I hoped the darkness hid my blush. “Thank you. I enjoy it. Singing, I mean.”
“I can tell. When you’re up there, you put your heart and soul into it. The mark of a true artist.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far.”
“I would. And I should know.”
“Why?” I asked. “Are you a musician?” My heart sank. I didn’t date musicians.
“Heavens, no. Acting is my bag, but my mother was very musical. I guess she passed the appreciation of it on to me.”
“That’s wonderful. More people should learn to appreciate music.” I couldn’t help gushing a bit at one of my favorite subjects. “What plays have you been in? Maybe I’ve seen them.”
“I doubt it. I tend to stick to rather avant-garde projects. Last year I did a Kafka thing. Very edgy.”
“Ah. I guess I’ve never really seen a play like that. I admit I tend to stick to the classics. Or musicals. I love those.” Usually I sang along with every song. It was half the fun of seeing a musical, after all.
He looked a little pained but quickly schooled his features. “It’s not for everyone. But we’re not here to talk about me,” he said, switching the subject.
“What are we here to talk about then?” I asked sassily.
“You.” He leaned into my personal space, and I caught a whiff of his cologne. It was a rich blend of citrus and something woodsy. Not bad. “I want to hear all about you.” He gave me a slow, sexy smile that sent heat straight to my lady bits.
Derek Anderson’s dark eyes held me enraptured. I wasn’t usually such an idiot over a good-looking man, and an actor at that, but there was something about him.
“Oh, I’m not that interesting,” I said with a teasing smile.
“I’m certain that isn’t true.” He glanced behind him as if he’d heard someone call his name. “Look, I have to go, but I would love to take you out to dinner.”
It had been awhile since a man had asked me out. Especially such a handsome one. One who stared at me with such intensity. I felt an odd fluttering in the region of my stomach. I reminded my stomach about my self-imposed rule: no musicians, no actors, no artists of any kind.
“Sure,” I heard myself say, “I’d like that.” Apparently my mouth had decided to bypass my brain.
He grinned, flashing perfect, white teeth. They even outdid Adam’s movie star grin. “Excellent.” He held out his cell phone. “Put your digits in there, baby, and I’ll call you.”
“Cheesy much?” I laughed as I took the phone.
Derek shrugged and flashed another perfect smile. “I’m trying to be cool, but I think you’re short-circuiting my brain. I can’t seem to help myself.”
I smiled back. I’d show Kev I could be spontaneous and open when it came to dating. I punched in my number and name. Before I handed it back, I snapped a quick selfie and added it to the contact information. “So you don’t forget,” I said.
“Oh, believe me, I won’t forget.” His tone was fervent, his expression meaningful. I believed him. Of course, I tended to be rather memorable.
“Later, sweet thing,” he whispered, kissing my cheek. Again with the cheesy lines. He clearly knew it because with one last grin, he disappeared back inside. I stared after him for a while before turning back to the garden. I told myself not to get my hopes up. Even if he did call, he was totally the wrong kind of guy for me.
My hopes didn’t listen.
The Musician
HIS NAME WAS DAMON. I was living in Portland at the time and still in college. I had fallen for him hook, line, and sinker. Not only was he gorgeous, in a tall, dark, and handsome kind of way, but he could play the most amazing music.
We met at Jimmy Mak’s, a jazz club not unlike the Purple Note. He'd been playing the piano, and through every set he watched me with a passionate attention I’d never experienced before in all my twenty-two years. Everything inside me shifted and melted. I wanted him from that very moment. I'd never dated a musician before, but music was my passion, and it seemed so right that he was as into music as I was. When he played and I sang, it was like the world aligned.
