But for now . . . Hello, nice view.
As the guy turns the knob on the amp, his brown hair flops over his eyes. He flicks it off his forehead with a quick snap then runs his fingers down the strings on his guitar. Those fingers fly.
I bet they’d fly other places too.
Come to think of it, I better give him a full and proper appraisal, especially since the Jeopardy!-style theme clock blasting from the hostess’s phone is counting down the seconds till we’ve all penned an answer to her latest question, which means I have time to ogle.
A thin blue T-shirt reveals inked and toned arms, and stubble covers his jaw—deliberate stubble. Not the I-didn’t-shave-today stubble, but a healthy amount of scruff. Yum.
“Would you like your camera to take a picture, or have you captured Guitar Hero in your brain for posterity?”
I jerk my gaze back to Roxy.
Note to self: develop some subtlety when ogling. Especially since you’re out of practice on . . . everything.
I flip a strand of hair off my shoulder. “I wasn’t checking him out.”
Roxy rolls her hazel eyes. “I’m hereby awarding you a trophy for the most unconvincing attempt at denial ever.”
I huff. “Fine. He’s crazy handsome. Look at those cheekbones. Those lips. Those eyes.”
She sings his praises too. “Those hands, that ass, those legs.”
I swat her arm. “Stop perving on my eye candy.”
My best friend smiles wickedly. “It’s so easy to see through you.”
“I didn’t deny it for long.” I hold up one finger. “For, like, one round of denial.”
She reaches for my iced tea and hands it to me. “Speaking of rounds, take a drink. It’ll make you strong for the final round of the game.”
“Sometimes I think you use me for the useless facts in my head.”
“You don’t have to think it. You know I do.”
“Love you too.”
“Also,” she says, leaning closer, “your eye candy was checking you out as well.”
My eyebrows shoot into my hairline. “Lying liar who lies.”
The hostess taps the mic from her spot in front of Mr. Guitar Hero. “And now, for the final question in The Tuesday Night Grouchy Owl Pub Quiz . . .”
Like synchronized swimmers, Roxy and I straighten our shoulders in unison. I grab the pencil. Hold it tight. This isn’t a first-to-the-bell game, but there’s something about being on high alert that feels right. I’m ready.
Questions zip through my brain, answers following instantly as my mind exercises itself. The Beatles were first the Quarrymen; at sixty-three, Jupiter has the most moons; the Pacific is 8,000 meters deep.
“Which Whitney Houston song is an anagram of ‘mention mine to me’?”
What the what?
I turn to Roxy, and we are matching slack-jawed, WTH memes. Admittedly, pop music is my weakest category, but I can handle the basic questions surrounding the genre. This question is a little left of center though. I try my best to cycle through the diva’s tunes. We mouth to each other the big Whitney hits: "I Will Always Love You.” “Greatest Love of All.” “How Will I Know.”
I shake my head, and Roxy furrows her brow.
I stare off at the stage when the guy with the surfer hair catches my gaze and mouths hi, startling me. Is he talking to me? Oh yes, he is, since he follows that hi with four more words.
Holy smokes.
He slipped me the answer.
I’m officially in love.
I grab Roxy’s arm. “‘One Moment in Time,’” I whisper, and I unleash a smile at Guitar Hero. Because we’re one step closer to winning, and that’s one of my favorite things to do on a Tuesday night during my hour-long escape at The Grouchy Owl.
But wait. How does hottie know a Whitney Houston song? Straight men can know Whitney tunes, right?
Of course they can. God, I hope so. He looks seriously straight. He’s staring at me like a man who enjoys boobs stares at a woman who has them.
I sneak another peek. His fingers slide down the guitar as he tunes it. He raises an eyebrow and locks eyes with me, his lips curving up.
My stupid stomach has the audacity to swoop.
Of course, in my stomach’s defense, the loop-de-loop makes complete sense. Not only is he a babe registering easily at 15.5 on the only-goes-to-ten babe-o-meter, but he’s holding a guitar. The way he wields the Stratocaster cranks my libido up high.
That might be due to said libido’s sadly solo life these days.
As the hostess collects the answer slips, Roxy nudges my shoulder. “Go talk to him.”
I roll my eyes.
“Oh please. You can do it,” she adds.
“I’m not going to go talk to some random guy onstage at a bar, prepping for his set.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” I sputter. “Because it’s dangerous, risky, crazy, and I have a thirteen-year-old at home.”
