Page 32 of At First Smile
Unfolding Cane Austen, I stride – head high – towards the stage. Harley reaches out his hand and helps me up the small step to the stage.
“You’re an asshole,” I say through a tight smile.
Hand covering the mic, he murmurs, “I’m very self-aware. Plus, I never had a shot with you anyways, but maybe this will make tall, broody, and handsome over there jealous enough to make his move.”
My eyes widen.
“My aunt loves playing matchmaker with the guests, and I help her from time-to-time. Let’s make Whitney Houston proud and that man salivate.”
“She should call yousneakyEd Sheeran instead of sexy.” Laughing, I position myself in front of the mic.
He lets out a hissed groan, “Ugh, she didn’t call me that, did she?”
Flashing a sassy smirk, my fingers wrap around the mic’s smooth handle. I glance around the bar. Snatches of murmured conversation interrupt the quiet expectation of waiting patrons, their faces blurred in the distance and obscured in the room’s dim light.
My gaze drags toward Rowan, his hands flat on the table and eyes on me. I can’t see them, but I feel their heat scoring into me. “This is for Rowan,” I murmur with Harley’s slow strum of the first notes of “I Wanna Dance with Somebody”.
My stare remains tethered to Rowan. Fire blazes along my skin with the charged space between us. Each word is sung only for him. In a slow dance, my body moves in cadence with Harley’s languid guitar melody.
I yearn for Rowan’s rough hands on my hips guiding me in a gentle sway, his front pressed against my back and hot breath promising kisses below the shell of my ear as I sing. Those hands roaming over my dress’s soft material and letting the entireroom know that while I sing about wanting someone to dance with,he’sthatsomeone.
With the last note, the room erupts in claps and whistles, piercing the heady sensation that glazed over me as I sang. A small smile, a little bashful, covers my features. Taking a quick bow, I turn and offer Harley a brief hug.
“Magnificent. I think you got him. Bruiser over there looks like he’s either going to carry you off to his room or punch me,” he whispers in my ear.
“Bruiser?” I guffaw and pull away.
He just laughs like it’s the funniest thing I could have said. “If he doesn’t make his move tonight, I will,” he purrs, helping me off the stage.
“Even if he doesn’t, you’re not my type. I prefer men who don’t play games,” I say saucily and stride away with Cane Austen.
“Unless the game is hockey,” he drawls and turns to the mic.
I stop and look over my shoulder at him, my face scrunched.
He just smirks. “Pen Meadows, ladies and gentlemen. Give her another round of applause as she walks away having stolenallour hearts,” he calls out. “Now, grab that someone you want to dance with.” Harley strums “Galway Girl” and cements his Michigan Ed Sheeran status.
Asshole.Harley is brash and cocky. While I’d never date a man like him, I find him strangely endearing in the most obnoxious way.
Back at the table, I fold Cane Austen and take my seat. A filled champagne flute greets me. Lola must have dropped off that second round she’d promised, while I was singing.
“You were fucking stunning,” Rowan rasps, his Irish lilt rough and heavy.
“Th—th—thank you.” I stammer my words.
I lift the champagne flute and take a long drag. The fizzy sweetness steadies me.
“Pen,” he starts, but stops.
His head tilts as if considering something. With a quiet mumble of something that I can’t make out, Rowan slips his cap off and places it on the table. Those light eyes flash bright in the room’s dim glow as if they could illuminate the path forward.
He stands and puts out his hand. “Dance with me… Please.”
It’s part hopeful question and pleading command.
“Absolutely,” I take his hand.
Leaving Cane Austen folded beneath my chair, I allow Rowan to guide me to the center of the small open space in front of the stage. Couples and small groups mingle, twisting and turning to the song’s lively rhythm. Harley’s voice echoes, but all I can hear is the booming thrum of my pulse. Rowan holds one hand in his and the other firmly on my waist, and then he pulls me in close and then spins me away. My head tips back with unabashed giggles. He’s a terrible dancer. His movements stiff and a little off-beat but utterly adorable. Still my heart soars as he twirls me into his arms, out, and back again.
