CHAPTER 2
Well, the band had been a mistake. Of course, Knightley had known it was a mistake weeks ago when Emma told him they were hiring an ’80s cover band instead of a DJ. But he had kept his mouth shut. He knew when to pick his battles.
It wasn’t that the band was bad. The exact opposite, actually. They kept the dance floor full the entire evening, with Emma and her sister in the middle of it all, swaying and singing and drinking almost as much champagne as Mrs. Pawloski, which was truly a feat.
Knightley took a sip of his whiskey. He was still in his dinner seat, where he had watched the carnage for the past few hours. Now it was midnight and the crowd had disappeared. Mr. Woodhouse had left first, volunteering to walk a drunken Mrs. Pawloski to her home three doors down, and then he’d disappeared inside his own house. Even Margo had long since abandoned the dance floor, choosing instead to watch the action from Ben’s lap. The only person left standing was Emma.
That’s when, as the band finished the final chords of their last song, the mistake about choosing them over a DJ became clear. Because DJs didn’t bring numerous microphones. And they didn’trequire a spotlight. Both of which were now in Emma’s sights as she stumbled onto the small stage and grabbed the microphone from the lead singer just as he was about to unplug it.
“Shhhhh… sorry,” she said, ignoring his confused expression and turning to point at her sister. “This one, this one… is for you, Mar.”
Oh Jesus.
“You always took care of me… now I… now I’m gonna sing our song for you!” she exclaimed as she rocked back and forth on unsteady feet.
Where the hell were her shoes?
Beside Knightley, Ben groaned as Margo squealed and then burst into tears, melting into her new husband as if champagne had somehow transformed this moment into something beautiful.
“You ready?” Emma asked the band behind her.
The guitarist looked at her dumbly, his instrument already in its case. “What?”
She nodded like that was her cue and began stumbling her way through Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’.” “Just a small-town girl! Something… something… la la ohhhh!”
Knightley tried to bite back his smile. After twenty-three years of continual attempts at singing in public, Emma was still awful. Regardless, Margo cheered her on between sobs.
“Just a city boy! Born and raised in… New York City!” she yelled, turning to point a finger at Knightley.
He met her gaze and found he couldn’t look away. Her previously styled updo was a disaster, with dark locks half up and the rest falling into her green eyes and heavily smudged eyeliner. The fitted bodice of her dress looked to be off-kilter too, and without the benefit of her heels, which had apparently been abandoned at some point during the evening, its hem was dragging on the ground.She was a mess, but a mess by Emma Woodhouse standards was still fucking gorgeous.
The thought landed awkwardly in his mind and sat there, refusing to budge.
He put down his whiskey glass and pushed it away from him. He’d had too much to drink.
After a few more painful notes, Knightley stood up and walked across the dance floor to the edge of the small stage. The corners of his mouth turned up slightly as she continued to belt out the lyrics to him, fumbling over the words.
“La la la… cheap perfume!”
“Honey,” the singer said behind her, unplugging the microphone to a deafening stop. “I think we have to call it. But that was… really great.”
“Wahooooooo!” Margo cheered, getting to her feet and almost immediately falling back into Ben’s lap.
“Let’s go, you,” Knightley said, holding out his hand to help Emma off the stage.
She glared down at his smirk, then looked to the singer as if he would somehow back her up, but the poor guy only looked equal parts exhausted and confused.
Emma pretended not to notice. She lifted her chin defiantly and started down the steps on her own, tripping slightly on her dress.
Knightley reached out to steady her, his fingers wrapping around her bare arm even as she tried to shake off his grip.
“Ugh, I’m fine,” she said, trying to right herself.
“Clearly.”
She got to the bottom of the steps and looked up at him. Her green eyes did a slow survey of his face, as if looking for some hidden flaw along his jaw, his lips, his cheeks. He didn’t look away. And he didn’t release her arm.
A long moment passed before she sighed, like her search had come up empty-handed.
