Satisfaction Guaranteed: A Standalone Romance (Always Satisfied Book 1)

by Lauren Blakely

  Piper: So you patted yourself on the back for one week. And now you’re going to see him sing. Question: do you want your ovaries to explode tonight?

  Sloane: Question: why do people say “exploding ovaries” at all? That sounds incredibly painful. It doesn’t sound positive.

  Piper: Now is not the time for dissecting a popular saying. I only asked because I know what his voice does to you.

  Sloane: It melts me.

  Piper: Everything about him melts you. Remember how you felt way back when?

  Sloane: Yes. Like I was falling in love.

  Piper: And remember, too, how you felt when he ended it.

  Sloane: But it had to end.

  Piper: I don't dispute that. I just encourage you to remember how much it hurt when it did.

  Sloane: Like a sledgehammer. Hey, have I ever told you you’re nothing if not practical?

  Piper: I have to be. I have to look out for the people I love. And I'm looking out for your heart. Plus, you still have The Thing to deal with.

  Sloane: Don’t remind me of The Thing.

  Piper: I just want The Thing to be fixed. Hey, maybe he can fix The Thing! Why didn’t we think of that?

  Sloane: And I thought you were trying to keep me on the straight and narrow.

  Piper: I was, till I thought about the possibility of reversing The Thing.

  Sloane: I’m going to throw this turtleneck at you right now.

  Piper: Good, then hopefully you won’t wear it tonight. For the love of fashion, please change.

  Sloane: That's a promise.

  15

  I never aspired to be a rock star, a crooner, or a Broadway belter.

  I certainly didn’t have it on my vision board to be a lounge singer. (If I had a vision board, which I don’t and have never had.)

  Singing was one of those things that I discovered I could simply do, though I never did anything with it. Growing up, there was no glee club, band, or a cappella group for me.

  I started singing out of necessity.

  Like many who came before me and many who will come after, I was forced to play the piano by my parents.

  There was no love at first note. More like loathing.

  I wanted to play sports, throw a ball, run across a field. But twice a week, I had to sit down and play. During one lesson my mother suggested I sing along to make the songs that—as I’d put it—bored me to tears more interesting.

  The words somehow unlocked the music, and suddenly, piano was fun. It was a game I was good at. A chance, frankly, to show off.

  Once I realized I could do it, singing was like juggling. It was a party trick. I was the guy who could nail “Happy Birthday” at a group dinner, I was a pro at “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” at Yankee Stadium, and when Christmas rolled around and you needed someone to belt out “Deck the Halls,” I was your guy.

  Then Sloane came around. She cheered the loudest when I sang karaoke at the charity event the night we met.

  Later, during one of our dates, she said, “You should just do it. You have the voice for it. Go sing at a club.”

  I laughed it off. I had no aspirations to be Michael Bublé, thank you very much.

  “But you don’t have to make money at it,” she’d said. “You don’t have to make albums. You could just make music for fun. Think about it. Do it because it’s something that you enjoy. Do it because it’s an adventure.”

  Her idea weaved its way under my skin as she encouraged me.

  “You have a real passion and a real gift. Don’t let it pass you by. Singing doesn’t have to be everything. But maybe it can be just enough to be your adventure.”

  She was right. It has been a fantastic journey. And for the first time since that fateful night I met her, I’m singing with her in the house.

  All I have to do is remember she’s not mine.

  She can’t be mine.

  None of the obstacles between us have vanished. Her father is still my business partner. He’s absolutely my mentor.

  In fact, the hurdles are stacked even higher now that Sloane and I are working in the same damn space every day.

  But tonight, we’re here.

  Gin Joint feels about as far away from the clinic as North Dakota is to Tahiti.

  Tonight is for Tahiti.

  I’m not nervous. I’m fired up when she walks in at the start of my set looking so damn blonde. Her golden hair cascades down her back and curls over her shoulders in soft waves. Her little black dress hugs her hips, and the silver pendant resting against her pale skin draws my eyes to her chest.

  But her eyes lure me in.

  They always have. They did that night I met her at a fundraiser for several local shelters. This was long before she’d started hers, back when she’d just finished her bachelor’s degree and was trying to figure out what to do next.

  I was already a vet, searching for a new job. We connected in an instant when I sang, and I knew I had to meet the gorgeous blonde in the front row.

  As soon as I stepped off the stage, I made a beeline to her.

  We shared a drink, then we shared a night.

  Our connection was instant and intense, and more than physical attraction. I hadn’t experienced that type of electric chemistry before, and even though I wanted her beneath me in my bed, I also enjoyed spending time with her. Her wit, her charm, her confidence—they hooked me. She was younger than I was. Twenty-two to my twenty-eight, and while that’s not a big difference, neither was it the reason I took it slow. There was something worth slowing down for with her.

  Until the day I walked into a job interview and spotted a framed photo of her on the desk.

  When I told her we had to end it, her eyes filled with sadness.

  Now, tonight, those deep brown depths are filled with an intensity that’s so damn enticing as she watches me sing a Sinatra tune, since there’s nothing better to open an act with.

  When I finish my first number, I dive into a brief chat with the audience, as I often do.

