Page 16 of The Voice We Find

Dumbfounded, I shake my head. “It’s just, is that really what you were thinking while I was in the booth?”

His nod is hesitant, as if I’m trying to stump him with a riddle, but I’m the one who’s stumped at the moment.

“It’s just”—I try to clarify—“your face said something very different.”

“How so?” He scowls.

It takes me half a second to re-create the expression he wore, and to my shock, he has the decency to look ... self-conscious? He runs a hand from his eyebrows to his chin and releases a slow exhale. “Not to play the victim card here, but I have recently been diagnosed with RGF.”

“RGF?”

“Resting Grump Face.”

I press my lips together, refusing the laugh that tries to bubble up my throat at his unexpected confession. “Oh, well, I’m sorry to hear that. Is your condition reversible?”

“Only time will tell.”

He drops his gaze to the small space of floor between us, and I note his perfect fan of dark lashes. “My condition tends to worsen the more I concentrate. And today I was concentrating rather hard on the specific tones and layers that make up such a captivating voice.”

When he meets my gaze again, my knees go soft.

“Captivating?” I all but whisper.

He nods.

It’s such a simple response, and yet the significance of it is anything but.

He clears his throat and braces his forearm against the doorjamb. “Like I said, audiobook production isn’t my forte. It’s new for me, too. But artistry isn’t new for me; neither is talent. And you have both.”

Just as my smile melds into something real, Chip rounds the corner, then halts abruptly. We turn our heads, and I watch as he takes the two of us in: August leaning against the doorframe, gazing into my eyes as I peer up at him with a look that likely doesn’t qualify as professional.

August drops his arm and takes an immediate step back. I do the same.

Chip drags an assessing gaze from me to August. “I take it you told her we were impressed with her work?”

August avoids eye contact as he says, “I’ll have the demo ready for you to send off within the hour.”

“Great.” The awkward moment ticks on until Chip crosses the room to shake my hand. “I’ll be in touch soon, Sophie. I think Allie is really going to love what you’ve done with her characters. In the meantime, I’ll work on securing you a studio space to—”

“She can record here,” August says, sparing a glance in my direction. “That is, if she wants to.”

Surprise pebbles my skin, and it takes me a moment to find my voice. “I’d like that, thank you.”

Chip’s expression is one of excitement with an overlay of befuddlement. “Well, great! Then I’ll leave you and August to work out the schedule as soon as I get the green light from Allie. But one thing’s for sure, whether it’s this project or another, I want to get you contracted as a narrator for Fog Harbor Audio, Sophie. No doubt about it.”

The floaty feeling I experienced in August’s studio carried me through the night and into my eight-hour shift at the tasting room the following day. Saturday afternoons are typically the busiest shift of the week, considering we’re closed on Sundays—yet another stipulation of the Bentley trust. Even so, there’s rarely enough work for more than three employees at a time. One to plate the charcuterie boards in the kitchen, one to serve and bus tables, and another to work the tasting bar—a job I’ve yet to be scheduled for even though I grew up memorizing the tasting notes in each of our family wines the way most children memorize their capitals and states.

Along with serving the wine to our guests who pop in for an hour to sit on the patio or wander the property with a glass in hand before they’re off to their next stop, there are also walk-ins who range in number and purpose. Girls day out? Often. First dates? Absolutely. Celebrations for anniversaries, birthdays, graduations, job promotions? Regularly.

Today’s been a mixed bag of all of the above, and I find myself smiling and laughing and engaging in small talk with the patrons more than I have since I arrived. Some might guess my ease with customers comes from my years working in the food industry, but I know today’s mood has less to do with my experience and more to do with ...hope. It’s incredible how a small dose can have such a drastic affect on a person’s outlook, even if their immediate circumstances haven’t changed at all.

I slip my phone from my pocket and review the text thread August initiated this morning. I bite the inside of my check as I anticipate his next message.

August:

Hi, Sophie, this is August Tate. Sounds like Chip got the green light from Allie last night. Are you available to start recording next week? How much prep time do you need?

Hi, August! Yes, Chip sent me the full manuscript this morning. I can’t wait to read it! I plan to do nothing but read tonight and tomorrow. I can be ready as early as Monday, if you are? I’m free most mornings and afternoons. Thanks again for being so accommodating with your studio. I promise to leave Phantom at home during recordings. (Barring a natural disaster.)

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