Page 36 of Ghost Business (Boneyard Key #2)

Twenty-Three

She could have listened to him all night.

Sophie hadn’t meant it when she’d dared him to sing.

She’d just been irritated. Tristan was complaining about the music, making fun of that drunk who was, admittedly, absolutely slaughtering an old eighties song.

More than once she’d glanced over and caught the horrified look on Vince’s face.

But she was impressed; he’d stayed in his seat instead of beating the tourist with a chair and wrestling the mic away. Vince must be in a good mood tonight.

When she’d dared Tristan to do better, she’d been kidding.

It wasn’t until he was up there, microphone in hand, taking a first breath, that she remembered that night at Poltergeist Pizza, when Jo had read Tristan’s top hat.

Saying he missed singing. Sophie wanted to groan; she’d played right into his hand.

Daring him to do something he excelled at.

She wanted to leave. Abandon the rest of her fried shrimp and get the heck out of there. She didn’t want to witness this showing-off session he was about to do. Giving him the satisfaction was against her religion.

But then, right as he started to sing, his eyes met hers and locked on, as though he was gripping her hand from across the room.

Ah. Maybe he was a little nervous after all.

So instead of hopping down from her stool, instead of bolting out into the night, she sent him a small smile, mentally giving his hand a squeeze of support.

Not that he needed it. His voice was pure, like smooth running water. A clear tenor that soared up to the notes it needed—he would have nailed that note in “Photograph”—his voice filled the room, and conversation stilled as more and more patrons turned in his direction.

Sophie wasn’t a musical theatre fan. She didn’t know My Fair Lady from a hole in the ground.

But that had to be what he was singing. She could tell from the way he carried himself, the set of his shoulders, even the curve of his hand around the mic, that this was a song that was in his DNA.

Something that he hadn’t accessed in a long time.

He somehow looked younger, up there while he was singing a song about how everything he saw looked different, looked more magical, because he was walking down the street where his lover lived.

After what felt like a few moments but also eternity, the song was over. Tristan handed the mic back to Vince and threaded his way through the tables to scattered applause.

Back at the bar, Tony gave a low whistle. “Damn, dude.” He offered a fist bump, and Tristan reached across the bar to accommodate.

“Thanks, man.” Tristan’s blond hair was darker at the roots, damp with sweat, and he raked it back with one hand.

Likewise his face was flushed, his grin a little manic.

Wow, Jo had been right. This was a man who loved performing.

Even now that he was back at the bar, he stood a little straighter.

His smile that was always so easy was now effortless.

He was electric, he was magnetic. She wanted nothing more than to be in his orbit.

What a terrible turn of events. She couldn’t let herself think like that. Because they were still enemies. Her entire identity, the only thing that brought her joy, was staked on beating this effortlessly charming man at something they were both very, very good at.

She raised her glass moodily, but it was empty. Cider was gone.

Ugh.

She put her glass down as he turned to her, aiming that effortless, blinding smile in her direction. “Well?” The word was practically a laugh. “What’d you think?”

“Nice song.” She raised her empty glass in Tony’s direction. What the heck; she wasn’t driving anywhere. “A little creepy, though.”

“What?” He plopped onto his stool next to her, the wattage fading a little from his grin. “It’s not creepy. It’s romantic.”

“This guy just wants to hang around outside her door, hoping to catch a glimpse of her?” Sophie shook her head and reached for her second pineapple cider. “It sounds like stalking to me.”

Tristan gave a good-natured shrug. “It was a different time.” She snorted.

Their spot at the bar was near the door, and it seemed like every group that left had to stop by their corner to compliment Tristan on his singing.

Sophie kept a pleasant smile on her face, but she felt it dimming more and more as he racked up the praise.

People weren’t supposed to like him around here.

The last straw was when Vince dropped by during a break in the band’s set. “Great pipes, man!” He clapped Tristan on the shoulder.

“Thanks, I really appreciate that. Listen, I can’t wait to tell my mom that I met you. She’ll absolutely lose it. Veiled Threat was her favorite band in college.”

“No shit, really?” Vince lit up, the way he always lit up when people mentioned his past with Veiled Threat. “Hey, you know The Cold Spot, out past the fishing pier? That’s my place. Come by sometime for a beer. I know I’ve got some old CDs or something I can sign for her.”

“Oh, man, that would be great.”

Sophie wanted to groan out loud. Tristan had no idea. He couldn’t, of course. Vince didn’t invite just anyone to The Cold Spot. In fact, he usually went out of his way to make sure it was a locals-only place. Inviting Tristan there only meant one thing. He was becoming a local too.

This was the worst.