Kiss Me, Chloe

by Shéa R. MacLeod

  “I’ve seen you here a time or two,” he said.

  Something glowed warm in the pit of my stomach. He’d noticed me? Of course he had. I was hard to miss. And the way we’d caught each other’s eyes, we’d nearly melted the place. “I like to listen to the music.”

  “This is the first time I’ve heard you sing.”

  “It’s the first time I’ve sung here. I used to sing sometimes at the jazz club back home.” Another night, another frustration, another need to sing out my pain, thanks to Damon.

  “You should do it more often. In fact”—he leaned forward—“I could talk to the guys in the band, see if you could sing along for a few songs some time on a Thursday night. They’d love it, and the audience would go wild.”

  There was a vast difference between singing for a handful of people on open mic night and singing to a crowded club on the night when the pros played. It wasn’t that I was shy about my singing—I enjoyed the spotlight—but singing with pros like the kind Bram was talking about was enough to send the most secure singer into panic mode. And singing while Bram played? Holy mamma. “Maybe.”

  “Think about it,” he urged.

  “I will,” I said. Then I switched subjects. “Bram. That’s an unusual name.”

  “My mother is a fan of Bram Stoker.”

  “Sounds like your mother and my best friend would get along famously. Kate loves vampire novels. She’s writing one now.”

  “She’s a writer?”

  “Yeah, and a good one.” I couldn’t help the pride in my voice. “Kate Wentworth.”

  “The one who’s married to that movie star?”

  I grinned. “That’s the one.”

  He flashed another one of those devastating smiles. “I might have read one or two of her novels. She’s very good.”

  “Yes she is.” I was surprised. Bram didn’t seem like the romance novel reading type, even when those novels involved the slaying of supernatural creatures.

  “What about you?” he asked. “When you’re not knocking the socks off the patrons of the Purple Note, what are you doing?”

  I shrugged. “Nothing exciting. I work for a charity, the Historical Trust.”

  “That’s amazing.”

  “It pays the rent, and I feel like I’m making a difference.” I felt slightly embarrassed. I wasn’t some big do-gooder. I just liked helping people and saving history for the future.

  “Still, you have to have some serious commitment to work for a charity. Not much money in it.”

  So that was his angle. “No, there isn’t,” I said stiffly. “But I’m not in it for the money. Any more than I’m into singing for the money.” Even I could hear the tartness in my voice.

  He gave me a smile that reached all the way to his eyes. “Hey,” he said softly. “No judgments either way. I believe in doing whatever you dream of doing, whether it’s singing or sitting at a desk. Whatever makes you happy, that’s what you should do.”

  I felt embarrassed by my defensiveness. “Okay.”

  “Have you ever thought of singing as a career?”

  I snorted. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No. Why?”

  “I’m not exactly the music industry type.”

  He gave me a curious look. “What do you mean?”

  “Nowadays music isn’t about music. It’s about looking the right way. Having the right image. I do not fit that image, as you can clearly see.” I had no problems with the way I looked, but I wasn’t stupid. I knew what a lot of people thought about girls like me.

  His eyes slowly raked my body again, those amazing blue orbs taking in every curve. I suddenly felt very warm. I squirmed a little.

  “You’re gorgeous.”

  I grinned. So, the dress and the bling had worked. “Thank you. But let’s be realistic. That is not something most people in the music industry think when they look at me.”

  “They’re idiots.” It sounded like he meant it.

  “Maybe. But the Adeles of this world are few and far between.”

  “Unfortunate, if you ask me.”

  “I wish they would, but that’s not reality.”

  “Okay, fair point,” he admitted. “But there are plenty of singers who make a living doing what they love. Maybe not on some flashy big stage or selling millions of records, but in clubs like this all over the world.”

  “I hear you,” I agreed. “But I sing when I feel like it. I think I’d lose my passion for it if I had to do it every night or was forced to sing what the public wanted rather than what I want. My singing is about me, not anybody else.”

