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She stops talking and places a hand on her forehead.
I look into those mesmerizing chocolate eyes. I can tell the thought process behind them is the same as mine.
Clearly, this woman isn’t fine. She needs to be checked by a professional, maybe get a CT. Now. But she won’t leave until she knows everything will be fine without her. As concerned as I am for her health, I can understand that sentiment.
“I’ll do it,” I tell her. “I’ll sing for you.”
Her eyes grow wide. “You can sing?”
I nod. “What song is it?”
“‘What Child Is This?'” she answers.
“I know it.”
I probably know every Christmas song by heart.
“You’ll bring her to the hospital?” I ask Mr. Piercing Dark Eyes.
“Sure,” he answers.
I leave the caroler to him and make my way up the platform. The other carolers seem surprised to see me, but they turn their faces forward and continue singing. I sing along. When the opening notes of “What Child Is This?” start to play, I brace myself and start to sing as best as I can. I haven’t sung in public in a while, but thankfully, I still remember the lessons I learned when I was in the choir back in middle school. I just square my shoulders, tuck my stomach in, and open my mouth. My voice rings through the air, and after I hit the first few notes, the rest goes smoothly.
When I’m done singing, I hear applause but I don’t have time to celebrate. We move on to the next song and then the final one. Only after I take my bow with the others do I allow myself to soak in my triumph and feel proud about what I’ve done.
Damn. That feels good.
“You can sing.”
I turn my head at the sound of the voice, one I now feel I’ll be able to recognize anywhere. The sound of a fantasy coming to life.
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and try not to blush. “What? Did you think I was lying?”
“No. I bet you’ve never lied in your life.”
I frown. “Are you making fun of me?”
“No.”
I push my glasses up my nose. “How is she?”
“A cop offered to bring her to the hospital at the end of the street. She should be fine.”
I nod. If she’s at the hospital, then she’s in good hands.
“I’m Rainier, by the way.” He offers me his hand.
Rainier. Even his name is stunning.
I hesitate for just a moment before taking it. “Ellis.”
He smiles and my pulse jumps to something like 150.
He lets my hand go. “So, do you have a concert after this, or…?”
“Shut up.” I wave a hand in front of me.
Yes, I can sing, but I’ve never once thought of being a singer.
“So no plans?” Rainier asks me.
I see the gleam of excitement in his eyes and look away.
“No.” I try to breathe. “I was just heading home.”
“Ah. To eat turkey with your family?”
“Nope. No turkey. And my family isn’t here.”
“So you’re going home to spend Thanksgiving alone?”
“Yes,” I answer. “Is that a problem?”
“Yes.”
He takes a step forward and I catch a whiff of his perfume. My breath catches.
“No one should have to spend Thanksgiving alone,” he adds in a slightly deeper voice.
I make the mistake of meeting his gaze and my heart stops. A lump forms in my throat. I swallow.
“I…”
“I know this nice restaurant that’s not far from here.” Rainier looks at his silver watch. “They don’t serve turkey, but they have great food. I’m sure we can get a table.”
I’m sure he can get whatever he puts those charms to.
“So? What do you say about having Thanksgiving dinner together, Ellis?” he asks me.
I swear, even my name sounds sexy on his luscious lips.
I should say no. I have pasta at home waiting to be heated. My bed and my soft, thick quilt are waiting, too. Besides, Rainier may have given me his name, but I still don’t know anything about him. He’s a stranger.
The hottest stranger I’ve ever met.
“Okay,” I find myself saying as I run my fingers across the strap of my purse.
So what if I don’t know him? Didn’t Dr. Carver tell me to go and have some fun? I’m just following doctor’s orders.
“Great.” The resulting smile makes Rainier’s eyes shimmer and sends a tingle down my spine.
How could any woman say no to this man?
I draw a deep breath and give him a smile. “So, Rainier, where exactly is this nice restaurant? I’m famished.”
~
“I can’t believe you don’t like chocolate,” I tell Rainier as I dig my spoon into my Death By Chocolate to get another mouthful of decadence.
He, on the other hand, takes a sip from his glass of wine. “And I can’t believe you don’t drink.”
Fair enough.
“Although I find it harder to believe that I’ve never seen you before,” he adds as he sets down his glass.
