Once Upon A Sure Thing

by Blakely, Lauren

  “Well, now that we’ve pinky sworn,” she says softly, then her shoulders rise and fall, as if she’s letting the last of her tears escape, “can you go back to my hair?”

  “Of course,” I say, relinquishing my shrink role and returning to my hairdresser job. Tomorrow, I’ll wear another hat, then another. Good thing I like hats.

  As I finish her hair, she tells me how excited she is for tomorrow since we’re heading to Campbell’s in the early evening to decorate his Christmas tree. After I tie off the ends of her braid, I wrap my arms around my little monkey and give her a kiss on the forehead.

  “Do you want to watch an episode of Girls Rule?”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s this new show about a girl band in high school. I figured since you’re a girl, and you’re in a band, you might, I don’t know, like it,” she says, that deadpan Chloe back in full force.

  “Sounds like my kind of show.”

  And it sort of is. It’s cute and kitschy, but the girls can hella sing, as Chloe says.

  When the episode ends, I say goodnight and return to the living room. After I review some pages from an upcoming book about the exploits of a hyper-sarcastic sixteen-year-old who hosts her own sports radio show, I grab my phone, perusing the texts from Macy once more.

  Did we really look that hot?

  I sink onto the couch, pop in my earbuds, and find one of the videos of Miller and me. I hit play. Seconds later, a tremble rushes through me as I watch Miller kiss my neck. A shudder runs roughshod over my skin as I study the look on my face on the screen. I slow down the video, pausing it.

  Holy shit.

  That look.

  It’s like rapture. Like bliss.

  I close my eyes and recall that moment in the studio, how I felt with Miller’s lips on my body.

  I felt like a stranger in a strange new land, one I wanted to travel to again and again. I picture myself there, being kissed on my neck, my ear, and my lips. My skin heats from the inside out. My breath comes faster.

  Awareness dawns on me like the sun rising. I could stay here in this land where Miller and I kiss and touch and lose ourselves in each other.

  But it’s too risky.

  Too dangerous.

  I snap open my eyes.

  I didn’t start a band with Miller to fall into his arms. There’s a sleeping girl in the other room who needs me to always be here for her, to take care of her. The band is supposed to be part of that. It helps me provide for her, and the better Miller and I lure in fans, the more money we earn.

  I allow myself one last peek at the video then hit end. Resolved, I grab Chloe’s school bill and write a check for the next tuition installment.

  * * *

  The second the door to Campbell’s spacious apartment snicks shut, I’m greeted by a chorus of “Hashtag ZimmerHart.”

  Guess that name won’t die.

  Mackenzie cups her hands around her mouth, calling out the title bestowed by the viral masses, while her good friend Roxy whistles in appreciation. Miles joins in, shouting, “The other half of Hot Stuff is here.” From his spot on the couch, Miller seems to soak in the praise as he grins at me. That smile of his does funny things to my chest.

  Things I can’t entertain.

  I try to make light of the comments, smiling as I yank off my mittens and take Chloe’s hat, stuffing both in my purse. “We’re just having fun.”

  “Sure looked like the kind of fun I’d like to have,” Roxy says as she flicks a strand of her long red hair out from under her Mrs. Claus hat.

  “It’s crazy fun for me too. I’ve never captured anything on video like this,” Jackson says as he rummages through a bowl of popcorn that Campbell’s daughter made.

  I do my best demure smile, since that comes easily to me. “See? It’s fun for everyone.” I gesture to the tree to deflect attention. “Let’s tackle this bad boy.”

  * * *

  But the talk of the new musical duo dominates even as we decorate Campbell’s monster-size Christmas tree.

  “You guys are going to be the next big thing,” Mackenzie says, her brown eyes sparkling as she rifles through a storage box, snagging a horseshoe ornament. “When will we see you on stage?”

  “First show is next week,” I say, bouncing on my toes as I hang a fake candy cane from a low branch. “We booked a gig opening at a club in Soho.”

  Her smile radiates. “That’s amazing. And you’re just a little excited, I take it?”

  Laughing, I adjust the candy cane around a string of lights. “However could you tell?”