We'd been together six months when he got evicted for not paying rent. He asked to move in with me, and I wanted to say no, but he was my boyfriend. I loved him. And it felt like the right thing to do. Before I knew it, he and his musician buddies had taken over my tiny apartment. They spent their days smoking pot, strumming guitars, and not too much else. Meanwhile I worked my fingers to the bone to provide beer and pizza for him and his friends. I fell behind on my electric bill, my landline got shut off (this was in the days before everyone and their mother had a cell phone), and I couldn't even afford basic cable. Every day I came home bone weary to find the house an absolute disaster. I was beyond frustrated. It wasn’t that I wanted a man to take care of me. I just wanted someone who could pull their own weight. A man who wanted to be a partner, an equal, not a burden.
And then one day, I caught Damon in bed with a buxom blonde.
“What the heck?” I shrieked, stumbling to a stop inside the doorway to the bedroom. My bedroom.
“Hey, baby. You’re home.”
“Don’t you ‘hey, baby’ me,” I snapped.
“Um,” he glanced from me to the blonde and back again, his eyes wide with panic. “It was an accident?”
I snorted. “What? You slipped and fell on top her? And what? Your penis accidently fell into her vagina?”
“Um, yes?”
That was it. I threw them both out and his crap along with him. It was then I swore I'd never date a musician again. I’d never again put myself in a position of covering for some loser who wasn’t man enough to pay his own way.
I learned later the blonde hadn't been the first one he’d cheated on me with. There'd been so many women. Groupies of his band. He'd never been faithful. Even worse, it took me years to recover financially. I’d had to put off college for a year to catch up on bills. Whenever my heart was tempted by a musician—and let’s face it, I attracted them like bees to honey—I reminded myself of how I’d felt when I found Damon and that woman together. I reminded myself what life was like without a phone and having to eat boxed macaroni and cheese by candlelight. Not because it was romantic, but because I didn't have a choice. I reminded myself of every hardship, all the pain, and all the destruction. It made it easier to walk away.
Chapter 2
“YOU GOING IN?” THE big man loomed over me, his bald head gleaming beneath the street light. His stance was menacing, but his eyes as they slid over me held nothing but heat.
After Kate’s party, I hadn’t been ready to call it a night, so I’d headed to one of my favorite London night spots. I gave the bouncer an arch look that clearly said, “You wish” and nodded. He said nothing, just jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at the white-trimmed glass door.
Ten minutes later I was ensconced in the Purple Note, a tiny jazz club not far from Camden Market. If you didn’t know it was there, you’d probably walk right by it. Sandwiched between two Victorian-era buildings, the narrow front of what had once been a Georgian townhouse held a moderately sized plate glass window that looked into a tight entryway with a reception desk the size of a postage stamp. The sign above the door was a music note in purple neon. Nothing else.
I pulled open the door and stepped onto the black and white checkerboard tile floor. The girl at the desk gave me a bland smile, her severe bob in platinum blonde with a wide swath of black swung forward to hide the spider web tattoo along her neck. Her lips were so red, a pinup girl would have been jealous. I’d never seen her before. Must have been a new hire.
“One?” she asked.
I nodded. What else was there to say? One seemed my default number these days, now that my best friend, Kate, had gotten herself married off. I was fine with that. I missed Kate, but I was happy for her. And there was something about being on one’s own that opened up a world of possibilities.
The girl took my five pound note and waved
me toward the main room. For London, the Purple Note’s entry fee was surprisingly cheap.
The restaurant area was about the size of a large living room. Maybe ten or twelve feet wide and twice as long with a small stage in the front right corner as you entered and a bar along the back wall. The wide hardwood floorboards were probably original, stained dark and polished within an inch of their lives. A long bench, upholstered in aubergine velvet, covered the entire left wall with tables interspersed along its length. The center of the room was taken up by tables of various shapes and sizes surrounded by mismatched chairs like someone had furnished the place from a car boot sale, the British version of a garage sale. Each table was set with a frosted purple glass votive with a candle flickering inside.
The band on stage was already in full swing, jamming an old Duke Ellington tune that had my feet tapping and my lips curving in a smile. I couldn’t help myself. I immediately felt a million times better. Who cared if I was alone on a Saturday night? I was in London, for crying out loud. Talk about living the dream.
