Page 49 of Not My Little Drummer Boy
When I next glance at my watch, it’s well past six, but no one’s turned up to kick us out of the ballroom. Teddy ducks back to the rehearsal room to grab a sampling bar—he wants to record us so he can layer the backing drum later.
While he’s gone, I pull up the Bowie and Bing clip again, watching more closely this time, scanning for any small nuance I might fold into the vocals. I’m not about to let Teddy down; not after he put this much faith in me.
He’s right; my voiceisquite good. Good enough, at least, for my hometown BFF Jenna and me to win Cluanie Pop Idol when we were thirteen. But aside from belting out car radio songs in traffic, I haven’t really sung in years.
By the final run-through, I relax into it. When he plays the recording back, a warm, satisfied swell of pride settles in my chest.
“It’s really good, Rachel.”
“You think so?” I try not to sound too desperate for the praise, but I am. Just a little.
“I know so.” He taps my nose with a finger, playful and soft. That spark of pride glows a little brighter at the way he looks at me, like I’ve surprised him in the best possible way.
“Right, I’ll go back and work with that tenor drum now, then it’s done.”
He peels off toward the rehearsal room, and I head to the dining room.
Tonight, Tommy’s laid out a buffet for us to help ourselves. I’m starving after all that singing, but not in the mood for company. I load up a plate, make a few vague excuses, and retreat to my room.
I find a Christmas playlist, set it playing low, and open my laptop to catch up on the day’s work.
The clock shows 9:40 as I’m rereading my final email—a response to a very tricky client—making sure I cc Miranda, keeping the boss in the loop, and reminding her (again) why I’m the obvious choice for the vacant partner’s seat.
There’s a tentative knock at the door.
I hesitate, hit send, and call out, “Come in.”
Teddy steps in, curls as unruly as ever, eyes still bright with leftover adrenaline. There’s a faint flush in his cheeks, and his fingers tighten briefly on the doorknob before he lets it go. A small tell. Nerves, maybe.
He’s only wearing a T-shirt, the clingy fabric skimming over a surprisingly solid chest and sleeves pushed just enough to reveal those strong forearms—copper hair catching in the lamplight like fine wire.
“Thought you might want to hear the backing track.” He tosses his phone to me, casual but precise. I catch it, thumbs clumsy on the screen, and hit play.
The track is spare. Understated for a rock drummer like Teddy. Just the tenor drum, low and rhythmic, with a soft, heartbeat-like pulse underneath. Intentional. Measured. It sounds like it was built to hold space for someone else.
“It’s great,” I say, handing it back. “Now I just have to hope I don’t fuck it up.”
“You won’t,” he says, and then leans in and gently lifts my glasses off. It’s not dramatic. He just does it like he’s done it before, setting them down carefully on the bedside table and taking a seat on the bed beside me.
A pause. His eyes trace over mine, steady and quiet, like he’s learning the shape of this moment.
“Did the other girls hate you? In high school?”
“Some of them,” I admit. “Why?”
“Because you’re so damn good at everything you do. Because you’re clever and gorgeous and somehow always know exactly who you are.”
I huff out a laugh. “I don’t know about that. Lately I’ve felt anything but sure of myself.”
“They’re idiots.”
“Who? The other girls?”
“No,” he says, quieter now. “All the guys who had a chance with you and let it go. Or never saw what was in front of them in the first place.”
His hand settles on mine, light and steady, like he’s making a promise without saying a word. “But I’m not one of them. Not if you’ll give me a chance.”
“A chance?”