  “I knew the two of you would work out,” Campbell says confidently, while hanging a mini stuffed-fox ornament in the middle of the tree.

  “Of course it’s working out. She has the voice of a sexy angel, plus she’s better-looking than my brothers,” Miller says with a wink as “Santa Claus Is Comin’ to Town” blasts from the sound system.

  Campbell claps him on the back. “Why play with your washed-up brothers when you can sing with a very lovely lady?”

  Miles clears his throat dramatically, striding over to the tree with his son by his side. “Speak for yourself. I’m not washed up. Am I, Ben?”

  Miles lifts his son to reach a high branch in the tree with a mini wooden caboose.

  “No, Daddy. You took a shower this morning. I took a shower too. I decided I’m too old to take baths,” Ben says, informing us of his big decision.

  Mackenzie pinches her nose. “I don’t care for baths either. It’s like sitting in a pool of dirty water.”

  I snap my gaze to her, dropping my jaw. “You don’t like baths? I love luxuriating in the tub when I have the rare chance.”

  She shakes her head adamantly. “I don’t have a tub, and I don’t miss it.”

  Roxy raises a glass of eggnog. “Hear! Hear! I have a tub, but I don’t use it. I’m all shower, all the time.”

  “A woman who loves showers,” Miles says in a raspy tone, wiggling his eyebrows at the leggy redhead.

  I shift my gaze from him to her, and I swear he’s picturing Roxy in the shower. The dirty pervert.

  Sam’s voice slices across the chorus. “Excuse me,” she booms like a megaphone. “Anyone else think it’s unacceptable that the adults are talking about baths in front of us? If you’re under eighteen and mortally offended, raise your hand.”

  Jackson laughs and lifts his hand. Mackenzie’s son, Kyle, shoots up his palm. Chloe raises hers too. Sam sweeps through the living room, scoops up her towheaded cousin, and makes the youngest kid in the room wiggle his fingers. “See? Ben agrees.”

  With him perched on her hip, she points accusingly at the lot of us. “All of you are hereby forbidden from discussing your bathing habits henceforth and forever and ever. Amen.”

  Ben giggles and Sam gives him a big smoochy kiss on his forehead.

  “We’re so sorry,” Mackenzie and Campbell apologize in unison, complete with bows of supplication.

  “You’re forgiven,” Sam says magnanimously.

  “No more bath talk, Ally,” Miller says to me in a low, flirty voice.

  I press my hand to my chest, ever the innocent. “Hey! The bath talk was hardly my fault.”

  “I know,” he says, his voice dipping into a low growl, “but now I know you’re a mermaid.”

  My lips part, and heat splashes across my cheeks. He makes mermaid sound like the most decadent word in the English language.

  “And are you a merman?” I ask quietly, as I stretch to adjust a trio of silver and purple ornaments on a high branch.

  “I do like water,” he says with a wink. “Let me help.”

  He slides in closer to me, his freshly showered scent flooding my nose. A flush climbs over me while he finds just the right branch for the ornaments, whispering in that rough voice again, “Also, I’m not opposed to baths with mermaids.”

  His eyes darken, shimmering with desire, the way they do when he sings with me. The way that’s dangerous. I swear, I ca
n feel a full-body tremble coming on, like a Mack truck barreling down the highway.

  But it’s best to avoid gasping, sighing, or panting in front of the whole crew, so I square my shoulders like I can fight off the desire that’s picking up speed as the flush spreads down my chest.

  My hormones are saved from a public show when the opening notes of “Frosty the Snowman” fill the room.

  “I love Frosty,” Ben shouts.

  God, me too, since Frosty is taking my focus off my out-of-control libido.

  Campbell dives into the first few lines, singing about two eyes made out of coal. Soon his golden tones are twined with those of his brothers, telling a tale of a snowman that comes to life.

  The look on Miller’s face is pure joy, and I’m keenly aware he can’t ever resist the chance to knock out tunes with his former bandmates. His favorite bandmates.

  My heart hurts a little, knowing he’ll always prefer them.

