Page 4

Three

“Wow.” Doug blinks those incredibly long lashes.

Huh . The man did not lie about his looks. Maybe Rosalie is wrong and my HeartLink app will turn out to be helpful after all.

“ Karaoke . That’s one way to go,” he says, his brows furrowing.

7:59 p.m. adrenaline rush—I’m not even stressing about my semi-okay shower voice.

“It might be fun. Have you ever done it?” I say, turning from Doug to peer at the man murdering the Billy Joel song right before our eyes. At least he looks as though he’s having fun. And at least Billy isn’t here to witness the dumpster fire his song has become.

“Uh, no. I don’t really sing.”

I shrug one shoulder and grin at cutie Doug because HeartLink and I may have worked some magic this time. I like this one. And my remake plans are on point tonight.

“Me either,” I say. “Should we try something new together? ”

I know it’s cheesy. But it’s also romantic. How many romance movies have a karaoke scene? Plenty. And they all get their happily ever after in the end.

“I guess,” he says, that furrowed brow smoothing out. “Why not?”

Wow. Doug is making this one easy on me. I swear, he even has a “Troy” from High School Musical glow about him. It’s those extra-long eyelashes.

Okay—Rosalie would scold me for that “Troy” thought. But his eyelashes are something special.

“Let me talk to the DJ.” I stand from our small round table in this karaoke bar, giddiness rising in my chest. I walk to the front, where our brave, off-key friend is finishing “Piano Man”.

Before I can ask any questions, the guy running the sound system hands me an iPad.

I follow the directions, signing mine and Doug’s names, and then search for our song— the song.

Fran Fairchild does not do something halfway.

Nope, I am a girl who goes all in. So, it’s a good thing “The Start of Something New,” the exact High School Musical karaoke song I’m looking for, is listed as an option.

Okay , I may have called ahead of time to make sure that this particular karaoke system had that song.

And yes—I get it, it’s a movie for tweens.

But hey, still a romance. One I very much like.

I get raised brows from the DJ as I hand him back the iPad. “Really?” he says.

“Yes,” I answer with a smile—because he’s not going to discourage my romcom remake. “ Really .”

What my cynical DJ friend doesn’t know is that I seriously considered taking Doug to the Potter’s Wheel—cue that old 90s film Ghost and the sexy fingers through the clay scene.

Doug is very cute… But this is a first date.

And while he seems nice, I have no idea if he’s anti-brunette like Lance.

Which is why we will not be sliding our fingers through clay as we share a single potter’s wheel. At least not today.

Besides, nothing throws two strangers together like making fools of themselves on stage. Or maybe it’s nothing throws two people together like making musical magic on stage. I’m pretty sure Troy and Gabriella did not make fools of themselves.

Crap . Do I have time for a singing lesson?

I peer back at Doug sitting at our table, waiting for me to return.

Yeah, no time for lessons.

But then… in My Best Friend’s Wedding , Kimmy most definitely didn’t have singing lessons. She still ends up with the guy.

Some—like Professor Ellington—may call me crazy, but I truly believe in the romcom.

To. My. Core.

Happily ever after may not have been a reality in my home, but it is a possibility in life.

The Hunters were proof of that. My childhood friend’s parents were the first to show me that love, romance, and happiness in marriage can be a reality.

It is a possibility in the world we live in, despite the current divorce rate.

The fact is, love is a true prospect. It’s an offering on the table, one I will be taking.

Right now. Right here. On this very stage.

With Doug.

“You’re up,” my DJ friend says.

I wave Doug onto the stage. He has a little perspiration building on his forehead. That’s okay—he’s going to get through this with me by his side .

See? Support and nurture. Things are already working out.

The words string across the monitor in front of us, and when Doug doesn’t start right away, I lay my hand on his upper arm and sing his part of the duet. I keep my voice low and encouraging, helping the man along.

Wouldn’t I be the best girlfriend?

He smiles at me—it’s a nice smile, and if I could check the time and make a note of the happenings inside of my body, I would.

Halfway through the first verse, Doug joins me.

After a couple words, I filter out and let him continue.

His voice grows louder, sweeter, even tender.

It turns out that Doug should be singing all of the time!

He is a regular Josh Groban. He’s killing it.

And he’s just as surprised by his talent as I am.

His smile grows wider as he belts out the last words of Troy’s verse.

My turn.

My heart patters and my adrenaline rushes—in the best of ways.

