I nod and take a deep inhale, smelling the whiskey, the fire, and something spicy, sexy.
Miles.
“Want to talk about it?”
“Nope.” I hum with Paul Simon’s hums in the song, unable not to.
Miles smiles and scoots forward on the couch. “Are you a singer too?”
I laugh. “Only on karaoke nights at the Thistle, and lately not even at those.”
“They have karaoke nights there?”
“They do. Once a month, then randomly if it's one of the old blotters’ birthdays or something.”
“Who would have thought? What’s your song?” He holds up a hand and stands. “Wait, don’t tell me. I can guess.” Miles sips his whiskey, his eyes searching the ceiling for my song. “‘Satisfaction.’”
“It’s actually called “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction,” and no.”
“‘Paint it Black.’”
I shake my head.
He paces for a couple of minutes. Then he pauses to ask, “Is it a Stones song?”
“No.” I smile. He’s turned this into a game of twenty questions. I take another sip of whiskey, the amber liquid warming my belly, the fire warming my face, and Miles warming my heart. Whoa—this is fun, but that’s a bit far. Save it for the pages!
Miles snaps his fingers. “‘Blitzkrieg Bop.’”
“I’m not a masochist.”
“What? That’s a good song.” Miles looks adorably confused, and I bite my lip, wanting to feel some pressure on them.
“A great song. But too fast for karaoke, too hard. Actually, come to think of it, the song I usually choose—well, when I used to sing—is kind of hard too, but for different reasons. Maybe Iama masochist. But really, I haven’t sung in years.”
“Years? Why?”
I shrug, and he quickly shifts back to his guessing game.
“‘Welcome to the Jungle.’”
“No.”
“‘Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard.’”
I shake my head and sip more whiskey. A small smirk tickles my lips. These are great guesses, but he’ll never get it.
“Oh!” Miles puts a hand to his forehead. “What is that Pogues song? ‘The Sick Bed of’…ahh, somebody. You know the one I’m talking about?”
“Ahh, I see. Since I’mScottish,I sing The Pogues, who were Irish and Londoners.”
“I didn’t mean…”
My straight face breaks, and I laugh.
“I’m joking. Although it is offensive. But my mom knew Shane. He sang at the Thistle House once, completely blotto. Sometimes around Christmas, I’ll sing “Fairytale of New York” but it’s not my go-to song.”
Miles throws himself back on the couch and sighs. “I need a hint.”
