Page 8 of Amelia and Her Prince Charming
“Yeah,” I said. “Just tired from traveling. I may have to head back to Shiloh’s parents’ house soon and go to bed if I’m going to be up for any wedding festivities.”
“Don’t leave before karaoke,” Gage said. “I’m singing Metallica tonight.” He headbanged as he played air guitar that had the guys all ribbing him, and him singing even louder. I loved these guys. They were all like brothers to me.
And that was part of the problem. The only men I ever hung out with treated me like a sister. And I only felt sisterly feelings toward them. Try as I might to be attracted to Bret or Gage—who were both handsome men—I didn’t feel a spark. Add to that the guilt I felt for being lonely and feeling ready for a new relationship? Well, it was easier to stay single. Even if I wished for Quinn to have a dad. And for me to have a partner again.
I’d read somewhere that people who had happy marriages were more likely to get married again after their spouse died. Shiloh and I had been very happy. Because of him, I knew love existed, and I missed it. But would everyone else think my desire to find someone again was in part because I’d loved Shiloh so much, or would it look like a betrayal?
Hudson and Quinn were walking back to the table, and when Hudson caught my gaze, he frowned. Discerning as always. Itried to wipe the troubling thoughts from my mind. We were here to enjoy a wedding and have a good time.
I could worry about everything else later.
Quinn sat in the empty seat next to Hudson, and he sat next to me. His arm brushed mine when he went to grab a slice of pizza, and my soul exhaled. Maybe I didn’t need a new relationship. I just needed Hudson to move back. He was my best friend, and with him, everything felt more settled.
I picked at my salad as Hudson and the guys talked about some of the weight-training they were doing to prepare for the season. Gage and Bret pulled some of the other guys from the team to chat about something, and Hudson leaned close to me, his voice low. “Is salad all they have here that’s gluten free?” he asked, concerned.
I nodded. “It’s fine. I’m used to it.”
His frown deepened, but before he could say anything, Rosie was standing on a chair near the bar, with a microphone up to her mouth. “Welcome, everyone, to Winterhaven and my wedding week.”
We all clapped and cheered, and the whole team started whistling.
“We all know that I like to keep things super low key—”
Someone coughed at that.
“But let me tell you the schedule so you don’t miss anything. Tonight is the pizza party welcome and karaoke.”
Karaoke?I mouthed to Hudson, and he nodded grimly.
“Tomorrow, we’re having a big barbecue in the Savage’s backyard. Bring your own meat and a side to share. Thursday, I convinced the movie theater to do a rom com marathon until midnight. Friday is the rehearsal, so if you’re not in the wedding party, you get a day off. And on Saturday, the wedding is at Main Street Park. Then Sunday, do whatever you want because I’ll beon my honeymoon cruise, and I better see none of you there or I will throw you overboard. Except Dylan.”
She handed the mic to Dylan.
“Thank you, everyone, for coming to our wedding. We love and appreciate all of you. Dinner is on us tonight, but after this you’re on your own.”
“All you can eat pizza!” Gage shouted. Everyone laughed.
Dylan went to hand the mic to Rosie but then pulled it back really quick. “And I’ll help Rosie throw you overboard if we see you on the cruise ship.” He looked hard at Rosie’s three brothers, who gave them fake-offended looks.
“And now,” Rosie said, drawing out the word now, “karaoke! First up is a duet by none other than Hudson and Ameliaaaaa!”
We looked at each other, and Hudson shrugged, the corner of his mouth pulled up into a half smile.
“Did you know about this?” I asked.
“I knew I was singing. Not the duet part.”
“What do you want to sing?” I asked him as we walked together toward the mic and screen. I tried not to think too much about how sticky the floor was under my bare feet.
“I think the song’s been chosen for us,” he murmured with a look that said we were both in this no matter what. Quinn was shuffling beside him, holding his hand in her buttery, greasy one. I was going to have to pry her away from him with a crowbar when it was time for bed.
As I was handed a mic, and Hudson another, the familiar strains of “Somebody to Love” started to play.
The key to karaoke is to not take it too seriously. The minute you start thinking you’re Mariah Carey (unless you’re Mariah Carey) it gets cringy to watch you. But you get up there like you’re Weird Al, and everyone loves it. A few bad dance moves, a willingness to ham it up for the crowd, and a semi-decent singing voice, and you’re a crowd favorite.
Luckily, Hudson knew the secret sauce too.
We sang to each other like we were delusional hopefuls trying out for American Idol. At one point, Hudson lifted Quinn onto his back and stomped around to the pulse of: Find me somebody to love. The rest of the restaurant joined in with us, singing along, and Quinn’s flushed cheeks and giggling made my heart feel like it was soaring. This was how a little girl should look—not like she had the cares of the world on her shoulder, but full of limitless and innocent joy.
