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He stared into my eyes as he sang every word, and surprisingly, I didn’t blush. But I did swoon.
We joined in, singing the chorus together, and our voices blended together like the song was meant for us to sing. “’We don’t need to rush this, let’s just take it slow. Just a kiss on your lips in the moonlight. Just a touch of the fire burning too bright. No, I don’t want to mess this thing up. I don’t want to push too far. Just a shot in the dark that you just might be the one I’ve been waiting for my whole life. So baby I’m alright, with just a kiss goodnight.’”
Every time Trace sang the word, kiss, my heart soared.
We leaned towards each other, smiling as we sang each word. His green eyes sparkled with pleasure.
I had never felt happier than I did in this moment.
I sang each word with every ounce of passion I had in my body, portraying through lyrics what I couldn’t say, and I knew Trace was doing the same. He picked this song for a reason.
The last note came to a close.
Trace and I were oblivious to everyone else; we only had eyes for each other.
A grin lit his face and he cupped my cheek with one hand. My chest rose and fell with labored breaths.
“I knew you could do it, Olivia,” he whispered, his thumb grazing over my bottom lip.
“You did?” I asked breathlessly.
“Okay, maybe not,” he chuckled, leaning his forehead against mine.
I laughed too. “You mean you thought I might suck?”
“Well, yeah,” he shrugged, his hand still cupping my cheek, and his impossibly green eyes seared me to the spot. “I don’t expect you to be perfect at everything, Olivia. I mean,” he grinned, “you definitely were horrible at painting.”
I poked his side.
“Ow!” He feigned pain, because I definitely hadn’t poked him that hard. Still grinning, since he never seemed to stop, he said, “You were amazing, honestly.”
“So were you,” I replied. “I didn’t know you could sing.”
Trace opened his mouth to say something when a throat clearing over his shoulder interrupted our bubble.
“Uh—if you two are done, there are other people that would like to sing,” the man running the karaoke machine told us.
I blushed, and was sure Trace felt the heat infusing my cheeks, where his palm rested against one.
“Sorry, sir,” Trace chuckled, taking my hand, and leading me back to our table.
My sweet tea sat in its glass and I slurped at it greedily. Singing always made me impossibly thirsty.
Trace picked up his chocolate shake, stirring in the whipped cream. I saw that he’d already drank about half of the massive thing.
“I didn’t know you could sing,” I repeated.
“Oh,” he waved a hand, “I don’t.”
“I beg to differ,” I eyed him, “your voice is amazing.”
He rolled his eyes. “It’s average, there’s a big difference.”
I snorted. “If you think your voice is average I’d love to know what you think is extraordinary.”
He snapped his fingers together. “Steven Tyler has an extraordinary voice,” he reasoned. “Aerosmith is one of the greatest bands ever.”
“Says the man who was dancing to a song talking about blowing the roof off the place,” I shook my head.
