Once Upon A Sure Thing

by Blakely, Lauren

  “Patience, ladies, patience,” Samantha calls out as she checks the timer on the oven. “Also, under no circumstances are you putting any peanut butter balls in your undergarments.”

  Mackenzie’s eyes widen, and she mimes removing contraband from her pants.

  I crack up.

  “Just give me a treat. Something to tide me over, then. I’m dying, Sam. Dying, I tell ya,” Mackenzie says, swooning dramatically against the counter.

  “This is indeed torture of the highest degree,” I say, as I sprinkle sugar on the dessert. “You should try doing this without jamming your whole face into the bread pudding.”

  Samantha swivels around and points a finger accusingly at me. “Do not ruin my Christmas treats. If you do, I will banish you from Samantha’s Treat Zone.”

  I shudder. That sounds like a terrible punishment.

  “Say you’re sorry, Aunt Ally. I don’t want us banished. Get down on your hands and knees if you have to,” Chloe advises in a desperate plea.

  I bat my eyes at Samantha. “I promise not to stuff my face into the dessert.”

  Samantha smiles and nods crisply. “Good. You all deserve a treat now.” She doles out chocolate peanut butter balls to each of us, and I moan in pleasure as one melts on my tongue.

  As we put the finishing touches on the bread pudding, I find myself humming the audition tune.

  Mackenzie cocks her head. “Hey, Ally. What’s that you’re singing?”

  I don’t answer right away. I shoot her an impish little grin then wiggle my eyebrows.

  “Want to hear something cool?”

  Mackenzie and Sam say yes.

  I take a deep breath and decide to tell them my good news. I know these ladies well. They’re practically family. “You know how Miller finally decided to have auditions to find a new Garfunkel to his Simon?”

  They both nod.

  I grin, ready to burst. “I submitted an audition, and he went crazy for it.”

  Mackenzie’s eyes flicker like a switch has flipped on. “Oh my God, you must be Honey Lavender!”

  “Shh,” I say, even though the guys aren’t here. I nod too, pleased that my nom de plume has traveled all the way to Mackenzie’s ears.

  “He can’t stop telling Campbell how psyched he is to hear her sing in person,” Mackenzie says.

  That intel thrills me. “Here’s my plan,” I say, then give them the details of what I’ve been cooking up.

  Samantha squeals. “I can’t wait to hear how it all goes down.”

  Later at the party, Miller tugs me aside, a wicked grin on his face. Butterflies take off in a pod race across my entire being. “I found someone amazing to sing with me. She’s going to come in to meet with me on Monday.”

  “That’s great,” I say, giving my best cool-and-calm-while-I’m-dancing-inside reaction.

  “Any chance you can come to the audition, listen to us, and give me some feedback? I’d love your opinion, and it’ll be in your studio.”

  A cough bursts from my throat. My skin flames red hot. Since I haven’t yet learned how to clone myself, or spirit-clone myself, for that matter, I give a quick shrug. “I’d love to, but I’m busy then.”

  He furrows his brow. “But I didn’t give you a time.”

  Oops.

  I swallow down a gotcha stone, but then call on my best warrior princess confidence. “I know, silly kitten. I’m busy all day Monday. I have to work on a Casey Stern novel, and the publisher wants me to record at the in-house studios.”

  He heaves a sigh but then smiles brightly. “I’ll ask Miles to join Campbell and me, since he’s in town.”

  He strolls over to his younger brother, and all my nerves crawl up my throat and threaten to throttle me. Now I have to perform my “ta-da, it’s me” routine in front of Miller and his two brothers.

  I could use a spirit clone for sure.

  Chapter 6

  Ally

  A little makeup is all a cloned girl needs.

  Okay, maybe a wig too. Definitely some sexy clothes.

  Fortunately, my brother’s wife, Macy, is a genius when it comes to makeup and va-va-voom outfits. She’s a makeup artist extraordinaire, and now she’s my secret weapon since she’s giving me smoldering eyes and pouty lips. The blonde glam wig is perfection too, with its vixen style and bangs that make my eyes a little mysterious as I peek out from under the hair.