All the tables were full so I made my way to the back of the room and the only seat available. As I perched on the high barstool, the barman leaned over. “What will it be?”
“Cosmo, please.” I knew they weren’t the “in” thing anymore, but I never let things like that bother me. I liked them. That was what mattered.
“American?” His eyes lit up like Christmas as he made my drink.
I grinned. He was cute in a Jason Statham kind of way, his accent the rough of East London. “Yes. Portland.”
“Maine?”
“No. Oregon.”
“Ah. Never been there. Been to Florida once.” He slid the Cosmo across the bar, and I took a deep sip. Delish. The Purple Note knew good barmen and the barmen knew good drinks. I handed him my credit card.
“Open a tab, will you please?”
He nodded and busied himself behind the counter while I returned my attention to the band. There were six guys, most of them well past retirement age, and they were having a blast. The drummer was showing off his skills, tossing drumsticks and whatnot like he was in a rock band instead of a jazz sextet. The guy with the giant bass was getting all down with his strings, practically humping his giant instrument. It was hilarious. Everyone was smiling and clapping and having a grand time. I found myself tapping my foot and humming along with the lively tune.
The song reached its crescendo, and everyone cheered and applauded. The musicians took their bows and the piano player leaned forward and spoke into the mic. “Bram, mate, why don’t you come help us with this next one? You wrote it after all.”
More cheering and clapping as a man from the audience stepped forward and picked up a saxophone. I caught my breath. Gosh, he was beautiful. Dark, disheveled hair, pale skin, amazing jawline, straight blade of a nose, and even from this distance, I could see his eyes were blue. Not just any blue, but sharp, electrifying, sky blue. I didn’t think I’d ever seen eyes like that before outside a Photoshopped image.
Unlike the others, he was well under retirement age. I wouldn’t put him much past thirty. Closer to my own age. And his broad shoulders and muscular pecs filled out his simple blue cotton shirt like a dream. If I wasn’t careful, I was going to need a cold shower. I took another sip of my ice cold drink. It did nothing to cool my sudden bout of lustful imaginings.
The music started again, something I didn’t recognize. It had a bit of swing to it and a bit of blues. A low, sultry sound that dug into your soul. Bram joined in, turning the heat up about ten notches. That man could play a sax like nobody’s business. The music was inspiring. Haunting. Almost otherworldly. And the man himself was the stuff daydreams were made of. Suddenly our eyes met across the room. Warm shivers traveled up and down my spine, and my heart beat a little faster. Too bad he was a musician.
Mr. Two-Face
THERE IS NOTHING LIKE dating a man only to have him swap personalities on you.
You’d have thought I would have learned my lesson with Damon. I mean, it was pretty obvious after that experience that dating musicians was a bad idea. I guess I hadn’t learned that other artsy types could be just as bad.
A couple years after I threw Damon out of my apartment, and shortly after I’d finally gotten my degree, a friend invited me to see a play. It was a hilarious melodrama by amateur actors in one of those rinky-dink theaters with sticky concrete floors and velveteen curtains that smell suspiciously like mothballs. The seats were narrow and worn in spots, the undersides riddled with wads of bubblegum. The popcorn machine looked about a hundred years old, and I was pretty sure the usher was drunk.
When the play was over, we were invited to the “after party,” which consisted of the half dozen cast members, their spouses, and the poncy director meeting at a karaoke bar. The actor who had played the “hero” made a point of sitting next to me, which, of course, I found extremely flattering.
Although he wasn’t handsome, Dave exuded charm and charisma. He focused on me and me alone, ignoring everyone else around us. At twenty-four-years old and with limited dating experience, believe me, it was all kinds of flattering.
“It must be fun to be an actor,” I gushed in an alarmingly embarrassing way.
“It is. I wish I could do it full time, but unfortunately that hasn’t happened yet.”
Alarm bells went off. Not another one. “How do you make a living then?” Please let it be something stable. And legal.