  He nodded as if he totally understood what I meant. “That’s how I feel about my playing. When I play sax it’s like the entire world fades away. There’s just me and my music, nobody else.” He gave me a long, heated look that stripped me to my soul. “Usually.”

  I had no idea what to say to that. I cleared my throat. “Yeah. I know that feeling very well.” Including the part about “usually.” Because with Bram playing, it had been really hard to focus on anything else.

  “What brought you in here tonight?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You said you only sing when you need to. Why did you need to?”

  I gave a light laugh. “That’s a story and a half.”

  “I’ve got time.” He waved the bartender over to refill our drinks.

  I mulled it over. Should I tell him the truth? I gave a mental shrug. Why not. “Truth is, I haven’t had a lot of luck with men lately. I thought I’d finally found a really great guy. Perfect, you know? Good job, good-looking, nice, thoughtful, funny—the whole package.”

  The barman slid our drinks across the bar to us. Bram took a sip of his. “Sounds a little too good to be true.” His tone was carefully neutral.

  “Hole in one.” I saluted him with my drink.

  “What happened?”

  “It was the little things at first. He’d be late. Not answer my calls. Then he started flaking. Not showing up for dates.”

  “Sounds like a jerk.”

  I smiled a little. “The first time it happened, he had some excuse about his grandmother. I bought it. Forgave him. He promised it would never happen again.”

  “But it did.”

  “Yeah,” I sighed, taking a deep gulp of my drink. “Only this time when I called, his wife answered.”

  “Crap.” He took a sip of his own drink, setting it back down carefully in the middle of the purple cocktail napkin.

  “Turns out he’s married, not separated like he told me. Not only that, his wife just had a baby.”

  Something hard and angry sparked in Bram’s eyes. “Tosser. I hope you ditched him.”

  “He is, and I did. Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

  “But why the song? There was more than anger there.” His voice was soft, like he understood.

  “Sometimes the death of a dream hurts more than the death of a relationship.”

  “That I understand.”

  “Not that we had a relationship. We’d only been on a few dates, but it seems par for the course lately. Frustration got the better of me. It happens.” Suddenly I was embarrassed. Why had I spilled my guts to him like that? I was a gullible idiot, and now he knew it too. I felt the sudden urge to get out of there before his too-knowing eyes read the truth about how he made me feel.

  “Listen,” I said, sliding off my stool and pulling on my jacket. “Thanks for listening. Sorry to vent like that. I gotta go.” I turned to the barman. “How much?”

  Bram held up his hand. “No need. It’s on me. And I’m here to listen. Anytime.”

  “Sure. Thanks again.” And with that I ducked out the door as fast as I could. I didn’t look back, but I could feel Bram’s eyes on me even when the Purple Note was out of sight.

  Chapter 12

  "DARN."

  Olivia glanced over at me from her desk. "Something wrong?"

  I dug desperately through my purse. When that failed
I dumped everything out onto my desk. "I can't find my day planner."

  "You still use one of those things?" Olivia asked. "Why not just use your smartphone, like everyone else?"

  "Because I don't just use my day planner for appointments," I said, pawing through the pile of junk and hoping I'd missed something. "I write song lyrics, random thoughts, sketches. It's kind of like my personal journal. It's also my backup of numbers in case something ever happened to my phone."

  Olivia peeked at my pile of junk. "It's clearly not there."

  I slipped the junk back in my bag and sank into my chair with a groan. "Yeah, I see that.”

  "When did you have it last?"

  "I don't remember." Ice gripped my mind. Panic welled up inside. There were so many private thoughts in that book. So many important bits of information. Feelings. I needed to find it. "I was at the Purple Note last night. The planner was in my coat pocket. Maybe it fell out?"

  "Easy. Just call the Purple Note and ask them if someone found it."

  "Yeah, yeah I'm going to." Of course it could have disappeared anywhere between the club and home, including on the Tube. I looked up the club's phone number online and dialed. It took eight brings before some answered.

  "The Purple Note. What’s your music?"