  “Ever invite a girl to an event? A woman who you’ve maybe had your eye on? Maybe for a while. Possibly for a long time?”

  A couple of guys in the front row nod. They get me. The sliver of a knowing smile sneaking across Sloane’s face tells me, too, that we both know the score. We’re both aware that we’ve stolen a moment tonight. That we’ve tangoed around each other all week, and we made our own loophole—one drink to celebrate.

  Tonight is a bubble, and I’m going to enjoy the hell out of it until it pops. Because it will.

  But for now, we’re in an alternate universe. And in this world, you bet your ass I’m going to let the woman know that I fucking love singing to her.

  I make my way back to the piano. “And then she shows up. As soon as you see her, as soon as your eyes meet hers, you’re grinning. Because she’s here. Because she made it.”

  I scan the audience, and now those guys are nodding. In her seat at a table in the front, the woman in question keeps her eyes on me. “Then you meet her gaze. And all you can think is ‘Doesn’t she look wonderful tonight?’”

  A few women in the audience sigh contentedly. A couple of the guys look at their dates. Sloane glances down then back up, a grin tugging at her lips. When her eyes meet mine once more, I finish. “And then you understand a song completely.”

  I launch into one of the greatest love songs of all time, and when I’m done with “Wonderful Tonight,” I can feel the energy vibrating from the crowd. It’s electric and palpable. It’s hot and bothered. A hum seems to radiate through the audience. Maybe everyone here is getting lucky tonight. Maybe everyone looks wonderful.

  I ride that high, making my way through the rest of my tunes, sliding from Dean Martin to Tony Bennett, from Chris Isaak to Sam Cooke.

  The more I sing, the more charged I feel.

  My skin is buzzing; my bones are humming. I’ve been plugged in, and now I’m lit up from the music and the woman and the crowd. It’s a perfect storm of energy
and electricity, and we’re feeding off of each other. Soon it’s time to finish the act with “I Ain’t Got Nobody.”

  “Won't somebody come and take a chance with me? I'll sing you love songs, honey, all the time.”

  When I’m done, I understand the words on another level.

  Take a chance.

  I haven’t figured out how to jump over those hurdles that still exist. I don’t know that I will anytime soon.

  Sloane is off-limits, and probably always will be.

  But I also know from her body language and her laughter that neither of us came here tonight for just one drink.

  I thank the crowd and head straight to the woman who came for me.

  16

  Sloane Elizabeth’s Mental Voice Memo to Self on Things to Research when You Get Home

  Look up if it’s possible to overdose on swooning.

  Find out if other women have survived that song being sung to them, or if the objects of said singing are all now melted puddles.

  Perhaps they’re being studied in a lab, to better understand the full scope of swoon-itus.

  Note: research whether there is any swoonier song in the history of music than “Wonderful Tonight.”

  Wait. No need to. There is obviously nothing else that can cause swoon overload like that tune.

  And now you’re suffering from it big time, and there’s no cure.

  17

  I guide her to the bar, my hand on her lower back, since I’ve discovered her dress is better than an all-expenses-paid tropical vacation.

  It’s the kind that has an open back.

  I’d like to thank the inventor of this style. He or she deserves a Nobel Prize. Sloane’s back is perfection. Smooth, soft, pale skin, and all of it is exposed for a visual feast.

  Maybe I am in Tahiti tonight.

  Maybe that’s where my alternate universe exists.

  “What did you think of the show?” I ask when we reach the bar.

  A hint of a smirk tugs at her lips. “I think that you have a tremendously unfair advantage in life.”

  I furrow my brow as I rest an elbow on the bar’s metal surface. “How so?”

  She sets her hand on my arm and drags her fingers down the fabric of my suit jacket. That feels so much better than should be legal, even through the material. “You can’t be this good-looking, this smart, this caring, this charming, and this talented too,” she says softly.

  I tap my chin. “Hmm. You’re right. Something must be terribly wrong with me. Perhaps you’ll find it.”

  “Mark my words: I’m going to figure it out. I’m going to get to the bottom of this. Because there’s no way you landed all these panty-melting attributes without having terrible manners or bad breath or a closed mind.”

  I flash her a smile. “You’re looking at a man who opens doors and says please and thank you, and my breath is minty fresh.” I lean in closer. “Also, my mind is all the way open. To just about anything.”

  She gasps. Quickly, though, she seems to collect herself. “There has to be something.” She scans me up and down with an imaginary flaw detector, like that will find it.

  “I can’t garden for shit,” I offer.

  She rolls her eyes. “That doesn’t count.”

  I look up at the ceiling as if lost in thought. “My handwriting is wretched.”

  “Nope. Not enough.”

  “Fine. Sometimes I like to watch football on Sundays and do nothing else.”

  A hint of triumph crosses her eyes. “And do you do it in your boxers, occasionally scratching your balls?”

  I scoff. “Please. No.” I take a deep breath. “I wear lounge pants.”

  Her eyes light up. They absolutely dance in victory as she pokes my chest. “That’s it. That’s something I can work with. I can’t stand lounge pants or sports.”

  “Or ball scratching?”