“Isn’t Kyle out right now? Practice or something?”
“Yes, but I need to pick him up in a few minutes, and that means I should go.”
Roxy pouts. “Don’t go before we find out if we win. And don’t go before you talk to Mr. Steamy McMusic.”
I laugh and shake my head. “You go talk to him.”
“I can’t. He has your eye marks all over him.”
“Good. I own the view.”
I stand, and Roxy joins me to give a quick goodbye hug. “Love ya,” I say.
“Thanks for coming out to play. It’s nice to see your face every now and then.”
I head to the door, nearly bumping into the curly-haired Big Ike on the way.
“Hey, Mack. Is Kyle ready for Pine Notes?” she barks.
“Starts tomorrow. He’s so excited.” As the keeper of all musical knowledge in the tristate area, she recommended the music camp my son’s attending starting tomorrow, and it sounds like a fantastic opportunity.
“The teachers there are great. He’s going to love it.”
I give a thumbs-up, wave goodbye, and don’t even bother to check and see if Mr. Guitar Hero is watching me, though I’m tempted.
I head down the street then turn the corner, hoofing it a few blocks to the community center where Kyle practices with some of the other kids his age. He’s formed an ad hoc sort of string quartet with some friends in the city who like the same music as he does. Shortly after I arrive, the kids stream outside, and I smile at my little blond-haired, brown-eyed guy.
Okay, he’s not so little anymore.
But he’s still my guy.
“Hey, monster,” I say. “How was practice?”
He slings his violin case over his shoulder. “It was good. We worked on a new Brahms concerto that’s totally dope.”
“That’s the only way Brahms concertos should be.”
During the short walk home, Kyle regales me with details of the music. His voice rises as he grows more excited, then he smiles at me, the metal in his braces occupying most of the real estate on his teeth.
We reach our building and go inside.
“Did you win big tonight?” he asks once we’re in our apartment.
I shrug and smile. “Don’t know. But we fought valiantly. Are you hungry? Want me to cook some scrambled eggs with rosemary country potatoes?”
He pats his flat belly on his trim frame. “I’m still stuffed from the sandwich you made earlier.”
I gesture to his room. “Big day tomorrow. Go put your violin away and get ready for bed. We’re leaving to take you to camp at seven thirty sharp.”
He salutes me on the way to his room.
A few minutes later, Kyle has brushed his teeth, washed his face, and is reading his biography of Mariano Rivera. I park myself on the edge of his twin bed and knock on the book’s spine. “Good guy or bad guy?”
Kyle only reads books about sports stars if he deems them good guys, so I know the answer, but I ask anyway because I like knowing what’s in his head. For now, sin
ce he hasn’t hit puberty with a vengeance, he usually tells me what’s on his mind. “Definitely a good guy. He’s also the greatest closer of all time.”
I’m not even a sports fan, but I know that. “Six hundred fifty career saves isn’t too shabby.”
“You’re such a dork.”
“From one to another.” I tap his forehead. “Did you take your headache meds?”
He gives me a thumbs-up.
“Good.” I give him a kiss and say good night. “Love you so much.”
“Love you too, Mom.”
When I retreat to my room, I find a message from Roxy on my phone.
Roxy: We won, but it was by the hair of our chinny-chin-chins! It was super close—we need to be tighter next time. Also, all this could be yours.
The screen fills with an image and tingles zip down my body. Damn, that man is dangerously handsome, especially with the intensity in his eyes as he plays that instrument.
I sigh happily. I’m so checking him out.
What’s the harm? He’s likely in some band that’s making a one-night-only appearance at The Grouchy Owl, like many of the bands that play there do. I’ll probably never see him again. Unless you count later tonight in my dreams. Because that face and those hands are definitely fodder for a good night fantasy.
Besides, fantasies are the only times I’ve had any action lately, and by lately, I mean years.
You can find UPON A REAL GOOD TIME here!!
Acknowledgments
Thank you to Michelle Wolfson. Without her wizardry, belief and tenacity, this book would not be in your hands. Abiding gratitude to Lauren Clarke, Jen McCoy, Helen Williams, Kim Bias, Marion Archer, Virginia, Lynn, Karen, Tiffany, Janice, Stephanie and more for their eyes. Big thanks to Helen for the beautiful cover. I owe a debt of thanks to CD Reiss who helped me reshape this story into what it is now. Thank you to KP, Kelley and Candi.
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Unbreak My Heart Page 18