Page 26 of Total Dreamboat

“Understandable. Have you talked to him?”

“I hid in the bathroom and texted him to try to explain, but it fell kind of flat. And when we got back I asked him to hang out and he said he was busy all day.”

“Shit,” she says.

“Yeah. Feels not good.”

“Well, it’s not your fault your ex showed up. And not to be harsh, but you don’t owe Felix anything. You just met.”

“I know. But I understand him being taken aback. I mean, what he saw looked pretty intense. If I had seen him doing that with an ex after last night, I’d have been upset too. I don’t want to hurt him.”

“Well, you just need to talk to him. And he can’t exactly avoid you forever. He lives three doors away.”

“I guess I could do a stakeout.”

“No ma’am. What you need is a girls’ night.”

This sounds incredibly soothing. “Yes, please,” I say.

“Let’s go to the tapas place before we hit karaoke.”

We get dressed up. She wears a low-cut, backless, taupe silk dress that only a woman with more clavicles than breasts can pull off.

I choose a wide-legged jumpsuit and cinch it at the waist with a narrow vintage belt.

I’m pleased when Lauren pronounces it sexy and doesn’t even try to make me change.

She downloads me on all her suitors at dinner. Her eyes light up in an unfamiliar way when she gets to Colin, the distiller.

“I think I actually like him. And you’ll be pleased to learn he’s only forty-six.”

“Spring chicken.”

“Oh, come on. He meets the age-gap rule!”

“What’s the age-gap rule?”

“Half your age plus seven. So if he’s forty-eight, the youngest he can date is…” She performs a mental calculation, then smiles triumphantly. “Thirty-one.”

“You’re thirty,” I remind her.

“Rounding error.”

“Well I’m glad you hit it off.”

Usually the men she meets on her “missions” are more for content than real romantic interest.

She waggles her eyebrows. “He booked a private sailing trip for us tomorrow in St. Thomas.”

“That sounds lovely. Even if it means I’ll be snorkeling alone.”

She gives me a look like I’m an utter dunderhead. “Um, no. Invite Felix. Get out your phone and do it right now.”

“What if he rejects me?”

“Then you had really good cruise sex with someone you’ll never see again like the plan and not worry about it.”

I don’t believe this is possible, but I obey her.

Hope: Hi again. I was wondering if you have plans tomorrow? I’m doing the catamaran snorkeling trip. Want to come?

He doesn’t reply.

“Well, I asked. We’ll see.”

“He’s probably at dinner. Don’t worry.”

We finish eating, taking our time to linger over an absolutely delicious passionfruit flan, and then head to karaoke. We arrive right on time, but there’s already an elderly crowd assembled.

“I bet we’re in for a lot of Frank Sinatra,” Lauren says.

“Good evening, ladies,” a very upbeat gentleman I recognize as a singer from the Broadway revue says to us.

“Hi there,” Lauren says.

“The song library is here,” he says, handing me an iPad. “Be sure to sign up with me as soon as you look. It’s a full house and slots are filling up fast.”

“Will do. Thanks,” I say.

We look through the selections. Lauren chooses “Heartbreaker” by Pat Benatar.

“I’m going to dedicate it to Colin,” she says. “He’ll eat it up.”

“He’s coming?” I ask. I’m a little disappointed to have company on our girls’ night.

“Yeah, I want you to meet him again!” she says. “I need a second opinion.”

“That I can provide.”

I check to make sure they have my go-to karaoke song. They do.

We walk back to the sign-up guy.

“Can I do ‘Wuthering Heights’ by Kate Bush, please,” I ask.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he says. “I’m afraid that one is already taken.”

This is inconceivable. Who other than me would choose a niche art pop song inspired by a nineteenth-century novel, let alone one with that much falsetto?

“Who took it?” I ask.

He points to the front of the room, near the stage. “That gentleman.”

I follow the line of his finger to none other than Felix Segrave.

“Oh my actual God,” Lauren says. “This is some fated mates shit.”

“Should I talk to him?” I ask.

“Duh.”

I walk over to where he’s standing. He’s in conversation with Pear and doesn’t see me coming until I tap him on the shoulder.

His face goes tentative.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey,” he says back.

It’s a little stilted, but he doesn’t pull away.

“Can we talk later?” I ask.

“Sure,” he says. “After I bring down the house.”

“Uh, so, about that. I’m afraid you stole my karaoke song.”

“Pardon?” he asks.

“‘Wuthering Heights’ is my signature number. I’m going to need to politely ask for it back.”

His face pulls into the wry smile I love. “No can do. It’s also my signature number.”

“No way. Men cannot hit those notes.”

“Felix can,” Pear says. “It’s uncanny.”

I cross my arms. “Not fair. I slay with that song. And I’m the Bronte superfan.”

He tsks at me. “You forget the Brontes turned me into the nascent scholar of English literature I am today.”

“You well-read devil .”

“I’ll tell you what,” he says, “because I’m a compassionate soul, I’ll allow you to do a duet with me.” He pauses and looks at me severely. “If you promise you can hit the notes, that is.”

“Oh, I can demolish the notes.”

He offers me his hand. “We have an agreement, Miss Lanover.”

I squeeze it.

And I don’t care about the song. All I care about is the fact that he squeezes back.