  But I can’t compete in that department. I don’t have the equipment or the DNA, so there’s no point. I remind myself not to feel threatened by them, even mentally. Instead, I enjoy the special concert as the three former teen heartthrobs serenade their families with Christmas music.

  When the tune ends, Mackenzie springs to her feet, clapping so loudly it must hurt her palms. “Encore! Encore!”

  Miller looks to his brother, snaps his fingers, and says, “Do you recall . . .?”

  And the trio rocks out to “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” as the rest of us chime in with the chorus. They slide into “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” next, and at the end of that song, Campbell walks over to the spacious leather couch, sets his hands onto Mackenzie’s shoulders, and sings the final lines to her.

  My heart melts into a puddle from the love they share—it’s like it has its own life force. It fills the living room. They’re so madly in love it makes my chest ache.

  It makes me want.

  I have to look away, but when I do, I find Miller watching me, maybe even cataloging my reaction to Mackenzie and Campbell—the new lovers, the happy couple.

  Our eyes connect, and the back of my neck grows hot. I need to resist him for so many reasons, but when he gazes at me like that, my resolve starts to burn off.

  “How about Miller and Ally?” Mackenzie shouts, and I frown.

  “How about Miller and Ally what?” I ask, a little defensively. Did she catch on to something?

  “A song,” Mackenzie adds with a smile, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

  “Let’s do it,” Miller says, catching my gaze again. He licks his lips and shoots me a wolfish smile. That’s a new one, and it makes me feel like he can read my mind, dirty thoughts and all. Have I become an open book?

  Campbell slices a hand through the air. “Hey, now, this is a family Christmas party, folks. Kids are here, so we can’t have Hot Stuff sing.”

  “Is that our new band name?” Miller asks.

  Campbell scratches his jaw, then nods. “It’s better than Other Uses for Ribbons.”

  “It’s not a bad name,” I admit.

  Miller smiles. “I like Hot Stuff. Want to sing a tune, Ally?”

  But before I can answer, Campbell interrupts. “No way. You guys are Not Safe For Work. Or kids.”

  I blush but laugh it off. “We’ll be good.”

  “We’ll be great,” Miller says. He grabs my hand, and my stomach flips when he slides his fingers through mine. Glancing down at our joined hands, my mind frolics further on tawdrier shores, picturing his fingers tracing my skin, my breasts, my belly.

  Shake it off, Ally.

  “We can be safe for kids, right?” Miller says in his sweetest, good-boy voice.

  Speak for yourself.

  He launches into a rousing rendition of “Jingle Bells,” and I’ve no choice but to follow him there.

  Chastely.

  But tell that to my libido. Even with the hand-holding, and the dashing through the snow, my pulse is spiking dangerously by the end of the song, and I still want my best friend to slide his arms around me again, find some mistletoe, and kiss me under it.

  Inappropriately.

  Senselessly.

  For hours.

  When the song finishes, I force myself to let go of his hand so I don’t grab him and slam him against me in front of everyone. Swallowing roughly, I walk to the kitchen area, grab the bottle of white wine, and pour myself a glass.

  I might die of thirst.

  Mackenzie joins me. “The guys sound amazing together.”

  “They do. This is the first time you’ve heard them sing together in person, right?”

  “Yes. Do they do this every year?”

  “They can’t seem to resist singing together. Old habits die hard.”

  “But you and Miller sound great too. Are you having a blast playing with him?”

  I contemplate that question as I glance at the other half of Hot Stuff. Miller’s floppy brown hair falls onto his forehead, and his toothpaste smile flashes as he builds a Lego train with Ben by the newly decorated tree. Yes, blast is precisely the word I’d use.

  It feels a little like my heart’s being blasted by something unexpected.

  Something I can’t have.

  Yet something I desperately want.

  A little later, Jackson takes off, saying goodnight to our crew. Then Chloe unleashes an epic yawn, a sign that it’s time to go.

  Once I’m away from Miller, I’ll be able to reset my mind. I’ll knit a new hat and focus all my energy on needles and yarn, rather than sex and kisses.

  Needles and yarn, I repeat silently.

