Page 16 of Someone to Have (Skylark #3)

“Like that ice bucket challenge?” I remember the viral fundraiser where celebrities and regular people had buckets of icy water dumped over their heads to raise money for ALS research.

Taylor laughs softly. “If only it were that easy. We each have to pick an activity that challenges us on a soul-deep level.”

“That sounds awful.” I mock shudder. “I try to only do things I know I’ll be good at. Other than looking after a teenage boy.”

“You’re doing okay,” she assures me, and I want to believe her.

“So your audition is not just about the play and Bryan Connor? You’re doing it because of a bucket list?”

“I want to get over my stage fright.” Her teeth snag on her bottom lip again.

I can’t help reaching across the table and touch my thumb to her mouth. “You’ve got to stop abusing this sweet lip, Tinkerbell. It’s killing me.”

We stare at each other for a long moment. Her pupils dilate, making her eyes look even larger than normal.

“I don’t think I can do it,” she whispers.

“You can. I told you I’d help, and I meant it.”

She pulls away and rolls her lips together. “I told my friends I hired a confidence coach.” Her cheeks flame at the admission.

Something that feels remarkably like purpose shoots through me at her words.

“Oh yeah.” I push back from the table and jab a fist in the air. “I’m going to rock this confidence coach game.”

She unwraps the brownie and shakes her head. “You certainly aren’t lacking confidence.”

“Like I said before sweetheart, trust me on this. You’ve come to the right place.”

“You came to me.”

I ignore that pesky fact as I pat myself on the chest. “I’m a man who knows confidence. I embody confidence.”

She sniffs, and it’s hard to tell whether she’s annoyed or amused by my certainty. Maybe both. “Other than where your nephew is concerned,” she points out .

Touché. “That’s why this deal is perfect. You’re helping me with Rhett, and I’m going to help you with everything else.”

She holds up a hand. “I don’t need help with everything .”

“Uh…yeah, you do.” I ignore the glare she shoots me.

“You’re going to knock ’em dead or break a leg or whatever the hell theater people do.

A bit of effort on my part, and you’ll be confident on the stage.

But I can give you more, Tink. You’ll be confident in every situation you encounter.

Every moment. Hell, I can make you confident in the bedroom. ”

She chokes on her brownie bite. “Whoa, there, Mr. Tinder. I didn’t ask you for bedroom coaching.”

“But you want that little pissant Bryan Connor to notice you, right?”

She grimaces. “I wouldn’t call him a pissant, but yes, I want him to notice me.”

“We can do that, too. I can do that.” Truth be told, I don’t want to do that part. But maybe—hopefully—if Taylor digs deep and gains some confidence, she’ll set her sights on a guy who isn’t such a limp-dick weasel.

She stands and takes the plate over to the sink to wash it. “Why are you so into this?”

“Because I’m a nice, confident guy.”

“Bullshit,” she says over her shoulder.

“She can swear. I like it.”

“Answer the question.”

I run a hand through my hair. Why am I so into this? There’s no doubt it’s getting me revved up, which is as much of a surprise to me as it apparently is to her.

“I’m a confident guy,” I repeat, then pause before revealing more of the truth. “I’m also a guy used to being in control and getting what I want. I skate. I do it well. I’m a fan favorite in the German league. But here...” I shrug. “I’m out of my depth, and I don’t like it.”

“So coaching me will help you pass the time until you go back to Germany.” She turns and places her hands behind her on the edge of the sink.

I know she’s not doing it on purpose, but she thrusts her chest forward.

“Jesus Christ, you’re not wearing a bra. How did I not notice that before now?”

She immediately hunches forward, cheeks flaming. “Why are you noticing now?”

“Because your nipples just stood up and waved at me.”

“Nobody’s waving,” she insists.

I have to turn away because I’m suddenly hard as a rock.

“You should put a bra on,” I say at the same time she mutters, “I’m going to put a bra on.”

She rushes past me toward the hallway that leads to her bedroom.

As soon as she’s out of view, I adjust myself in my jeans and give my cock one quick caress. Then mentally kick myself in the nuts. Now is not the time. At all.

I’m not going to lie and tell you I don’t think about my across-the-hall neighbor like that.

But she’s off limits. Her brother would kill me.

I made a promise to my sister. And Rhett likes her.

That part is most important. The part where I know that I’ll screw things up is also important.

Because Taylor is all about fairy tales and true love, and I’m not a fit for either of those.

I lower myself to the sofa, and she returns a couple of minutes later and takes a seat on the opposite end.

Smart girl. Her skin is flushed, and this time it’s not just her cheeks.

I can see the color spreading down her throat and disappearing under the collar of her shirt.

If I had to guess, I’d say I’m not the only one keeping the other in mind when I get busy with myself.

She sneaks a look at me, and I command my mind to stop thinking shit like that. If I don’t, I’m going to pop off like a teenager, which is almost too embarrassing to believe. Besides, Taylor probably thinks about floppy-haired Bryan Connor when she’s alone with her hand between her legs.

Shit. Do not think about her like that. It’s both arousing and irritating as hell.

Apparently, there are two areas of my life where I’m not resoundingly confident: my ability to look after my nephew, and knowing if Tinkerbell wants me like I want her.

