I’ve got whatever you want,” the guy replies.
I go back to the microphone, waiting for the words to appear when a waitress in a cute black dress and a small apron appears at the bottom of the stage with a drink on a tray.
“For you!” she shouts, lifting what looks like a piña colada.
I scrunch my brows at her.
“From the guy at the bar,” she says, tilting her head toward the man who yelled for another song.
“Thanks,” I say, bending down to grab the fun-looking beverage.
The truth is I’ve never had a drop of alcohol in my life. I was the girl spending time with fictional characters on a Saturday night instead of people at a party. It’s not that I thought less of those who chose bonfires over books; I just didn’t think it sounded fun—not when Darcy was finally confessing his love or Peeta was at the threshold of death.
As I stand up and look at the tropical umbrella, I smile. Why not? I’ve always wondered what the hype was about.
I smile at the man with dark hair wearing a dark T-shirt, a speck in the back of the room, toasting him with the drink, and take my first sip. It’s fruity, sweet, and honestly . . . absolutely delicious. I swallow down some more as the next song cues up.
This time I don’t miss the first line. This is my stage, and some guy thought I was good enough to send me a drink, and right now, that’s good enough for me.
Play that country music, clipboard guy.
34
MILO
One piña coladaturns into four, and it’s obvious that Sadie Summers has never had alcohol. It’s also obvious that the guy at the bar thinks he’s hit an easy target, which couldn’t be further from the truth.
Before the haze of pineapple and rum began to wash over Sadie, something had broken from within her. She was more heart than flesh, her brown eyes brightly reflecting the lights in this dimly lit bar. Her movements started small, but they grew as if she was grasping at this moment with every vibration of her being. My chest tightened.
She’s just finished the last line of “Life is a Highway” by Rascal Flatts, and she laughs wholly, the joy rippling from her into the room.
“Another!” she screams.
The crowd claps, laughing in response to her own giggles and excitement.
Brandon, the guy with the clipboard, looks at her with a grin. “What do you want next?”
And that’s when Sadie’s eyes find mine. “A duet!”
The blood in my veins stopsits flow. I do not sing. Ever.
“C’mon, Milo!” she screams as she puckers out her lower lip. “Please!”
How can I say no to this woman after I’ve hoped she would say yes to me?