So… I’m not Josh Groban or any kind of vocalist. I’m mediocre at best. But that doesn’t matter. We are experiencing this moment together.

My voice grows until I’m singing as loud and as jubilant as Doug. It’s glorious until… suddenly, Doug gives me the kill sign. His finger slides across the throat over and over again.

Why is he doing that?

Is he telling me he’s going to kill me? Or just to be quiet? Either way— rude .

I peer out at the audience. Are they seeing what I’m seeing? I don’t stop, though—it’s my part, and man , I love this song .

The chorus with both of our voices swells, and Doug’s signals increase.

I keep singing and focus my gaze on the very back of the room and not on the kill signal happening directly next to me.

A group of guys sit around one long table back there.

They are the only ones in this bar paying attention to me and Josh Douglas Groban.

One man with short brown hair and a sweet jawline slumps in his chair.

He watches me with a crooked grin on his lips.

When Doug shushes me with yet another kill sign, the man laughs.

I blink, looking from Doug, the superstar, back to the amused man, his eyes still glued to me, his hand around a glass filled to the brim. His eyes crease as if sleepy, though that grin says he is clearly entertained.

I’m unsure if that look is a compliment or a roast. But then, I am a hopeless romantic. So, I’m going to choose that this song and our voices put a grin on that tired man’s face.

The chorus winds down. There isn’t another verse to sing, but Doug and I stand on stage, listening to the instrumental ending of the song. It’s possible this isn’t a match made in heaven. But it wasn’t horrible. And I still lived out my remake.

“That was… interesting .” Doug’s brows furrow. We’re still on stage, and he’s studying me as if this song were an experiment and I am the subject.

“Yeah. You’re excellent. Talk about self-discovery. Huh?” I lock my gaze on Doug’s. Maybe I misread that whole finger-across-the-throat action. Maybe he’s Scandinavian or Turkish, or from some other culture I know nothing about, and that action means something completely different there.

Doug’s nose wrinkles, and he shoves both hands into his pockets. “You aren’t very good, are you? ”

“ Whoa .” I blink, replaying his tone in my head. I shake off my offense and explain. “Plenty of romances begin with a shaky song—the thing is, it doesn’t have to matter. Because it’s more about the experience we’re shar?—”

“I have to be honest, Fran. Singing is not your skill.” He shakes his head. Dumb Doug isn’t listening to a single word I’m saying. “You really shouldn’t do this again. Ever .”

He’s starting to annoy me. A lot. He’s completely judging my mediocre shower voice like he’s Simon Cowell.

So, I throw some judgment right back. “Well, you’re no Josh Groban , buddy.” Gah ! It’s the worst comeback ever—because the man is some kind of Josh. We both know it. Dumb Doug has the voice of an angel. How did he never realize it before?

Doug drops his jaw in offense at my retort. While it may be a lie, it is having the desired effect.

“What?” I spout. “You can be honest with me, but I’m not allowed?”

I should be nicer. I should be trying to make amends. But I’m tired. After Lance the brunettist, fifteen hours at the diner, and a full week of college studies, I’m just… tired.

“This date is over,” touchy Doug snaps. “Never to be repeated.”

“Oh, it’ll be repeated. Just not with you!” I smirk—it’s the exhaustion. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself. “And I’m paying for my own drinks.” I’m not sure I’m really sticking it to the man with that one, but I’ve said it, and I’m rolling with it.

“That’s big of you,” Doug says. It’s when that buh sound from “big” reverberates off the microphone in front of him that I realize our conversation has been on display for the entire bar .

I swivel my head, gazing out at the crowd. The crowd who, minutes ago, paid us very little attention—besides sleepy Mr. Smiles in the back. Now, they’re all looking our way.

And silent.

I rack my brain for a scene from a movie—any scene—to help me turn this night around. But my hard drive of romcoms is failing me at the moment.

My mouth goes dry, and a cold sweat breaks out over my skin. It takes a lot to embarrass me. And I once met a date on Lake Tesoro for a boat ride to recreate the Titanic bow scene with a man I’d known less than a month. It did not go well. But at least Jedd didn’t make me feel two inches tall.

Doug gave me the kill sign. Which apparently means the exact same thing in America as it does in Turkey and Scandinavia. Yep, Doug told me I sucked. Doug basically asked me to pay my own way as we wrap up this not-so-great date. And he did it in a microphone, in front of a crowd.

Thanks, Doug.