I shook my head, my gaze never leaving hers. “You should. Because it’s true. I’ve met a lot of girls, Michelle… but none who could steal the lyrics right out of my mouth with a look.”
Her lips twitched, like she was fighting the urge to smile. She thought I was only saying it to seduce her. I was. But the part about forgetting the lyrics? Totally true.
“So,” she said finally, “for real… what’s your type?”
“My type?” I repeated, buying time.
“Yes. Every guy has one. What’s yours?”
“Well…” I scratched the back of my neck. “It wasn’t until I got the Farrah Fawcett poster that I knew I was heterosexual.”
Her brows shot up, amused. “Farrah Fawcett? That’s your prototype?”
I shrugged. “I’ve always aimed high.”
“So then, you go for the blonde, bubbly, bikini-wearing beach bunny types?”
“Basically,” I said. “If she looks like she just wandered off a Pepsi commercial, I’m interested, but that”—I tucked a strand of her dark, shiny hair behind her ear—“doesn’t mean I discriminate against one-piece girls.”
“Shut your mouth.” She elbowed me. “This tan is bikini-earned. I just don’t advertise it.” She looked me over, then added, “Do you want to know what my type is?”
“If it’s not me, I don’t care.”
She gave it to me anyway. “Jake Ryan.”
“Who?”
Her mouth dropped open. “You can’t be serious. You don’t know who Jake Ryan is?”
I shook my head.
“The guy fromSixteen Candles?He’s only perfect in every way.”
Now I knew who she meant. I made a face. “That dude looks like he irons his jeans.”
“That’s a bad thing?”
“If that’s the type of guy you like, you’re sitting on the wrong roof.”
“And if Farrah is the type of girl you like, you’re flirting with the wrong girl.”
“Nah. I’m pretty sure I’ve got the right one.” I walked my fingers up her thigh.
Her eyes flicked to mine, and there was a clearhands offwarning. Message received. I pulled back.
“Had to check,” I said with a shrug.
Michelle didn’t seem to mind. Her fingers slid along my cheek before she turned away, hugged her knees to her chest, and stared out at the city lights in a thoughtful way I wasn’t used to. Then, almost like she surprised herself, she said, “You were… great tonight. Not sure if you know that. The way you connected with the crowd. You’ve got a good voice, but it’s more than that. You have this magnetic pull that makes people lean in and forget themselves for a minute.”
I blinked, thrown enough that I didn’t trust my voice. I didn’t get a lot of praise. Growing up, I was mostly underfoot, trying not to get trampled. Music was something I did because I loved it, not because I thought one day I’d see my name in lights. I didn’t need to be the best, just good enough to make people look twice. Onstage, for a few minutes, I wasn’t background noise. I was the one holding the microphone. And that was enough.
“You think so?” I asked.
She nodded. “And it’s not only me. You could see it in the reaction of the crowd.”
I met her gaze, letting the compliment settle. “I only started singing last year. We lost our front man, so I gave it a shot.”
“You’ve got that thing that can’t be taught,” she said. “Music has shaped my entire life. Perfect pitch set me apart in piano lessons, and my parents hired the best teachers money could buy. The goal was always to make me a world-class pianist. All that money, all that time—and still… when you sang, it felt like you were giving people something I never could. It’s connection, Scott. That’s a gift.”
