Page 63 of The Voice We Find

The instant his gaze finds mine, I feel it bubble up inside me all over again: the hope, the want, the desperation. He gives me a nod, and instinctively, I interpret his unasked question.

And then, August begins to read into his two-way mic.

“‘You ever wonder why the most iconic representatives for love during the romance holidays could star in aTrue Crimesplot?’” August asks in a voice that is both a hundred percent him and a hundred percent the sarcastic groomsman he’s reading for.

“‘Are you trying to get on my nerves, Blake? If so, it’s working. I don’t have time for your cynical trivia today,’” I say with the impatient tone of Noelle Barnes, the renowned wedding coordinator who must rely on her best friend’s kid brother after she returns to her hometown, tasked with coordinating her most extravagant Christmas Eve wedding yet. “‘But I would very much appreciate if you would apply all that mental energy of yours to the task at hand. Our bride’s mother will be here in less than an hour to approve whatI’ve done here, and there are still at least a dozen mistletoe left to hang in the reception hall.’”

Blake—August—replies with perfect timing. “‘Think about it, Noelle. Cupid carries a weapon that would be borderline illegal in most states, and mistletoe is poisonous when ingested ... so tell me why anybody would want these things on display during a wedding ceremony? You should be more concerned about this.’”

“‘What I’m concerned about,’” I say tersely, “‘is creating the kissable environment my paying bride and groom have requested for their reception hall.’”

August waits a beat, then two, and when I glance up from the iPad to catch his eye through the window, he reads, “‘If any man needs the permission of a dead, poisonous shrub to kiss the woman he loves, he shouldn’t be allowed to marry her in the first place.’”

“‘It’s not about permission, Blake,’” I—I mean my character says a bit shakily. “‘It’s about the romance.’”

“‘No, it’s about canned commercialism. Romance is spontaneous and desperate and all-consuming. It simultaneously hollows you out and fills you up. And it always,alwaysleaves you wanting more. Another glance. Another touch. Another chance to share the same time and space with the one person you can’t seem to live without no matter how much you’ve tried.’”

Though I’ve heard Elliot deliver these same lines at least three times now, none of them have been spoken with this much conviction. None of them have caused my stomach to clench and somersault. None of them have been anywhere close to this ...believable.

August holds my gaze through the glass, and I wish for the thousandth time since that night on the beach that I could break through this barrier and pretend that kissing him wouldn’t be the most reckless thing I could do. August has lost too much for me to suggest something casual between us. Three months isn’t long enough for what I know I could feel for him. For what I feel for him even now.

And by the avalanche that crumbles inside my chest every time he looks at me, I know he must feel it, too.

This wordless exchange rebels against the careful boundarieswe’ve been operating in for weeks. Since the moment I placed that saltwater taffy in the palm of his hand, the two of us have remained in an emotional quarantine.

The sound of Elliot kicking back his recording stool nearly jolts me from my own, and I watch August’s shoulders stiffen and tense.

“I don’t know what’s going on here”—Elliot looks between the two of us—“but I have three other productions waiting on me to respond. I’m not about to waste my time or my talent where it’s not appreciated.”

Before either of us can think to argue, Elliot has yanked the booth door open and is marching through the studio toward the exit. At the hard slam of the door, the walls shudder, causing one of August’s framed awards to crash to the floor.

When he makes no effort to go after the guy, I watch and wait for the consequences of Elliot’s desertion to fully register on August’s face.

And . . . there it is.

This isn’t good. We’re already behind schedule. And based on the way August has yet to give me a straight answer regarding the music he’s supposed to be composing for the project, we’re likely further behind than I even realize.

I step into the hallway and round the corner to where August hunches over his soundboard, head in his hands, fingers threaded through his butterscotch waves. I drink in the sight of him. And then I chastise myself for doing so.

Put him first, Sophie. This isn’t about you or your feelings.

“I’m going to have to call Chip,” he confesses in a volume that tells me he’s tracked my presence. “He’ll need to send over a replacement ASAP or...”

Or we won’t make the October 1st deadline.

I narrow my eyes in thought. If I was a casting director for this project, I wouldn’t want another professional like Elliot. Not after hearing what this scene could sound like; not after hearing August read it. An idea forms quickly, snapping together like a 3-D puzzle in my mind.

“What if we already have a replacement?”

He lifts his head and gives me a side-eye that makes me want to reach out and tame his crazy surfer hair. I restrain myself.

“You could do it,” I say easily.

He laughs without humor. “No way.”

“Yesway. You have a great speaking voice, and your delivery was a thousand times stronger than Elliot’s.” I push what looks to be two manuals about the science of sound to the back of his desk and then plop myself down across from him. His gaze drifts to my crossed legs before he leans back in his chair and presses the heels of his hands into his eye sockets.

“That’s not exactly a compliment. I’ve had better chemistry with a block of cheese than what was happening between the two of you in that booth.”

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