The Mandolin turns out to be in the basement of an old, beat-up brick building way south of my hotel. It’s in a very different area from the ones I’ve been to so far in Manhattan, and I’ll admit, the new-boy-in-town in me likes the more laid back, bohemian vibe of this place. There are no condescending doormen in red suits lurking around, no one looking down their noses at me for what I’m wearing.
This New York I could easily get on board with.
I walk down the steps to the club entrance where I’m met with a doorman of a different kind: a bouncer. With his arm muscles the size of my thighs, he’s a full head taller than me, and I’m no weed at 6’2”.
“Five dollars,” he booms without preamble.
I reach in my pocket, rifle through some bills, and hand him five bucks. Without a word, he pushes the door open, and I’m instantly struck by the stench of stale beer and the chatter of voices. As my eyes adjust to the dimly lit room, I take in the shell-like stage at one end, the rows of tables and chairs lining the floor. The place is already humming. I scan the room looking for a cute brunette in a pink T.
She finds me first. “You made it,” she says.
She’s changed into a loose-fitting green dress and let her hair fall around her shoulders. It’s long and silky, and I’ve got to fight the urge to reach out and take a few strands between my fingers to see if it’s as soft as it looks. She shifts under my watchful eye.
Shit. Was I gawping at her?
I lean down and brush my lips across her soft cheek and breathe in her delicate scent: a mixture of grapefruit and cucumber and something more. Whatever it is, it’s good enough to eat. “Gabby, you look so gorgeous.”
“Cece made me wear it.” She bunches the skirt of her dress in her hands self-consciously, and I immediately regret my comment. She’s not a girl who likes attention. Weird, considering she wants to be famous.
She pushes her hair behind her ear and clears her throat. “My friends are sitting at a table back here. Come meet them.”
I follow her to a booth at the back of the club where two women sit together, sipping their drinks through straws. A blonde and a brunette, both about Gabby’s age. They’re both watching me, their expressions impossible to read.
“Everyone, this is Cole Grant, the guy I was just telling you about,” Gabby says.
I know she’s probably only told her friends I’m the guy crashing the party tonight, but the part of me that should know better hopes she said something more about me. It hopes that maybe the look we shared after she hugged me in the park means I’ve sparked some feelings in her, feelings I know I’m all too aware she’s sparked in me.
“It’s great to meet you, Cole.” A strikingly beautiful blonde greets me with a smile.
She gestures at both Gabby and the girl sitting next to her. “We’re The Ellas.”
I cock a brow. “The Ellas?”
“You got it. As you know, I’m Gabriella. Not that I like to be called that,” Gabby says, mentioning our banter from this afternoon. She points at the blonde. “This is Isabella.”
She waves at me. “But if you call me that, I will kill you. Seriously. I’m Izzy.” She reaches across the table and we shake hands.
“Noted,” I reply.
“And I’m Raffaella, but no one calls me that, either. It’s Raffy.” The brunette at the table shoots me a smile.
What is it with these New York girls who don’t like their names? “Well, I’m pleased to meet all The Ellas,” I say with a laugh.
Gabby takes a seat in the booth and I follow suit. It’s a tight fit, and I scoot around the table until my thigh is close enough to touch hers. It feels nice. “Is it just some sort of coincidence your names all end with ‘ella?’”
Gabby shrugs. “Kind of. We all had moms who loved fairytales, you see, and a few of the heroines’ names have ‘ella’ in them.”
“You know, like Cinderella, Bella?” one of them says. I think it’s Raffy.
“Ella from Ella Enchanted,” the other adds. I’m pretty sure that one’s Izzy.
“And we all used to dress up as our favorite fairy-tale heroines when we were kids,” Gabby says.
“Ariel, with the long red hair.” I smile at Gabby.
“You know me so well, Tennessee.” Her eyes light up, just as they did this afternoon when I’d made her laugh. Her full, sexy lips curve into a smile.
God, I could kiss her right now.
“Ahem.”
I tear my eyes from Gabby’s mouth to see the other two Ellas watching us closely, amusement written across their faces.