  I grab my coat and plan to say goodbye to Miller, figuring he’ll head home.

  But he says he’ll go with me.

  I try to rein in my wild grin and the galloping in my heart.

  “We can work on our next song when Chloe’s in bed,” he says, by way of explanation.

  I hate how much my heart leaps at the thought.

  And I love it too.

  Chapter 17

  Ally

  In the cab, Chloe yawns majestically but still details her plans for Christmas Eve. “We’re going to order Chinese food, go to church, and make cookies for Santa.”

  “Gingerbread, I hope,” Miller says as the cab swings down Broadway, dodging past cars and buses.

  “His favorite, of course.” She lets loose another epic yawn as her eyes flutter. In a heartbeat, her head sinks onto Miller’s shoulder.

  “Don’t forget carrots for the reindeer,” he says softly, patting her hair.

  “We never forget the reindeer.”

  Somewhere south of Twenty-Third, a faint snore rumbles from my girl.

  I smile at Miller, who’s become her pillow. He grins back, and as I regard the tableau they make, my heart expands like a water balloon. It’s too big for my chest. I’ll need a new place to store this organ soon.

  But it’s precarious too. It’ll pop any second.

  When we reach my block, a quiet stretch of Sixteenth between Seventh and Eighth Avenues, the taxi stops, and I swipe my credit card to pay. Once the transaction is complete, I turn around to find Miller has lifted Chloe out of the cab, and she’s still sound asleep in his arms.

  It is one of the sweetest things I’ve ever seen, and as I shut the door to the cab, I mentally record the image—him holding her on a cold and quiet Manhattan street, with a hint of snow in the sky. In this tender moment, something shifts inside me.

  Something unnamed, but something swollen with potential, with hope. This brand-new thing rattles around, both scaring and thrilling me.

  I want that.

  Right there.

  Him.

  My heart glows as I flash back on the sweet and silly ways Miller has come to take care of Chloe.

  Checking out her photos.

  Helping her with projects.

  Joining us for dinner.

  It’s too much, the flip, flip, flip of images—Miller supporting Chloe. Chloe la
ughing with Miller. The moments. The days. All the times it’s been the three of us. Everything aches inside me with a terrifying new longing. I’ve resisted closeness and eschewed intimacy because most of the men I’ve dated didn’t want my baggage.

  Miller has embraced it.

  As a friend, I remind myself. He’s a friend to you and to Chloe.

  Grabbing a mental broom, I sweep those images of him and her out of sight. If I don’t, I won’t be able to make it through the next few minutes without flinging myself at him.

  “You can set her down. She’ll wake up long enough to make it upstairs,” I say softly.

  “I’ve got her,” he whispers, and that’s my cue to zip into action.

  I scurry to the front door, unlock it, and hold it wide open for him. Then I race to the elevator and hit the up button. The lift arrives instantly, and we step inside, Chloe still slumped on his shoulder, slumbering. When we reach the third floor, I scramble down the hall to open the door to my apartment.

  Miraculously, she remains in the land of nod. He carries her to her room and gently lowers her to the bed. I take off her glasses, set them on her nightstand, and tug off her boots. I help her out of her coat, a feat I somehow manage without waking her up. She lets out a small, soft sigh as I pull up the covers and tuck them under her chin, topping them with a white blanket covered in a ladybug pattern. Lindsay bought it for her when she was five. It was a birthday present, and she cherished it.

  Chloe flips to her side, and I press the softest kiss to her forehead. Miller brushes his hand over her shoulder, a tender gesture that hooks into me once more. We leave her room, and in the doorway, we cast our gazes to the sleeping child at the same time.

  Before the moment swallows me whole, I pull the door shut, and it clicks closed. I’m relieved to put that part of the night behind me. Pretty sure I can only withstand one full-body melting per evening.

  “Wine and song?” I ask, since it feels exactly like wine o’clock right now.

  “We’ll crack open a bottle and tackle our next tune.”

  I pour two glasses of white and join him on my plush purple sofa covered in silver pillows and a teal throw blanket. I reach for my notebook so we can start brainstorming a song.