  Oh, that was too cute. Unfortunately I wasn't in the mood. "Hi," I said. "This is Chloe Daniels, and I think I left my day planner at the club last night. Someone turn it in?"

  "Hey, Chloe, this is Gabe. What’s it look like?"

  "Oh, Gabe. Hey. About the size of an A5 notebook.” An A5 was half the size of a sheet of regular letter paper. “Purple leather cover."

  "Let me check under the bar." There was a pause. "Sorry. Nothing here. But if you give me your number, I'll let you know if someone turns it in."

  Heart sinking, I gave him my cell number and hung up. I felt like crying. My life was in that thing. So many personal things I didn't want anyone seeing. Who knew if I'd ever see it again or who had it?

  "I'm sorry, Chloe," Olivia said, giving me a sad smile. "Hopefully it will turn up, and everything will be fine."

  Yeah, sure." Like that was going to happen. Probably, whoever found it would just throw it away. I'd never see it again. I’d have to start all over again, and some of it would be lost forever.

  I moped the rest of the day. Losing my book was far worse than losing Geoff. In fact, I hardly thought of him. I wanted to call Kate, but I knew she would be busy writing. Besides, I was supposed to be working, not moaning about a lost journal. It was almost three in the afternoon when my cell phone rang. I glanced at the screen. The number was one I didn't recognize.

  "Hello?" I said.

  "Is that Chloe Daniels?" The voice was rich, a little gravelly, and very British. It sounded familiar.

  "Yes. Who is this?"

  "This is Bram Halliday. We met last night at the Purple Note. Remember?"

  Did I remember? Images of Bram would haunt my dreams forever, like they had for the past several weeks. "Of course I remember. How did you get my number?" I'd never given it to anyone at the club. How could he have gotten his hands on it? Was he stalking me or something? Like I was one to talk. The minute I’d gotten home last night, I’d done an internet search on Bram Halliday. I hadn’t come up with much. Apparently the man liked to keep off social media, more’s the pity.

  "I found your planner last night after you left. I think it got kicked under the edge of the bar. Your number was inside."

  “You found it?" Relief flooded me, followed by trepidation. "Did you read it?"

  "Of course not," he said, sounding offended. "I only opened the front to see if there was a number inside and there was. If you’d like to meet up, I can give it to you."

  "Sure. Anytime. As soon as possible."

  He chuckled. "All right. How about tonight? Have coffee with me, and I'll give you the book."

  "Are you blackmailing me?" But there was humor in my voice. My heart fluttered in anticipation. I reminded myself it was just coffee, and I was not getting involved with another musician.

  He chuckled. "Maybe. Coffee?"

  "I drink coffee."

  "That's a relief. What time do you get off work?"

  "Six."

  "Why don't you meet me at Milk & Bean in Notting Hill at seven," he said.

  Notting Hill? Did he know Milk & Bean was my favorite coffee shop? Did he know I lived near there? Stupid questions. He had my planner, which meant he had my address, as well as my phone number, and that put me at a distinct disadvantage in the information department. I wasn't sure how I felt about that.

  "Seven it is."

  "I look forward to it," he said, his voice a low rumble in my ear. My toes curled. So did I.

  I STEPPED INTO MILK & Bean just before seven that evening. Immediately my breath caught in my throat. Bram was standing at the counter, talking to Sophie. He was wearing a short charcoal peacoat and jeans that hugged him in all the right places. I took in every long, lean inch of him. The boy had a body that didn't quit. And he was gorgeous and talented to boot. I repressed a shiver.

  He caught sight of me and turned to give me a smile. That smile took my breath away. The way his eyes danced, the little quirk at the corner of his mouth, the dimple. I gave myself a mental shake. Jeez, Chloe. You’d think you'd never seen a pretty face before.

  "Hi, Chloe," Sophie called. "Your usual?"

  "Sure. Thanks, Sophie."

  Bram raised an eyebrow as I joined him. "You come here often?"

  I smiled. "I live just around the corner. This is my favorite coffee shop in Notting Hill. I come here every weekend with my friend, Kate. Or I did before she got married, anyway."