  But Chloe keeps shaking her head as she gets ready for school on Monday, making peanut butter toast. “Aunt Ally, I don’t know how you think you’re going to trick Miller.”

  From my perch at the kitchen counter, I hold up a finger to correct her. “I’m not trying to trick him. I’m trying to get him to see me in a new light.”

  She shoots me a questioning look. “But he likes your light.”

  I shake my head as Macy dips into her bag for more makeup. “He likes my light as a friend. I want him to see me as a singer that can match his style.”

  Chloe shrugs. “I think he likes you for you.”

  Oh, to be eleven again.

  Wait. That sounds awful. Eleven was rough. So was twelve, thirteen, fourteen, and all ages through to seventeen.

  “I know he does, but I want him to see me as someone he can sing with.”

  As she slings her backpack on her shoulder, Chloe looks me over from head to toe. “So, it’s like a costume.”

  I smile, glad that she gets what I’m doing. “Yes! I’m playing a role. I want Miller to see who I can be, and that I’m not only the type of woman who can sing ‘Amazing Grace,’ but I can also sing ‘Need You Now’ with him, and tunes like ‘Love Me Like Crazy.’”

  “Good luck, but don’t forget Dr. Jane says sometimes you just need to be yourself,” Chloe says as she reaches for the door handle. “Bye, Aunt Macy.”

  “Wait,” I call out, then turn to Macy. “I need to walk her to the bus stop on the corner. Be right back.”

  “Of course. Go.”

  I pop up, grab a jacket and a scarf, and head down three flights of stairs to take Chloe to the bus stop. Her bus arrives quickly, and I give her a peck on the cheek.

  “Bye, Aunt Ally,” Chloe says, and it hurts my heart the littlest bit that we’re both aunts to her. Yes, Macy has been a part of her life, but I’m the one she lives with, and I take care of her. I’ve effectively become her mother. Yet at the end of the day, I’m still Aunt Ally to her, and the woman doing my mascara is her aunt too.

  And she’s my niece.

  My niece who I adore.

  Even though I love her like a daughter.

  “Love you, Monkey. Have an amazing day.”

  Once she’s on the bus, I scurry out of the chilly December air and back to my apartment, where Macy puts the finishing touches on my new look. Like I’m a science fair exhibit, she gestures to me. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I present Honey Lavender, the sultriest of torch singers.”

  I unzip my sweatshirt and toss it to the floor as she guides me to the full-length mirror in my bedroom. I do look like a woman who fits the name.

  The push-up bra Macy told me to wear has lifted the girls higher, while the scoop-neck blouse reveals the curves of said ta-tas. My makeup makes me look all kinds of foxy, with kohl-lined eyes and thick lashes that go on for miles. My red lipstick could stop a truck.

  “Damn,” I say with a whistle.

  “Damn, indeed. And on that note, I need to get my butt back to Brooklyn,” Macy says, as she turns around and picks up her makeup bag. “Kirby has to go to work, and I have a newborn to take care of.”

  “Thanks for coming out here to transform me.”

  She winks. “You look perfectly sexy and sinful.”

  She rushes out, and seconds later my phone buzzes with a text from her.

  Macy: By the way, you absolutely look like Honey von Trapp.

  Ally: Ha! But it’s Honey Lavender.

  Macy:You do know that sounds like a pen name? You should use that to narrate romance novels.

  Ally: I�
��m trying. But today, I’m trying the costume look.

  Macy: Meow, Honey. You should save that get-up for Halloween and go as a sexy . . . anything :)

  Ally: Why thank you…I’ve been looking for an “anything” costume.

  Macy: Also, I’m soooooo sorry we’re moving. I feel terrible since it’s all our fault that you’re ditching your Keds for the vamp look.

  Ally: Stop! Stop! It’s not your fault! This is a huge opportunity for Kirby in Boston, and I will be just fine without the regular sweet-as-pie Zimmerman duo videos.