  “Add them all together, and I’ve clearly located your flaw. Whew.”

  “We can hunt for other flaws if you’d like. I’m sure I have tons of terrible habits.”

  “Yes. Something has to be horribly wrong with you,” she insists.

  “What’s wrong with him?” My sister jumps in, having just marched over to us. “Pull up a chair, honey. I hope you have all night though.”

  I roll my eyes, gesturing toward the brunette behind the bar. “Sloane, this is my sister, Truly.”

  Truly extends a hand to Sloane. “And you must be the famous Sloane Elizabeth.”

  “I’m famous?” Sloane looks to me with curious eyes, then back at my sister. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Good to meet you, and you are absolutely famous. He won’t stop talking about you.”

  I glance at my twin. “Thanks, Truly,” I say drily.

  She shrugs, grabbing some napkins to stuff into a holder. “That’s what sisters are for.” She tips her head to Sloane. “What can I get you?”

  “A glass of champagne.”

  Instantly, I wonder how the drink will taste on Sloane’s lips.

  “And a Scotch for you, I presume?” Truly asks me.

  “Sounds great.”

  As Truly grabs the bottles, Sloane drums her fingers on the bar. Her nails are unpolished, and I love this detail about her. She’s a woman who works with her hands, and high-maintenance polish wouldn’t work for her. “Inquiring minds want to know. What did you tell her about me?”

  “I might have mentioned you way back when.”

  “And what did you mention?”

  “Oh, you know. Met a girl. She’s fantastic. I can’t stop thinking about her.”

  “Really?” Her lips twitch in a smile.

  “Yes, really.”

  “I like that you told her.”

  The way she looks at me, the way she says those words, sends a charge through my body. It makes the rest of the club disappear. “Why do you like that?”

  She inches closer. “I did the same. I told my friend Piper.”

  I arch an eyebrow, liking this information. “And what did you tell her?”

  She runs her finger along the edge of the bar. “There was this guy . . .”

  “And?”

  Sloane shakes her head, her eyes a little nostalgic, her tone dipping into wistful. “You know what happened.”

  I sigh. “I do know what happened. And I told my sister that too. I told her how devastated I was when I went into your dad’s office for my second job interview and saw the picture of you on his desk. Such a slap-in-the-face way to learn the woman I wanted was off-limits.” I pause, exhaling heavily. “And still is.”

  She frowns. “Yes. So maybe we’ve found it.”

  “Found what?”

  “The flaw,” she says sadly. “I’m your business partner’s daughter, and that’s not changing.”

  “And your dad has made it clear on more than one occasion that you’re off-limits.”

  “No one’s good enough for his daughter, he believes.”

  “He definitely believes that. And to top it off, you’re kind of, sort of my business partner in a way too.”

  She shoots me a look. “Great. Thanks for reminding me.”

  I smile. “What was I thinking? We’re supposed to be celebrating your big, huge donation. Screw all this sad shit.”

  “Exactly. Tonight isn’t about the past and what might have been.”

  Truly returns with our drinks, sliding a champagne to Sloane then a Scotch to me before walking away.

  I raise a glass, and Sloane does the same. “To new opportunities,” I offer. “And making sure you don’t try to kiss me tonight.”

  She clinks her glass to mine, laughing. “I’ll toast to making sure you don’t try to kiss me. So there.”

  “Then let’s drink to being friends.”

  “We can definitely be friends.” She knocks back some of her champagne. “To celebrations. To friendships. To new times.”

  Unable to resist, I lean a little closer, getting a contact high from being inches away from her. “I
like the sound of that very much.”

  A throat clears. A voice cuts through the heat we’re radiating. “You guys should just get a room.”

  I point my thumb at my sister. “Ignore her. It’s what I’ve done my entire life.”

  “Please. You’ve never ignored me,” Truly says, parking her hands on the bar. “That’s the problem. I’m that little voice on your shoulder.”

  Sloane meets Truly’s gaze. “I’m glad you’re his sister. I think he needs someone like you to keep him in line.” Sloane turns to me, satisfaction in the set of her jaw. “Because I’ve figured out your flaw.”

  “What’s that?”

  Her irises twinkle with mischief. “You don’t always listen to that little voice.”

  Truly chuckles. “Oh, honey, there’s nothing truer than that.”

  And it is true, because tonight, I’m listening to another voice.

  18

  That voice says Get to know her.

  Once my sister heads to the end of the bar, Sloane sets down her drink, crosses her legs, and rubs her palms together. “Tell me what you’ve been up to. Tell me how you’ve been for the last few years. I’ve run into you now and then, and obviously I’ve seen you at work for the last week, but I want to know how everything is. How is your mom?”

  We catch up, and it’s so much better than talking about work. Hell, maybe this is what we needed—this night to reconnect on a new level. To reconnect as colleagues, or perhaps even as friends. It’s dangerous to contemplate anything else.

  I tell her that my mom has retired from jingle writing and is doing what she truly loves—training dogs. Her own dogs. I ask her about Brooklyn, and she tells me about the tiny thimble of an apartment she has there, but how she makes the best of it, shoehorning in room for her laptop and sock-making accoutrements, but that’s about it.