“What?” Gabby protests, wrapping her arms around herself. She’s clearly ruffled.
“Nothing,” Blonde Ella replies—Izzy? I forget. As beautiful as she is, I’ve only got eyes for the first Ella I met.
“Gabby never brings a guy,” the other Ella says. “You must be quite something, Cole.”
“I don’t know about that,” I reply with a self-deprecating shrug.
A server arrives at our table, breaking the awkwardness. We place our drink orders.
I use the interruption as a chance to take the spotlight off Gabby and me. “How does this thing tonight work?”
“We take turns performing up on that stage over there.” Gabby bobs her head at the shell-shaped structure I spotted when I arrived. “The only rule is that the song has got to be original, no covers.”
“Yeah, and it pays to be good,” the blonde Ella says. I’ve given up on the names now.
“Why?” I ask.
“Because otherwise it’s totally embarrassing, that’s why,” Gabby replies with a light laugh.
“Good point.”
The server delivers our drinks and we settle into talking.
“Tell us about yourself,” Brunette Ella says.
“There’s not much to say. I’m just a regular, boring guy from Tennessee. Ask Gabby.”
“What’s a regular, boring guy from Tennessee doing here in New York?” Blonde Ella says.
My thoughts shoot to Rex. “I’m playing with a band.”
“Who?” Blonde Ella asks.
I chew it over. Gabby already knows I’m performing with Rex. Telling her friends shouldn’t be a big deal. Hell, come next Saturday’s concert, everyone is going to know. “I’m playing at Rex Randall’s concert. We’re doing a song together. I’m playing guitar.”
The two Ella’s eyes widen.
“Seriously? That concert at The Garden the Pop Princesses are supporting?” Blonde Ella says, her eyes wide. “That’s not regular or boring.”
“No, it’s not. That’s amazing, that’s what that is!” Brunette Ella’s eyes are almost popping out of her head.
I shrug. “It’s no big deal.”
Gabby nudges my knee with hers under the table. “Yeah, it is.”
“You totally have to take my spot performing tonight,” Blonde Ella says.
“But Izzy! You promised last time you’d sing, and you found some excuse then, too,” Brunette Ella says. By a series of elimination, she must be Raffy. Really, it shouldn’t be this hard. There’s only three of them.
Izzy shrugs. “Don’t you want to hear Cole sing?”
Raffy’s eyes flick to mine and back to Izzy again. “Yeah, I totally do. Especially now we know he’s a professional musician, playing with one of the biggest names on the planet.”
“That’s settled then. Cole will take Izzy’s spot,” Gabby says.
“Agreed,” Izzy says with a curt nod.
I look between them all. “Don’t I get a say in this?”
Gabby shakes her head. “No, Tennessee. You don’t.”
“Oh, I love it when you’re bossy,” I respond under my breath so only she can hear.
Yeah, I’m flirting, only this time I get to see her reactions in person. It feels great, especially when her full lips curve into a smile and she runs her fingers through her long, sexy hair.
“Are you going to tell me to do something else now?” I ask her.
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“Like what?”
Kiss you. “Whatever you want.”
She licks those lips of hers, and I swear I could explode with need for her. “Let me get back to you on that,” she breathes.
There’s a loud screeching sound, and all four of us snap our attention to the stage where a bearded hipster guy is standing at a microphone. “That got your attention.’ He laughs. “Welcome to open mic night at The Mandolin.” There’s an eruption of applause from the audience, a few whoops and whistles. “We’ve got a packed list tonight. But before we begin, remember the house rules: original material only, nothing longer than three minutes or I will cut you off, and guys? Be supportive of one another.” He lifts a sheet of paper and reads from it. “Okay, first up is Gabby Davis.”
“You put me first on the list?” Gabby says over the polite applause. I can detect the anxiety in her voice.
Izzy shrugs. “You’d better get up there, girl.”
“Way to give me time to mentally prepare,” she says.
I slide out of the booth so Gabby can take her place on the stage. “You got this.”
