What Ronan doesn’t know is that I’ve probably watched the movie a thousand times. And I’ve seen the play at least twenty times. I also have the soundtrack and I listen to it in my car all the time. I don’t even need the lyric feed. My love for Grease is a good part of the reason I wear the dresses I do.

When I adopt an obsession, I don’t half ass it; I commit fully. Much like my obsession with Harry Potter and cupcakes. When I was a teenager, I used to love drama class. Even in college I would join the theater groups for fun. I didn’t ever want it to be a job. Once I was the understudy for the role of Sandy, so I know the entire song by heart, actions included.

I smooth my hands over my skirt and hand the microphone back to him. I love that he has to start.

I have to hand it to Ronan. He really does try to hit the notes and he doesn’t do a half bad job, but he has to keep looking at the screen. His gaze keeps darting back and forth. It makes it that much more satisfying when I cover his hand with mine, tip the microphone down and sing to him, telling him he’s the one that I want.

It’s obvious he’s shocked, possibly because I don’t need the lyric prompt, possibly because I’m not a half bad singer. He almost misses the cue to join me, but I nudge him and nod to the screen, forcing him to drag his eyes away from mine.

He tries to keep up. It’s rather commendable, and I will say, what he lacks in vocal range he makes up for in hip shaking.

When the song ends, the crowd bursts into uncontrollable applause and shouts for an encore. I slip my hand into Ronan’s, noting his damp palm, and we take a bow.

I hand him back the microphone and tug on the collar of his shirt, pulling him down. My lips brush the shell of his ear and his skin pebbles as I whisper, “Not quite how you thought it was going to go down, huh?”

chapter eight

Should’ve Been My Win

Blaire

The next morning I’m still sort of floating on the high of last night’s win. I have to say, I’m feeling pretty damn awesome right now. I continue riding that same fabulous wave all the way in to work. Everything is awesome. Nothing can ruin my fantastic mood, not even the fact that I haven’t slept much.

I find a box sitting on the front step and carry it inside with me. I don’t recognize the name of the company, but maybe Daphne ordered something for our next event as a surprise.

I pluck a pair of scissors from the jar next to the cash register, sliding it carefully along the seam.

Before I have a chance to open it, the back doors swing open and Paul wheels a cart of boxes down the hall. “Hey! You’re here early!” He’s smiling, but he looks tired.

The scissors clatter to the floor, narrowly missing my foot. “Geez! You scared the crap out of me. I expected you to be long gone by now.”

“I had to shift around some deliveries because of the holiday.” Paul has had to do that a lot more recently. Either dropping off cupcakes in the evening, or coming in extra early so he can get specialty ones done for me. A few times it’s been down to the wire.

Paul agreed to help me through Thanksgiving, but after that he’ll be done paying me back for the truck, and I’ll have to either hire another baker or take on the job myself. Based on finances, it looks like it’s probably going to be me taking on the extra workload, so my already limited sleep is going to suffer even more.

He maneuvers the cart of cupcakes behind the register so I can check them out. I flip the box on top open. They smell delicious—like pumpkin pie spice—and will be even more amazing once I add the cream cheese center filling and vanilla buttercream icing, topped with an adorable pumpkin candy. “These smell like heaven.”

“Well, it’s your recipe, so you can take the credit for that.” He’s still grinning. “You feeling like a rock star this morning?”

“Uh, not particularly, no.” I lean against the counter, legs still shaky from the scare.

His smile fades and his face scrunches up. “I take it you haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?” I drag my attention away from the cupcakes, imagining how perfect they’re going to look when I’m done with them.

“There’s a video of you.”

“What kind of video?” A shot of panic hits me. I’m not sure why. It’s not like I’ve ever made one of those kinds of video. And honestly, there are loads of videos of me posted on YouTube since I have a channel and I upload there all the time.

He arches a brow. “Wow, your face right now makes me want to ask a lot of questions, many of which I don’t necessarily think I want the answer to.”

I wave the comment away. “Stop being dramatic and cryptic and tell me what’s going on.”

“Someone posted your performance from last night.” He tips his chin toward the wall connecting us to The Knight Cap.

“Oh, that. It wasn’t a big deal.” I pull a tray of cupcakes from the cart and begin arranging them carefully in the display case.

“Well, maybe not to you, but it’s sure getting lots of attention.”

“What kind of attention?”

Paul fishes his phone out of his pocket and opens YouTube. It appears the video was uploaded by Ronan’s bartender Lars—apparently his name isn’t Larry. Paul hands me the device.

“This can’t be right. It’s been viewed more than a million times?”

“He tagged that YouTuber Tori in the video and she shared it.” He taps the screen right under the video, where Lars has captioned it “Best Bar in the Pacific Northwest Challenge” #toritaylorbestof #TheKnightCap #BestBarPNW and about seven hundred more hashtags. The video has tons of likes.

“Damn it!” I grouse, scrolling through the comments. “I can’t believe this.”

“You sound great. I mean I always knew you could sing, but you really nailed that performance.”

“I know I can sing.”

Paul’s eyebrows lift. “Humble much?”

I give him a look. “It’s not ego talking. I was always in theater. I can sing. It’s a fact, and now Ronan is getting the accolades for it.” I hit Play on the video for additional self-torture.

Ronan and I appear on the screen, although only half of me because the focus is on Ronan, at least at the beginning since he’s singing and the center of attention. He doesn’t have a terrible voice, and he’s annoyingly nice to look at. The camera really loves him and all his pretty man angles.

When it’s my turn I nab the microphone from him and start singing. “Damn!” Lars turns the camera around and there’s a closeup of his face and wide eyes. Like Ronan, he’s also nice to look at. “Listen to that voice.” He flips the camera around again, turns it sideways and pans back to me.

“How the hell am I going to beat him now?” I pass Paul his phone back before I do something like throw it against a wall. I don’t have the funds to replace it. “He didn’t even tag me or B&B in the comments! What a jerk.”

“If Tori ends up coming to Seattle, you’ll have a chance to prove you’re the better bar.” Paul gives my shoulder a squeeze. I hate that his expression holds guilt as well. “I can try to help out for a little longer if you need me.”