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A frown turns my lips down and I hesitate. “Rosa… We’re lucky it went as well as it did without any practice. Going out there again seems like pushing it.”
Rosa grabs my hand and starts trying to pull me to my feet. “Nonsense. You were perfect and the audience loved you. You don’t want to disappoint them, do you?”
I sigh, thinking about Mariah in her hospital bed smiling in her sleep as I played my guitar. “No,” I mumble, annoyed that she’s won again. Rosa always seems to win. But I guess that’s what managers do.
“That’s my girl!” she says cheerily. “Come on, no time to waste. Ian’s waiting for you!”
That’s enough to make my stomach somersault. The thought of him waiting in the wings for me makes my heart race, and I can’t help but wonder if he’d take my hand again as we walked out on stage.
Keep it together, Chelsea.
Maybe it won’t be like it was. Maybe I won’t feel anything at all when I see him, and singing with him won’t feel like magic. If it was really just nerves and being pleasantly surprised, then this time I shouldn’t feel anything.
As much as I tell that to myself for reassurance, it actually makes me feel a little deflated. The feeling I got performing with Ian earlier was unlike anything else I’d ever experienced, and thinking that it might not happen again was worse than thinking it would.
By the time Rosa drags me to the stage, Ian’s already out there talking to the crowd. He’s singled out one little girl in the front row and she’s telling him how much she loves ponies when Rosa shoves me out of the wings.
The crowd instantly reacts and Ian flashes me a grin that turns my legs to jelly. “There she is! Come on everyone, let’s give a big round of applause for Chelsea Garten.”
My face warms up and I’m glad I’ve always got a pound of makeup on for the stage or everyone would know that Ian Monroe just made me blush.
He hands me the other mic on stage and I smile at the crowd, switching into performer mode without thinking about it. “Well, I hope you weren’t waiting for me too long,” I tease.
“You’re worth the wait,” Ian says, sending me a wink. Does he know he’s making my stomach tie itself in knots? If he does, that wink was just plain cruel.
“Well aren’t you the charmer,” I say, playing into the flirtatious banter. The crowd’s eating it up and I know how to take a cue. I’ve been on stage most of my life and being a little flustered isn’t going to negate all of that.
“I try,” Ian says with a chuckle. “But it’s hard when a pretty girl leaves you tongue-tied.”
I roll my eyes, making sure I exaggerate it for the audience, even though it’s a genuine reaction.
“Well, I’m pretty sure these folks out here wanted another song, didn’t they?”
The crowd roars in response to my question and Ian actually manages to look sheepish when he turns his attention to them.
“Thing is, we didn’t really prepare anything for this,” he says. “And I’m embarrassed to say it, but I don’t know any of your songs.”
As humble as I try to stay, I’m legitimately surprised Ian doesn’t know any of my songs. I’ve been on and off the Billboard charts for nearly a decade. What musician is that oblivious? But I’m not going to take it personally, and I chastise myself for even being upset about it for a moment. I am not the “do you have any idea who I am” girl.
“That’s all right, Ian. I don’t know many of yours, either.”
I watch the same emotions I just felt flicker through his eyes and feel an unwarranted thrill of satisfaction. Yeah, two can play that fame game, buddy.
“Do you know any country?” I ask him, already knowing the answer. He pulls a face and the crowd laughs.
“Do you know any rock?”
I grin, holding in a laugh. Is this guy for real? Half of country music these days is influenced by rock. And people in our genre don’t have those stuck-up notions of being “too good” to like rock. Rockers almost never listen to country.
“You know what, I think I know the song,” I say, gesturing toward the wings. A stagehand springs into action and runs out on stage with my guitar. Ian’s eyes go wide and I shake my head at him, chuckling softly. He probably thought I was some glorified pop singer that can’t play an instrument. Joke’s on him; I can play two. Three if you count tambourine.
He jerks his head to someone in the opposite wing and another stagehand runs out with his guitar. They couldn’t be more different; mine light and acoustic with pastel flowers painted on the body, his is electric and black as night. The stagehand runs out again with an amp cord and then Ian looks to me.
I start strumming the song. I know he’ll know it. Everyone knows it. One of those songs that somehow gets played at just about every bar and every sporting event I’ve ever been to. I hit the third chord and Ian jumps in, grinning at me like a loon.
And then we’re singing and playing and everything in the world slips into the background until it’s just the two of us, the music we’re pouring from our souls, and the unbearable heat sizzling between us.
Yeah, my reaction to him the first time clearly wasn’t a fluke.