  Macy: You will? *arches skeptical brow*

  Ally: I promise. That’s why I’m Honey Von Trapping it today. To find the next thing that’ll give me little extra pocket money. And because I want to.

  Macy: With your pipes and now your smoldering eyes, you’re irresistibly sexy and sinful, and I know you’ll sound like a million bucks. But maybe try to remember whether you’re Honey Von Trapp or Honey Lavender, ya know :)?

  Ally: By the way, I picked Lavender for you. Since you insisted on giving me the lavender streak in the first place.

  Macy: And your lavender streak is like a signature of awesome. Love ya, bunches.

  I return to the mirror, checking out my side reflection, then my other profile.

  I look sinful.

  I look hot to trot.

  But I also don’t look like me.

  At all.

  Chloe’s words echo in my mind. Be yourself.

  I believe in that. I truly do. But I’m not the singer Miller wants. He wants the woman with the smoky voice, and I need him to see I can be the part.

  Except as I stare at myself, my eyes keep darting back to my chest, and the way my breasts look in this top. If I’m drawn to the Boobsy Twins, that’s the only place a man will look.

  Looking the part is well and good, but I can’t entirely play this role. Nor do I want to, I realize. I want to win on my voice and my talent. Not my tits, and not my lipstick.

  I tug off the top, toss the push-up bra on my bed, and change into a regular bra and a simple black sweater that slopes off my shoulder.

  There.

  I’m leaving something to the imagination.

  There’s something else that needs to go. This red lipstick is too look-at-me-I’m-Sandra-Dee. I grab a tissue, wipe it off, and slick on some pink lip gloss instead.

  I pull on jeans and ankle boots and consider my reflection one more time. I don’t look like Honey. I don’t look like Ally. I look like a mash-up, and that’s what has always served me well: mashing up songs. Today, I’m going to attempt to mash my style with Miller’s.

  “Wish me luck,” I say to my reflection, then I call Campbell and tell him I need a teeny favor in about an hour.

  He laughs. “Consider it done.”

  I leave and head to the studio, telling all these fidgety nerves to get the hell away from me, and don’t go near Honey either.

  Chapter 7

  Miller

  The eight singers so far have been solid. Some have even bordered on good. The trouble is when you hear a voice that haunts you, and it’s a good kind of haunting, nothing else comes close.

  “Thanks so much. I’ll be in touch,” I say to the redheaded alto, Angelica, as she leaves the studio.

  I turn to my brothers and Jackson, who asked if he could watch the auditions too, since he’s off from school today. Miles dropped off his son, Ben, with our parents for the day. “What do we think, gentlemen?”

  Miles shrugs and scratches his stubble-lined jaw. He’s working the scruff look hard these days. “I could have taken a nap during that last one.” He yawns majestically. “There was no snap, crackle, or pop. No spark that became a fire. No electric—”

  “I get it. No chemistry.”

  “But maybe there will be gobs of it when the next woman comes in,” Jackson says.

  I stand a little taller. “That’s Honey, right?”

  Miles scans the list of names then nods. “She’s the last one.”

  Campbell taps his watch then meets my gaze. “Looks like she should be here any minute. Any chance you could grab me a bottle of water?”

  I shoot him a look. Campbell isn’t usually a can-you-grab-me-a-bottle-of-water type of guy. “Would you like me to order you dinner and set your table too?”

  “That sounds nice. Please put me down for a full meal service, as well.”

  Miles rolls his blue eyes. “I’ll go with you, Miller. Our big brother is so lazy sometimes.”

  I look at Campbell meaningfully, clapping my hand on Miles’s shoulder. “See? Dodgeball wants to help me.” That’s what we’ve always called Miles, due to his ability to get out of trouble every single time our parents came down on us.

  Campbell shoos us out. “I bet those water bottles are so terribly heavy. It’s a good thing you have assistance.”

  Miles and I leave the studio suite and head down the hall.

  “You enjoying the break, or are you itching to get back on the road?” I ask him.