She bites her lip. “I’d better. I’ve not performed this song here yet.”
“Just sing it the way you sang Sweet Home Alabama to me today, and I know you’ll totally kill it.”
She chews on her lip. “I hope so.”
Taking me by surprise in the best sort of way, she reaches for my hand and I take it, giving it a quick squeeze of encouragement. It’s a small gesture—really, it’s tiny in the scheme of things—but it tells me so much. It tells me in this moment, she needs me. As crazy as that may sound for this beautiful, confident, New York girl, standing in front of me in a club in downtown Manhattan, a girl I didn’t even know a day ago, I know it’s the truth.
And a little voice inside me replies perhaps I need her, too.
Calmer than I’ve felt since before Grandpop broke the news to me yesterday, I take my seat. I settle back against the cushioned leather and watch as Gabby weaves her way through the tables to the stage. Standing at the mic, she looks out at the crowd, clearly nervous. I want to follow her up there, wrap my arms around her, and tell her once more I believe in her, that she can do this.
She lets out a breath, and I can tell she’s mastered her nerves enough to begin. She opens her mouth and starts to sing, soft and low. Her voice is rich and velvety and sweet at the same time. She’s singing unaccompanied, a soft, soulful song with a slow, pretty melody. She’s got her eyes closed, maybe to keep on top of her nerves, maybe because, like me, it helps her really feel the music. Whatever the reason, it works.
As I watch her, I think about the fact I agreed to introduce her to Rex after hearing her sing two lines of Sweet Home Alabama. Now, I’m convinced I made the right call. Sure, she can sing, and sure, she looks great up on the stage, like she was born to be there. But there’s more to her than just that. She’s got what people call the “x factor,” that indefinable something that draws an audience in that only the lucky few possess.
I sit back and focus on the lyrics. They’re heartfelt and raw. The song is about feeling alone, about wanting love, about searching for her truth. The heartache behind her words is crippling, and she’s completely caught up in the emotion as she tells her story. And oh, my God, I can feel her pain, I can see it written across her beautiful face, and I believe every single word she utters.
I ache for her, just as everyone else in the room does, too.
I lean forward and rest my elbows on the table. Everything stops around me, everything but her. I’m spellbound—by her voice, by the way she looks so small, so vulnerable up there on that stage, illuminated by a single spotlight.
My insides twist with need for her.
She opens her eyes, and I’m not sure, but it feels like she looks directly at me. Me and only me. My mouth drops open as I see the intensity in her eyes, feel her passion as it fills the room.
This woman.
In that moment, I know I want more than just flirting from her. I know I want more than just a quick fling to distract me from my life. I want to know her. I want to get caught up in her, get tangled up in her world with nowhere to escape. I can’t think of a decent reason not to follow my heart with her.
I’m not here for a girl.
Screw it. I need the girl.
Chapter 9
Gabriella
The last note of my song leaves my lips. My emotions churn inside as I struggle to pull myself out of my musical fog. I’ve told a story, my story, and it’s left me feeling vulnerable, wrung out, naked in a room full of strangers.
There’s a moment’s pause in which I squeeze my eyes shut, my heart banging like a tribal drum in my ears. And then the audience explodes in applause, and I open my eyes as a cocktail of emotions washes over me—everything from elation to relief, still with the words from my song ringing in my ears.
Immediately, I find Cole at the back of the room. Although it’s hard to make out his expression, I can tell he’s standing by the table, applauding with enthusiasm. I allow myself a small smile. On legs as shaky as a newborn foal’s, I step off the small stage. As I make my way through the tables, people congratulate me, touch my arm, applaud, say kind words. I bumble my thanks, all the while aiming for Cole.
He’s the one I wanted to show myself to, he’s the one I wanted to impress. I tell myself it’s because of his promise of an introduction to Rex. But I know it’s so much more than that. This is me baring my soul to him—and hoping he likes what he sees.
When I reach the table, Cole and The Ellas congratulate me warmly.
“Girl, you killed it!” Raffy says as she wipes her eyes. She gives me a hug before Izzy pulls me in for one, too.
