face. “My dad works here. Edward Reynolds.” I hope this information will give me permission to be here.
The guy looks me up and down before nodding. “He’s in a meeting with the boss. You can wait inside.”
I follow him into the middle of the club. It’s a large room adorned with dark couches in the corners. Some parts are closed off with what look like curtains, separating them from the main area. A bar dominates the back wall and the area in front of the stage is full of cocktail tables, similar to the ones Mom always uses at her parties. “Wait here. Don’t roam around.”
I nod, and my eyes linger on the microphone on the stage. I want to go up there, but instead, I wait, sitting on a barstool, playing with my phone. Time passes, but no one comes, no one even acknowledges that I’m here, waiting. My gaze keeps returning to the microphone. It stands tall on its tripod, luring me to test it out. Looking around once more, I head for the stage, figuring I can entertain myself by pretending to do a performance.
Grabbing the mic, I start singing “Broken Ones” by Jacquie Lee. My voice echoes loudly. I fumble with the mic to find a way to silence it, but I can’t figure out how. Pushing down my anxiety, I let this feeling of adventure wash over me and take control. It’s a club, no one should care about me singing.
Closing my eyes, I focus on the lyrics. My mom always complains about my need to sing sad songs, but that’s who I am. I love songs about broken people; melancholy speaks to the deepest part of me. It understands me. It completes me in a way I can’t explain. It’s like there’s a part of me that loves the pain and heartache.
When I come to the end of the song, my eyes open, only to be captured by the most intense brown eyes I’ve ever seen.
A gasp escapes my lips, echoing off the walls. I quickly take a step away from the mic, not sure if I’m in trouble. The man in front of me doesn’t say a word. His eyes sweep over my body, making me self-conscious about the way I look. In a black suit and black shirt, he looks professional and dangerous. His hair is messy, in the sexiest way, like he just ran a hand through it. His tanned skin glows with the soft lights in the main area, making his skin even more vibrant. I can’t take my eyes off the strong lines of his neck down to the two open buttons of his shirt. He swallows as he gazes at me, and I feel my breathing quicken. The scruff on his cheeks makes him look more manly, as if that’s possible, accentuating his sharp jawline. When my eyes move to his mouth, my lips part. Desire pools in my veins. His lips look soft and lush, almost feminine, and in direct contrast to the powerful lines of his features. He is a powerful and confident man. One who knows what he’s capable of and what he wants in life. And before him, I look like a little girl in my blue jean shorts and a white crop top. I feel no different than singing into a hairbrush in front of my mirror, pretending to be a superstar as he sizes me up.
“You have a beautiful voice.” The gorgeous man finally breaks his silence.
A shiver runs through me, urging me to close my eyes for a second to absorb the roughness beneath his baritone voice.
“Thank you,” I answer, but my voice comes out breathy.
“Sing another one,” he orders, taking a step closer to where I am. He takes a seat on the U-shaped couch directly in front of the stage, placing one arm on the back and putting his ankle over his knee. He looks like he owns the place, maybe even the world. And his eyes are fixed on me, warming my insides as heat rushes to my face.
I lick my lips, my mouth suddenly dry, and his eyes follow the movement. As his gaze moves from my lips to my throat then down the length of my body, I feel its pressure like a buzz on my skin.
“Sing for me.” He repeats his request. His voice is deeper than a few seconds ago.
And I sing.
Chapter Two
Luca
It’s moments like these I have a hard time believing women are