“I’m in IT. I work for a local company.” He named a well-known Fortune 500 company with its main offices near Portland. Lots of people in Portland worked there, and I found myself relaxing. Gainfully employed was a good thing. I allowed myself to be relaxed by his charm and flattered by his attention. When he insisted on paying for my drinks, I was certain he was a winner.
Our first date was dinner and a movie. The dinner was fine, but nothing special. We had to make it quick since the movie was starting. The movie, on the other hand, was anything but fine.
“Wasn’t it amazing?” Dave gushed as we exited KOIN Tower. “Just one of the best movies ever.”
“I didn’t realize it was four hours long. With no intermission.”
“It’s the director’s cut. So it’s longer than a regular movie.”
“I also didn’t realize it was in German.”
He shrugged. “There were subtitles.”
I gave him the stink eye. Subtitles which I couldn’t read after the first two hours because I’d ended up with a headache from reading them.
“You didn’t like it, did you?”
“No,” I said honestly. “I prefer something more... mainstream.”
“Well, I promise next time, I’ll let you pick the movie.”
He kept his promise, and the next couple of dates were fun. We laughed a lot. He told tons of funny jokes. He was thoughtful and attentive. And then one day he changed. It was like a complete one-eighty. He went from a kind, caring person to a nasty jerk with a snappy temper. He complained about everything I did, how I looked.
“You’re wearing that?” he asked as we drove to the new play he was doing.
I glanced down at the jeans, boots, and snug red sweater. For me, it was a very demure outfit. “Yes, I am. I look good.”
He snorted. “It makes you look....”
I turned in the seat and eyed him. “It makes me look what?”
He shook his head. “Nothing,” he muttered.
I was baffled. Where had the gentleman I’d been dating gone?
As I sat in the audience, I found out. Dave was playing the part of a nasty, mean drunk who snapped at everyone and eventually murdered his wife. As the curtain came down, I stared at the stage, horrified when I realized the Dave I’d met at the melodrama didn’t exist. I’d met nothing more than a character. And now I was dating a totally different character. Dave took method acting to a whole new level. So much so I had no idea who the real Dave was.
I took the bus home that night, completely avoidin
g him. The Dave I’d seen over the last few weeks was not the sort of person I wanted to have this conversation with. I took the chicken way out and left a message on his answering machine instead. I never saw Dave again, and I made a note to myself to never date an actor. I didn’t think I could handle the drama. I was dramatic enough all by myself.
Chapter 3
“HOW WAS THE PARTY?” Olivia asked the minute I walked into work Monday morning. She wheeled her desk chair around, her hazel eyes wide with interest. Her honey blonde hair was twisted up on top her head, little tendrils hanging down to kiss her cheeks. She looked young and fresh and unjaded, which I hoped she was, seeing as how she was barely twenty-five.
I sank into my chair and took a deep gulp of almost too hot coffee. “It was amazing. The Prosecco flowed freely, and everybody had a great time.”
Her eyes sparkled. “Did you see lots of famous people? Like, who’d you see? Was Benedict there? What about Orlando? Kiera?”
I laughed. Olivia Brentwood was totally adorable in a Zooey Deschanel sort of way, only blonde. She’d started working at the Historical Trust about six months after I did. She lived for the celebrity gossip rags and was always up on the latest news about Adele or the Beckhams. The day Adam Wentworth had gotten engaged to my best friend, I’d practically had to scrape her off the floor.
“A few, yeah,” I admitted. “I didn’t know who most of them were, though, so I couldn’t tell you.” I was so not telling her about Ryan Gosling. I’d never get her to shut up.
She gave a growl of frustration. “Honestly, you are hopeless, Chloe. How am I supposed to get any good gossip if you won’t share?”
“Sorry. Guess you’ll just have to pick up a copy of Star Power and see what happened.”
She shook her head and mumbled something under her breath. It was probably a good thing I couldn’t hear it. I laughed, and she flipped me the bird.
Kiss Me, Chloe Page 2