The second is destined to remain a mystery. Off. Limits.

“What’s the strategy here?” I ask as I hand her the playbook, trying to keep my tone all business.

“We have to do one monologue and a song. Bryan wrote the play, so he’s keeping the details under wraps until auditions are over. It’s not a musical, but there are a couple of songs the cast will perform so–”

“Sing something for me.”

“No.” She looks horrified at the idea.

“I’m your confidence coach. Singing for me will give you confidence for the audition. Imagine you’re on the ice.”

She frowns as if I’ve just told her to stand on her head. “Auditioning for a play is nothing like being on the ice.”

“Hell, yeah, it is. You’re giving it your all and showing your opponent no mercy.”

“I don’t have an opponent .” She looks scandalized, which is hilarious. “I probably know most of the people trying out. They could become my castmates.”

“Sure, sure. After tryouts, you’ll be on the same team, just like in hockey. They’ll have your back. But when you’re auditioning, every other person there is the enemy. You’re Mel Gibson with his face painted blue, giving a speech up on that horse.”

“I am not Mel Gibson.”

“John Wick?”

“Hard pass.”

“Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ear,” I bellow in a pretty good Scottish accent, if I do say so myself.

“Uh…” She shakes her head. “That’s not from Braveheart or any of the John Wick movies. You’re mixing it up. You’re mixing me up.”

“You feel less nervous than you did ten seconds ago,” I point out.

She pauses, opens her mouth to argue, then makes a face. “You’re annoying.”

“Exactly what part of me?” I tap a finger against my chin and pretend to consider the options. “My confidence? The fact that I’m always right? Extremely good-looking? Uber talented? Basically a god walking among men?”

“I hate you right now.”

“I can deal with that. Channel your hate, and let’s hear you sing.”

She closes her eyes, balls her hands into fists, and is quiet for so long I’m about to lay into her again.

Smack talk is my specialty on the ice, both to fire up my teammates and get in the heads of our opponents.

The words I use with Taylor or Rhett involve less swearing, but I’m hoping I can irritate her enough that she’ll just?—

My thoughts brake so fast I can almost hear tires screeching in my brain as the first notes of a popular Adele song roll off her tongue. Only roll is the wrong word.

They float in the air like champagne bubbles or some kind of magical fairy dust. Her voice, a clear soprano, washes over me as she sings about regrets, and looking through a window at the other side.

She hits the chorus, and I’m not sure if her voice gets louder or if the depth of it fills the room.

It feels like everything, including her, is shimmering.

Like she’s a goddamn diamond sparkling in the sunlight.

I stare at her, slack-jawed. As she finishes the final note, her eyes blink open, and goosebumps trail down my arms.

“I told you I was okay,” she says, her hands twisted in front of her, staring at the floor like she hasn’t just shattered and rebuilt every inch of me with her voice.

“Fucking hell,” I shout. “That’s like saying fucking Gretzky was okay at skating. If Bryan Connor doesn’t beg you to be the lead, he’s a fucking idiot.”

She winces. “Why are you yelling at me?”

“Why haven’t you shared this—that—your talent—with the world?” My voice is still too loud, but…damn…this woman has a gift, and it’s like she doesn’t even realize it.

“Pretty sure we covered this—stage fright.”

“Does your family know you can sing like this?”

“They’ve heard me sing. We have birthday parties and whatnot.”

“People would pay to hear you sing ‘Happy Birthday’. Good money, Tinkerbell.”

She crosses her arms over her chest. “That’s just your opinion. You don’t know.”

How can she not know? How can she perform magic and then look so uncertain?

“I do know. It’s a fucking fact, like gravity. I don’t understand why you don’t look more confident, but we’re going to change that. Because you are going to get the fucking lead in this fucking production.”

“Stop saying the f-word,” she orders. “This isn’t a hockey rink.”

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, a slight nervous gesture that makes me want to cross the room and?—

God, I need to get it together.

I pick up the playbook and put it down again when I realize my hands are trembling, both from how overwhelmed and turned on I feel after listening to her.

An image pops into my head of Taylor with her dark hair spread across a pillow, sheets tangled under those beautiful breasts, sunlight dappled across her face on a lazy Sunday morning as she serenades me between rounds of lovemaking. Talk about taking me to church .

“We’re going to do this,” I tell her, pointing at the playbook even as I stare into her guileless eyes. “We’re going to get you the part, the guy, and the confidence you should have had all along.”

For a brief, terrifying moment, I think she might cry. I can’t take her tears.

“I believe you,” she whispers, and those three words mean more than I can say.

I’m a man who’s used to striving, training, and winning. While I don’t regret putting my life on hold to take care of Rhett, it’s thrown my whole identity into chaos. But it doesn’t need to be chaos, I realize. I just need to shift focus. This break from the everyday is just another kind of season.

I’m going to get my nephew on track, make sure my sister stays well, and help Tinkerbell meet her goals.

When each of those things are done, I’ll return to my life in Germany—without regrets.

Even if, from where I’m sitting in this small apartment in this small Colorado town, this life feels more real to me than the one I’m used to living.