“Nope.”
“Are you going to serenade Jamie?”
“Double nope.”
“I see,” he says.
My grin falters a bit. Jamie and Ollie and I used to get a huge kick out of karaoke bars, and they were always a cure for a bad week. But Damien is not Jamie or Ollie or me, and considering his current stony expression, it’s more than possible that I misjudged the appeal of this evening’s entertainment.
I meet Jamie’s eyes in the mirror and see her tiny shrug.
I am just about to announce that I was joking and that we are really on our way to a five-star restaurant where we’ll discuss business theory and stock prices, when his mouth twitches and his eyes begin to light with his slowly growing smile. “And here I thought you loved me,” he says.
I force myself not to sag with relief. “I do.”
“And you thought that singing bad seventies songs in public would be a good way to show it?”
I pause at a stop sign, and take the opportunity to glare at him. “Are you mocking me, Mr. Stark?”
“Never,” he says, but his eyes are dancing.
“Mmm. I was actually thinking along the lines of the Rat Pack oeuvre, but I’ll go with bad seventies if that’s what you want. I’m more than willing to compromise.”
His expression is pure sin. “I’m very glad to hear it, Ms. Fairchild.”
“There it is,” Jamie says from the backseat. She is pointing to a brightly lit building just up the block. “That’s it, and thank God. It’s getting just a little too warm in here.”
I bite back a retort. As far as I’m concerned, with Damien, it can never be too hot.
Whatever heat there might be in the Jeep, however, has nothing on the interior of the bar. It’s cramped and smoky and so warm it feels sticky. And, frankly, that’s part of its charm. I can see from Damien’s approving expression as we walk through the wooden double doors and into the dark interior that he agrees.
“It’s definitely got atmosphere,” he says, his hand pressed lightly to my back as he scans the room.
“What about that table?” Jamie asks, and Damien and I follow her across the room to a four top near the stage. “Order me something fun,” Jamie says, then disappears toward the ladies’ room.
Karaoke night is already going strong, and as we get settled, a teddy bear of a man with a lumberjack beard belts out Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive” with at least as much energy as Gloria herself ever put into it.
I slump a bit in my chair and press my hand over my mouth in sympathetic embarrassment.
Damien notices and laughs. “Not planning to jump up and burst out into song yourself?”
“No,” I admit. “At the moment, I don’t need the pain.”
I can tell that Damien knows I’m teasing, but he still cocks his head and studies my face. I roll my eyes and take his hand, squeezing tight. “Sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t joke about that.”
“I don’t mind the jokes,” he says, “so long as you don’t mind me second-guessing them to make sure there’s no hidden agenda.”
I turn my head away so that I do not have to meet his eyes. I can’t help but think how close I came on the plane to breaking that damn glass and dragging the raw edge of the shard into the flesh of my thigh.
I didn’t, though. And it is the fact that we are both aware of my victory that gives me the strength to turn and look back into his eyes, expecting to see reproach on his face. But all I see is love.
“I will always worry,” he says gently. “There is no off switch, no pause button. You are the thing in this world that means the most to me, but we both know that I have come close to breaking you more than once. So get mad at me if you want, but don’t tell me to stop being concerned or second-guessing you. I won’t. I can’t.”
Slowly, I smile. “It’s not about my pain,” I say lightly, intent on refocusing our evening to its proper perspective. “It’s about the pain of all these people were I to get up on this stage.”
“Oh, but you’re going to,” he says, grinning wickedly.
“Um, no. No way.”
“Mmm.” He stands and eyes me for a moment, then nods. “All right,” he says. “You don’t have to get up on the stage.”
I exhale in relief even as he bends to kiss my cheek, but then he walks away toward the guy who is emceeing this evening. A little finger of dread shoots up my spine as I see the emcee’s eyes widen in recognition. Then he nods and starts to type something into his machine as Damien takes the stage. My chest tightens, and suddenly I’m having a little trouble breathing. Damien, however, doesn’t look nervous at all. He’s standing there in front of the screen upon which some lyrics will begin to flash, the lights from above shining down on him. He’s wearing jeans and a casual linen shirt, and I can’t help but think that he’s the sexiest man in this bar. And he’s all mine.
He taps the mic, and a soft pop reverberates through the room, making me jump. I shift in my seat and see Jamie hurrying over, her eyes as wide as mine feel.
On stage, Damien focuses on the crowd, looking as cool and confident as if he were in his own office about to give a presentation to a client. “I’d planned on doing Elton John and Kiki Dee’s “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart,” but I’m having a little trouble working out the logistics of a duet.” I feel the eyes of the pub’s patrons as they turn to look at me. I’m not hard to find, especially considering Jamie’s hoot of laughter and then her fingers aimed shotgun-style in my direction. I cup my hand over my forehead and duck my head to hide my blush, not certain if I’m amused at Damien or desperately pissed off.