not getting out of this.”
He gives his head a slight shake, but his smile tells me he knows he’s screwed himself with this. “What’re we gonna sing?”
“Hmm.” I pretend to think about it for a few seconds. “How about ‘You’re the One that I Want’?”
Ronan laughs. “I should’ve known you’d be a Grease fan.” He motions to the deejay. “All right, you heard the lady. Let’s do it.”
What Ronan doesn’t know is that I’ve probably watched the movie a thousand times. And I’ve seen the play at least twenty times. I also have the soundtrack and I listen to it in my car all the time. I don’t even need the lyric feed. My love for Grease is a good part of the reason I wear the dresses I do.
When I adopt an obsession, I don’t half ass it; I commit fully. Much like my obsession with Harry Potter and cupcakes. When I was a teenager, I used to love drama class. Even in college I would join the theater groups for fun. I didn’t ever want it to be a job. Once I was the understudy for the role of Sandy, so I know the entire song by heart, actions included.
I smooth my hands over my skirt and hand the microphone back to him. I love that he has to start.
I have to hand it to Ronan. He really does try to hit the notes and he doesn’t do a half bad job, but he has to keep looking at the screen. His gaze keeps darting back and forth. It makes it that much more satisfying when I cover his hand with mine, tip the microphone down and sing to him, telling him he’s the one that I want.
It’s obvious he’s shocked, possibly because I don’t need the lyric prompt, possibly because I’m not a half bad singer. He almost misses the cue to join me, but I nudge him and nod to the screen, forcing him to drag his eyes away from mine.
He tries to keep up. It’s rather commendable, and I will say, what he lacks in vocal range he makes up for in hip shaking.
When the song ends, the crowd bursts into uncontrollable applause and shouts for an encore. I slip my hand into Ronan’s, noting his damp palm, and we take a bow.
I hand him back the microphone and tug on the collar of his shirt, pulling him down. My lips brush the shell of his ear and his skin pebbles as I whisper, “Not quite how you thought it was going to go down, huh?”
chapter eight
Should’ve Been My Win
Blaire
The next morning I’m still sort of floating on the high of last night’s win. I have to say, I’m feeling pretty damn awesome right now. I continue riding that same fabulous wave all the way in to work. Everything is awesome. Nothing can ruin my fantastic mood, not even the fact that I haven’t slept much.
I find a box sitting on the front step and carry it inside with me. I don’t recognize the name of the company, but maybe Daphne ordered something for our next event as a surprise.
I pluck a pair of scissors from the jar next to the cash register, sliding it carefully along the seam.
Before I have a chance to open it, the back doors swing open and Paul wheels a cart of boxes down the hall. “Hey! You’re here early!” He’s smiling, but he looks tired.
The scissors clatter to the floor, narrowly missing my foot. “Geez! You scared the crap out of me. I expected you to be long gone by now.”
“I had to shift around some deliveries because of the holiday.” Paul has had to do that a lot more recently. Either dropping off cupcakes in the evening, or coming in extra early so he can get specialty ones done for me. A few times it’s been down to the wire.
Paul agreed to help me through Thanksgiving, but after that he’ll be done paying me back for the truck, and I’ll have to either hire another baker or take on the job myself. Based on finances, it looks like it’s probably going to be me taking on the extra workload, so my already limited sleep is going to suffer even more.
He maneuvers the cart of cupcakes behind the register so I can check them out. I flip the box on top open. They smell delicious—like pumpkin pie spice—and will be even more amazing once I add the cream cheese