  "Then I guess this was a good choice," he said.

  "Yeah, it was. How do you know about it?"

  "I don't live too far from here myself. I don’t stop in much on the weekends, but I come fairly often during the week. I'm surprised I've never seen you here."

  I shrugged. "Lots of people coming in and out all the time. If you had, you probably wouldn't even noticed."

  "Oh, believe me," he said in that sexy growl of his, "I would've noticed."

  I told the butterflies in my stomach to behave themselves. Feeling my cheeks grow warm, I took my coffee from Sophie, which Bram insisted on paying for. Once we found a place to sit, he handed me my journal. "Here you are. Safe as houses."

  "Thank you so much. I don't know what I would've done without it." I gripped the book tightly in my hands, as if it might try and jump off the table.

  He eyed me carefully. It was as if he could see into my soul. "It's not just a day planner, is it?"

  "No," I admitted. "I, uh, sometimes like to write lyrics for songs. Just, you know, little things that get stuck in my head. I like to write them down in the planner so I remember them. I can look back and see what I was thinking about that day, how I was feeling. Sort of like a journal."

  "You write songs? That's amazing."

  "Well, I've never actually written a whole song, per se. Just little bits and pieces. And lyrics only, no melodies or anything."

  "Still, that takes some talent," he said. "Maybe we should put one of your pieces to music one day. We can play it down at the club. The customers would love it, and Gabe is totally into showing off original talent.”

  "Oh no," I said with a shake of my head. "These are just for me. They were never meant for other people to hear.”

  "And that's why it's so important that other people to hear." His gaze was so penetrating, I felt myself growing hot. “Your words speak to the soul. They move people. That sort of thing, it’s a gift.”

  I quickly changed the subject. “Anyway, thank you for returning it.”

  "I’m glad I was able to," he said. His eyes were so intense, I had to glance away.

  I stared down at the cover and ran my finger along the edge, the smooth feel of the leather soothing. "I was sure I'd never see it again." I started to rise from the table.

  "Wh
ere you going?" Bram asked. He reached out a hand to stop me. His hand over mine was warm, sending little zings of pleasure up my arm.

  I swallowed. "Home," I said. "It's late." It wasn't late. It was half six. Six thirty to the non-Brits. My stomach rumbled embarrassingly. His eyes lit up. "Ah," he said. "How about we finish this coffee, and I take you to dinner?"

  I flushed. Wonderful. Nothing like having a hot man hear your digestive juices at work. Talk about sexy.

  "Thanks, but that isn't necessary," I said. I tucked my journal into my messenger bag. It was gray, but covered with pink, green, orange, and blue flowers. "It was more than enough for you to return my day planner and buy me coffee. You don’t need to take me out to dinner as well."

  "Of course I don't need to," he said with an easy smile. "I want to. Please. Say yes."

  I wanted to say yes with ever molecule of my body. My natural spontaneity, combined with having the serious hots for Bram, were enough to send me running to dinner and anything else he wanted, but he was a musician, which meant he was probably flaky and broke, like all the rest of them. Granted, he could have a real job on the side, like I did, but that didn’t eliminate the groupies, the late nights in bars, or the obsession over music instead of relationships. What was it about me that attracted this kind of guy? Why couldn't I just find a nice man with a decent job who could actually be relied on? Who could be a partner in life?

  “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

  He frowned. “You can’t? Or you won’t?”

  I sighed. “I don’t date musicians.”

  “Really?” He leaned back, eyeing me with interest. “Why is that?”

  “I just don’t, okay?” I was suddenly irked. It was my choice. He didn’t have to get all up in my face about it.

  Except he wasn’t. There was no judgment in his tone, no censure. Just honest curiosity and no little disappointment. Except I couldn’t give him a reason without sounding like a jerk.

  “Thanks again for returning the journal. I appreciate it.” I turned to walk out the door.

  “I’ll see you soon, Chloe.” His voice was so soft, I thought for a moment I’d imagined it. “I don’t give up that easily.”