  “Actually,” he says, taking his time answering, “not as much as I thought.”

  I jerk my gaze toward him. “Touring was always your favorite part of this whole thing.”

  “It was, and I made it work for a long time, but Ben is starting school soon.”

  I nod, understanding completely. Miles has hired babysitters and nannies galore for Ben, so his son could be with him on the job in the early years. “You can always tour in summers though.”

  “That’s the plan. Pretty sure I’ll go crazy if I don’t tour.”

  “I know the going-crazy feeling well, Dodgeball,” I say as I turn into the snack room and grab a couple bottles from the fridge.

  “You do know that I have a nickname and you don’t, and that’s because you’re the middle child, and therefore totally unloved.”

  “I do suffer without love and a nickname,” I say wryly as we make our way back to the booth.

  I toss a bottle of cold water to Campbell, and he catches it easily then tips his chin toward the glass. “She’s in there.”

  A laser beam of excitement zips through me. “She just arrived?”

  “I was a big boy and let her in by myself. She’s waiting for you.”

  I peer through the glass, but she’s looking away. Bright blonde hair hits her jaw, showing off the sexy curve of her neck.

  Don’t think of her neck as sexy, you jackass.

  Her neck is functional. It holds up her head.

  I uncap the water, take a deep swig, and head into the recording studio.

  The second I step inside, I’m walloped by music. There isn’t even a moment to extend a hand and say hello. Campbell has already started playing the music track to Lady Antebellum’s “Need You Now.”

  He doesn’t usually start it that quickly, so I snap my gaze in his direction, but his head’s down. In a split second, Honey launches into the duet, the sweet and sexy notes filling my head like decadent perfume.

  I regard her in profile, trying to figure out this blonde in painted-on jeans and boots. She swivels around, and I blink.

  The world slows.

  My brain blurs.

  One of these things is not like the other.

  Because there’s no way Honey is my best friend.

  There’s no way that’s Ally holding the mic and singing in a tone I’ve never heard come from her pipes before.

  There’s no way her blue eyes are lined that deliciously dark, no way her hair is that sexpot style, no way her lips are so pouty.

  My puzzlement shifts from curiosity to intrigue. I’ve never seen this side of Ally, and I gawk like I’m watching a giraffe dance the rumba at the zoo. She slides into the next verse, lighting me up with her voice.

  Her eyes linger on me, roaming over my face. I mouth, You? Even though she’s here, I still need the confirmation. I still want the confirmation.

  She nods, smiling playfully as she sings.

  I’ve been tricked. I’ve been treated. I’ve b
een fooled. And I love it.

  She sings like a sinner. She sings like an angel. She sounds like whiskey and sugar. I’ve only ever known her for her church-bell voice, but now she’s a glorious mix of dirty and sweet, and I never knew she had it in her.

  But I can’t marinate in this change-up. It’s showtime for me.

  Grabbing the mic, I dive into my first line as I gaze into those blue eyes of my friend. Only I have to think of her as Honey, so I sing to the new woman about how I can’t do without her, how I need her now.

  Something is in the air between us when we sing, something charged. Something that hasn’t been there before. Stage chemistry.

  I move closer as if I’m drawn by the pull of gravity that I have no control over. We lock eyes and everyone else fades away. I’m still in shock that I’m loving singing a song with my best friend.

  That’s what terrifies me. Especially since we sound good together, and we move well together.

  Maybe we even look good together, as we belt out this hot-as-fuck duet, and for the first time we’re not butchering a holiday tune or destroying “Total Eclipse of the Heart” at karaoke. As she moves closer to me, we sing the final chorus like it’s going out of style, and when the music softens, I can’t resist. I finger a strand of her blonde wig, the coconut scent from her lotion floating into my nose.

  Reluctantly, I let the hair fall.

  Clapping rings loud in my ears.

  Jackson, Miles, and Campbell give a standing O. Jackson holds up his phone, pointing to it, letting me know he caught it on video.

  “Chemistry,” the guys all shout, practically in unison.