He laughs again. I pivot to face him. He’s moved to the stool next to mine, and luckily, he looks more amused than offended. Angling his body toward me, he dips his head closer. My head swims with the scent of fresh laundry and Dove soap.
“Culinary school, huh?” Up close, I notice his eyes are the color of milk chocolate. His skin is lightly tanned, and a few tufts of glossy brown hair have slipped out beneath his hat.Wow. He has got to be the most attractive human I’ve ever seen up close. I’m full-on, creep-mode staring now, but I can’t tear my eyes away.
“That’s impressive. I can barely make ramen.” His vowels spill out languidly, and I wonder fleetingly where he’s from. Definitely not New York. His knee grazes my leg and I intake a sharp breath, attempting to ignore what feels like a troupe of acrobats performing backflips in my stomach.
“Taylor! This one’s on me, man. Good luck tonight!” White-cap guy breaks our eye contact to glance backward. A burly, red-faced man is holding out a glass of bourbon.
“Thank you, good sir.” His face splits into a wide smile and I see he’s got a dimple on his right cheek. Because of course he does. He accepts the glass and sets it on the bar, tracing his finger absentmindedly around the rim. I notice there’s another, barely touched drink at his elbow.
“Looks like you had a rough day too.” I raise one eyebrow. “Taylor, is it?”
“Jake, actually. Jake Taylor.” His smile broadens as he extends a hand, and we shake. “And no, my day’s been fine. Everyone here just enjoys liquoring me up. Feels rude to decline, but I prefer not to drink when I’m working. You want it?”
I shake my head no. “You work here?” I ask. That explains the cherry swiping. But why is he in front of the bar?
“Uh, not exactly.” He laughs softly. Before I can ask what he means, a burst of feedback screeches through the speakers. A staff member in a flannel shirt and black beanie is fumbling with a microphone stand in the center of the stage.
I roll my eyes. “Guess the musician finally decided to show up.”
Jake raises one eyebrow. “Don’t sound too excited there. You hate music or something?”
“More like apathy than hate.” I twirl my stirrer, emboldened by the heady combination of liquor and flirtation. “The last concert I attended was a Kelly Clarkson show in 2012. With my parents, I might add. So, I can’t say I really keep up with the latest hits.”
He grins. “Okay. BeyondThe Best of American Idol,what selections might I find on your playlists?”
“Oh, only the finest stuff.” I take another long sip of my cocktail. “Vintage Britney. The soundtrack toBridgerton. And, of course, the best genre of music known to man: Broadway showtunes.”
Jake bursts into laughter. “Showtunes, huh? What’s your favorite?”
“All of them. I mean,Newsiesis great. And I loveThe Sound of Music. I always wished I had six brothers and sisters,” I confess. If I’d had siblings, things would have been so different after Mom died. But I don’t need to trauma-dump that on a stranger. Especially not such a cute one.
Jake purses his lips and nods in agreement. “The Sound of Musicis indeed a classic. Though personally, I’m a loyalLes Misfan.”
“Yes, the best!” I groan, throwing my head back. “The opening number alone! A perfect example of a prologue in musical form!”
“Hey, if cooking doesn’t work out, you should consider teaching English. Can’t say I’ve ever heard anyone describe Broadway shows with literary devices.”
“I was an English major,” I admit. “Although you may be hanging out with the wrong people if no amount of your recreational time is devoted to the literary analysis of Broadway musicals.”
“Well, maybe I need some new people to hang out with.” My heart thunders against my chest as Jake’s eyes bore into mine. He leans forward, lips parting. And then—
“Ladies and gentlemen, the man you’ve all been waiting for.” A voice at the microphone interrupts the moment. “Please welcome to the stage, the one and only Jake Taylor!”
My mouth drops open. Jake takes off his cap and runs his fingers through his thick chestnut hair, then plops it back on his head and twists it backward.
“If you’ll excuse me for just a few minutes.” He stands up and reaches under the bar, grabbing a guitar case.Has that been there the whole time? Mouth gaping, I stare as he makes his way to the stage.
“Good evenin’, everyone.” He takes a seat on the stool, props up one knee, and balances the guitar on it. His drawl seems heavier now, and his grin widens as the crowd claps and hoots. A few chords fill the room as he tunes the strings.
“It has come to my attention that we have a Broadway fan in the house tonight.” He winks at me, and my cheeks turn hot. Someone in the back whoops loudly.
A familiar melody floats through the air, and my breath catches. Jake leans in, pressing his lips to the microphone, and starts to sing.
I recognize the lyrics immediately. It’s my favorite song fromThe Music Man,the one Marian sings to Harold Hill in the second act. I’ve heard “Till There Was You” a hundred times before, but never like this. Jake’s rendition is slower, pared down. And the words sound infinitely better in his honey-smooth voice.
His eyes stay locked on mine as he sings, one corner of his mouth inching up in a crooked grin. I can feel the other patrons’ heads turn toward me, but I can’t tear my gaze away. I’m transfixed as he closes his eyes over a long, breathy note.
My own eyes flutter shut as his lips curl over the words. I’ve never had this type of reaction to music before. My heart simultaneously slows and quickens as an unfamiliar feeling of tranquilitywashes over me. The rest of the room fades to a blur, and when I open my eyes again, all I can see is him.
