Hell, she probably does.
The band plays the opening notes of a new song and a tremor of fear shoots straight up my spine. Why the hell did I ever think I could pull this off?
Scarlett looks around, brows knit in confusion. The urge to go to her and wrap her in my arms is fierce, but I’m committed. I’m going to see this harebrained idea through, no matter the cost.
Say goodbye to your pride.
A bead of sweat slides down my back, bisecting my shoulder blades.
The bassist hits a high note just as the photo booth’s live feed is replaced with pictures of Scarlett and I dressed as Cupid and a lovebug. Distracted, I join in a beat too late, voice warbling as I sing the opening lines of “Perfect” by Ed Sheeran. My words echo through the lobby, and my face heats, blood rushing to my cheeks for all to see. I’ve never been a singer—I couldn’t carry a tune with a bucket—but I spent the entire weekend practicing, doing my best to memorize the words as Oreo whined endlessly. Which,spoiler alert, did nothing to boost my confidence.
“Am I tripping, or is this really happening?” The question comes from the front row and my already shaky confidence wavers as someone else hisses, “Shh!”
It doesn’t matter. I’m fully aware that my singing is awful. And I don’t need to be told I’m butchering the song’s beautiful melody, if not its meaning, as I belt out each line.
But I keep going, forcing myself to continue. Because despite the thousands of eyes trained on me, despite the whispers and the laughter and my abject humiliation, I’m doing this for Scarlett. I push everyone and everything else from my mind, focusing on her. On the radiant woman before me, who doesn’t seem to mind that my singing is terrible and who’s smiling at me with unshed tears shining in her eyes.
The moment is messy and chaotic and I’m sweating bullets, but damn if it’s not perfect.
Chapter Forty-Three
Scarlett
Fuckballs. I must be dreaming. That’s the only explanation for what’s happening right now because there is no way Nick—mister-I-can’t-give-up-control-and-I’d-never-do-anything-embarrassing—Hart is serenading me right now.
In. Front. Of. Everyone.
So, yeah, I’m dreaming. Obviously.
I blink. Once. Twice. Three times.
The scene before me remains unchanged, and for the first time, I take in the details I’d been too stunned to notice before.
Details that leave doubt niggling at my sleep-deprived brain.
Dream Nick wouldn’t be red as a pepper and shiny as a new penny. And he certainly wouldn’t be carrying the world’s biggest bouquet of long-stem roses. Or agree to share our silly photo booth pictures with the entire company.
The matching red sweaters with pink and white hearts he and Oreo are wearing? Totally believable.
Um, can we talk about the singing?
Unreal. Hadn’t he balked at the prospect of a singing telegram? Pretty sure the word he’d used to describe it wasawful. And yet here he is. Singing tome.
It’s… I don’t even know how to describe it.
Emotion wells up from the pit of my belly, warming my chest as I blink back tears.
The song is beautiful. The lyrics. The meaning. The way Nick sings it with feeling, each line delivered with the utmost sincerity. His performance touches my soul in a way I hadn’t even known was possible.
And though it’s clear he hasn’t performed a day in his life, I wouldn’t trade this moment for the world because it’s ours. Mine and Nick’s. Nothing, and no one, can take it away from us.
As far as grand gestures go, this is the mother lode. Better than flowers or cards or even chocolates because it’s personal. For Nick, nothing would be more difficult than setting his pride aside and making himself vulnerable. Heck, putting his personal life on display for all these people is the opposite of control, something I never thought he’d sacrifice.
My hands begin to shake and I clasp them together in front of me, bringing them to my lips as I fight for control.
The song ends, the last notes drifting through the air as silence descends on the Triada lobby. It’s so quiet you could hear a flash drive hit the floor.
Nick and I stand face-to-face, neither of us speaking.