“You had Raffy tearing up from almost the first line,” Izzy says.
“Hey! It wasn’t just me,” Raffy protests.
“Okay, I’ll admit, there may have been some wetness around my eyes, but seriously, that was a gorgeous song, babe.” She releases me. “You looked like a star up there, didn’t she, Cole?”
“She sure did,” he replies. “A total star.”
The rush of elation I felt on the stage only moments before is replaced by a fresh wave of nerves as I look up at Cole. “Did I really?” My breath catches in my throat as I await his response.
He places his hands on my shoulders. “Gabby, that song was incredible. You were incredible.”
My limbs feel light as heat radiates through my chest. I try to appear as though his compliment hasn’t rocked my world. Inside, I’m doing cartwheels, screaming Cole thinks I’m incredible! at the top of my lungs on repeat.
“Oh, she so is,” Raffy says with a mischievous grin.
“Super incredible,” Izzy adds.
I shoot my friends a look that I hope tells them not to stir the pot.
“See? Your friends agree,” Cole says, his hands still on my shoulders.
“I’ve been working on that song for a long time.” I keep my tone light, nonchalant, like impressing Cole isn’t the huge deal that it really is to me.
“Well, it’s a beautiful song, and your talent shone through.” He holds my gaze for a beat, then a second beat, and I swear I’ve never felt this giddy in all my life.
“Thank you,” I manage, embarrassed to hear how breathless my voice sounds. Geez. There’s not a chance he missed the fact I’ve developed feelings for him now. It’s like I’ve sent out a group communication to Cole and everyone in the room, telling anyone who’ll listen that I’m hot for Cole Grant.
Without another word, he pulls me into him and wraps his arms around me. Taken by surprise, I stiffen as I breathe in his scent, feel the firmness of his body, the warmth of his touch. And then, I let out a long breath, the tension leaving my body as I melt into him. God, he feels good.
The emcee’s voice booms out, introducing the next performer. It startles us both, breaking the spell, and I step back from him, self-conscious. I clear my throat as heat climbs up my neck
and begins to bloom in my cheeks.
“I think Rex will love the song when you perform for him. I’d definitely go with that one if I were you.”
Confusion momentarily clouds my mind. “Rex? Yes, of course.” Mentally, I nudge myself in the ribs. Hard. This is about me getting in front of Rex—and absolutely nothing else. Cole’s making that abundantly clear, and I would do well to remember it, too. “I will sing that song, for sure.”
“Gabby, come sit.” The Ellas have taken their seats, and Izzy pats the set next to her.
I sit and slide around the seat toward The Ellas. They both stare at me, their eyes almost bulging out of their heads at what just happened between Cole and me.
“What was that about?” Izzy says under her breath as Raffy leans in.
It’s a good question. What was that about? Cole gives me a knee-buckling hug and then reminds me of the real reason for him being here with me, all within about ten seconds flat. It’s enough to give a girl emotional whiplash.
“I-I think he liked the song,” I offer to which Izzy shakes her head and Raffy rolls her eyes, neither of them convinced.
Cole takes his seat next to me, and I’m once again sandwiched between him and The Ellas. The next act is performing on the stage, an older guy, probably in his sixties, with a crooning, lounge bar sound that’s easy to listen to.
“I gotta say, I am so glad I gave up my spot to Cole,” Raffy says. “There’s no way I can follow that performance, Gabby.”
“I’m not sure I can follow that, either,” Cole says.
I turn to him. “I bet you can. I heard you in the hallway. Remember?”
“I’ll give it my best, but I am making no promises.” He cocks an eyebrow. I’d like to say it’s not adorable, but dang, it totally is.
I feel a pulse of such desire for him, I’m glad I’m sitting or I might have a swoon situation on my hands. I’ve already embarrassed myself enough in front of him for one day, the last thing I want to do is add some swooning to the list.
“Do you have a song in mind?” I ask him. We’re sitting so close our arms are almost touching and the little hairs on my arms prickle.
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