“Works for me.”
Esmeralda glances from Chloe to me, then smiles smugly. “One whiskey sour and one mojito coming right up for…the hot date.”
Everyone in this town has the memory of an elephant. “Call it whatever you want,” I say, still more unbothered than I should be over the possibility of Esmeralda thinking I’m seeing Chloe.
Maybe because it feels like I am when I’m here in this bar with her? Like this place belongs to a Chloe and Sawyer whoaresomehow dating? But that’s a risky thought to entertain, so I set it out of my mind as Esmeralda gets to work mixing.
I turn all my attention on the nefarious redhead with the pretty pink mouth I want to defile. “All right. Tell me you need a sexy, well-hung man to take you to a gala to make an ex jealous?”
Her hazel eyes glimmer. “No, but that’s a good idea.” She rolls her lips, takes a deep breath, then fastens on a nervous smile. “What I need is for you to sing ‘Fly Me to the Moon’ as the closing number at the Darling Springs Community Cabaret Theater Fundraiser in two weeks.”
I study her face, looking for signs she’s pulling my leg but finding none. “Seriously?”
She lifts a hand like she’s swearing an oath. “Yes. I’ll be playing piano that night.”
“You play piano?” I ask, stunned for some reason. Maybe even…excited?
“Yes. Why is that a surprise?”
“I don’t know. Maybe for the same reason you were surprised when you learned I sang. I wasn’t expecting it.” But what I really want to say is…so you’re musical too?
“My mom was a piano teacher when I was growing up, so I had no choice. And I’m the accompanist for the entire show. Theguy who was supposed to do our closing number broke his leg, and we need someone for the finale. Someone who can bring down the house.”
“No.”
“Sawyer,” she pleads.
“Absolutely no,” I say.
“But you’re so good.”
Love a compliment, but still. “Nope.”
“You’re going to sound amazing. As good as Frank Sinatra did. Please,” she says, batting her lashes. “I kept your secret. I double kept it with the night-golf thing. We really need someone. It’s such an important fundraiser. Did you know that the university has had its science research funding slashed in the last few years? We’re trying to raise enough money for them to reinstitute some of their studies into cures for movement disorders.”
Ah, hell. She’s pulling on my heartstrings. “Chloe, I appreciate the offer. Truly, I do. And the cause matters deeply to, well, any human,” I say, because fuck slashed funding for science. “But I wanted a fresh start when I moved here, and that means I don’t want the whole town knowing about Sam.”
“Oh you don’t need to do it as Sam,” she says brightly. “Just do it as you. Owner of Dog Tails. I’m not asking you to sing Queen or Foreigner. Just an old standard that Ella and Frank have covered. We need someone who’s incredible to replace Noah. And really theonly onewho can fill his shoes is you,” she says, and gone is the cat-who-ate-the-canary Chloe. In her place is this earnest, hopeful woman who’s asking me for a big favor.
Do I owe her? Yeah, I do. Twice over.
“Everyone at work is going to know.”
She laughs. “Yes, they’re going to know you can sing. That’s a cool talent. And the song is an old standard sung at weddings. Made famous by Frank Sinatra. I’m not asking you to sing ‘Master of the House’ fromLes Mis.”
“Fair point,” I say, and that’s a fun-as-fuck song, but she’s right—it’s too comical for me to tackle.
I take a beat to weigh her offer, but Chloe jumps on the silence, adding, “And half the business owners in town are doing it. Delilah is singing ‘(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction’; my dad and Luca are doing ‘Dancing Through Life.’ My mom’s boyfriend is taking part by directing his cousins who are doing ‘It’s Raining Men.’”
Chloe lists more names. Josiah’s taking on Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” And by the time she gets to Salma—who’s tackling “The Man” by Taylor Swift—it’s clear I’d look like a poor sport if I said no. Even the mayor is doing a number.
I scrub a hand across my jaw, considering it seriously now. It is for a good cause. “I’m thinking about it,” I admit.
She beams, but then soldiers on. I’ve got a feeling she’s been practicing her pitch all day. “And hey, I know you’re into the whole serious-businessman thing, but you do own a dog spa,” she says. “And at least I’m not asking you to sing ‘Who Let The Dogs Out.’”
“That would be a hard pass,” I say.
Her smile brightens. “This is a hard go then?”
