Shooting myself two dorky thumbs up in the mirror as some sort of pep-talk, I walk into the bedroom to grab my ankle strap stiletto pumps, but I find Cameron sitting on the edge of our bed.
When he sees me, he stands and runs a hand down his face in disbelief. “Wow,” he says, clenching his jaw. “You look stunning.”
With a smirk, I try my best to curtsy in the dress, but it ends up being more of a feminine bow. “Thanks. This old thing? Grabbed it from the back of my closet,” I wink. “Which shirt did you decide on?” I ask as he pursues me, pressing a kiss into my cheek.
“My girlfriend decided on the white shirt, so I’m going with that one.”
Picking a piece of lint from his collar, I start buttoning up his shirt. “Sounds like she has good taste.”
“She does,” he says, taking over the buttons. “Now spin for me, sweetheart,” he purrs.
As I turn, my dress flows out around me, surrounding me like a dream. And looking up at Cameron’s face, I can’t help but smile at this man. I swear his eyes glimmer with something extra tonight. Something wholesome and beautiful.
“You know what I think?” Taking my hand, he pulls me to him until I catch the scent of his rich, amber cologne. “I think, that if I didn’t know any better,” he grins, “I’d say you’re the most beautiful girlfriend, lover, hell— woman— in the entire world.” Sliding a warm hand around back of my neck, he kisses me deeply and fully, and I can feel his confidence in me. In our relationship. His spark of pure happiness runs through me when we kiss. Quick and strong, flooding through me like a rush of adrenaline, a shot of whiskey straight to the heart.
When our car drops us off at Selene's mansion for her annual Christmas Gala, we make our way through the crowd, shaking hands and greeting everyone we know. Naturally, Cameron recognizes more of the socialites than I do. They occupy themselves by asking him about how the whiskey business is doing and whether or not he'd like to donate some barrels to various charity events. And for every time he’s been asked tonight, he has yet to refuse. Which is only one of the many reasons why I love this thoughtful, caring, funny, sharp dresser of a handsome man next to me.
We’re seated at the table next to Selene’s for dinner, and every time she catches my eye, she winks at me. Not only had she insisted the hired jazz band that’s performing on a makeshift wooden platform toward the back of her ballroom announce my interior design work every hour, on the hour. But she also had the event coordinator set up an entire table dedicated to my firm, complete with brochures and business cards, over by the cocktail table in case anyone was interested in my services.
Halfway through the starter course as Cameron is conversing with the finance director from one of the local banks, Selene trundles over to me and surprises me, reaching down from behind and squeezing my shoulders with her frail, bangle-adorned hands. “You did amazing, dear. And everyone knows it,” she whispers, kissing me on the top of the head. “Don't be surprised when people start calling on you now. This is your time in Savannah.”
“Thank you, Miss Selene— I appreciate it. You’re so kind.”
“If it’s true, it’s true. And I have someone I want to introduce you to a bit later. He's roaming around here somewhere,” she says, dipping an eyebrow down at me. “On the prowl. I'm sure you two will get along just fine.”
For some reason, her comment upturns my nerves. But when she leaves me, I focus on Cameron and his tiny mannerisms. The way he holds his mouth when he laughs. The depth of his voice when he gets serious. The draw of his brow when he’s discussing how to maintain financial stability of businesses and piercing the corporate veil. I can’t help but grin as I watch him swept up in conversation with someone else.
After the tables are cleared from the meals and the crowd around us is back to mingling in full swing, I notice Cameron growing fidgety. Leaning over to him, I kiss his shoulder. “Thank you for coming tonight. It means a lot to me.”
“You're welcome, sweetheart. There's no one else I'd rather spend the night with.” He brings my hand up to his lips and smiles. “Will you excuse me for a quick second? I need to go say hey to Theo,” he says, nodding at the band.
“You know him?”
Cameron grins and catches the singer’s gaze and waves. “Yeah, he’s done a few events for us.”
“Oh,” I say, completely shocked. This man knows every single person at this damn gala.
“I'll be right back,” he says, laying my hand to rest in my lap. Putting his own hand on my thigh, he leans in, kissing the corner of my mouth as he pushes himself out of his chair and walks off toward the stage.
As if on cue, Selene waltzes over and taps my shoulder. “Honey, come meet your new best friend.” Quickly, my heart now jostled into a confusing frenzy, I stand and rush to follow her as she crosses the ballroom, her heels clicking against the hardwood. When she reaches the reindeer-themed Christmas tree, she motions toward a stocky man who’s wearing a plaid blazer and green corduroy pants. He pushes his spectacles up his red nose and tips his head at me with a congenial smile.
“Well, well. This must be the designer of the hour,” he sings, his voice lilting in jovial animation. Now, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but you did just an amazing job on this house. The trees, the furniture and lighting, all of it,” he squawks, reaching out for my hand.
“Thank you so much,” I say, flashing him my brightest smile. “I’m Riley Pratt. It's nice to meet you.”
“Carson Comforts, your trusty Event Planner around Savannah, honey. All the good ones call me, and you won’t forget my name.” He giggles and pushes his glasses further up his nose again like they’ll drop to the floor even though he’s got them secured with an eyewear chain around his neck. “Now, look here. I've been on the hunt for a consistent designer that I can use for my clients.” He peers over at Selene who’s blushing. And then turning back to me, he eyes me up and down. “And I do believe, Miss Selene, I've just found her. Do you have any cards honey? Business cards.”
Freezing in my spot, my mind goes blank. I've left my clutch halfway across the ballroom, and to dip out now would be plain rude. I consider making a mad dash for the table Selene had set up with my info, but by the time I could make it and return, Carson Comforts would’ve moved on to someone more prepared. When I open my mouth to tell him I don’t have any on me at the moment, Cameron walks up behind me, opens his blazer, and draws one of my business cards from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He slips it out, eyeing it to make sure it’s the right one, and hands it to Mr. Comfort. “Here you are, sir. Seems like she's in high demand these days, so I carry them around as well.”
Silently, I grab onto Cameron's arm, pulling him closer into the group and squeeze him in acknowledgement, thanking him for saving my ass. Yet again, he saves my day.
Carson Comforts hums and pulls his glasses down, eyeing Cameron, studying him overtop his wire spectacles. “And this is?”
My heart flutters at this man’s presence next to me. “Miss Selene, Carson. This is Cameron Alden. My boyfriend,” I say, the word rolling off my tongue my butter.
Without missing a beat, Cameron extends his hand with a smile and shakes both of theirs.
“She's very talented, Cameron.”
“Yes ma'am. She’s one of the best people I know,” he says, looking over at me.
I feel my cheeks go red with heat but also with a deep, simmering adoration for this man. This man that can hang with the best of them. The one who can play it proper but can also out-innuendo any other person in the room. This man with the glowing blue eyes, the dark chocolate hair, and the lips that taste like whiskey. And I'm so proud that he's my man.
After a few more minutes of small talk, Selene and Carson both excuse themselves to continue mingling. Cameron slides his hand into mine and leads me toward the corner of the makeshift dance floor. “Come here, Pratt.”
And without question, I follow him. And it’s in this moment that I realize I’d follow him
anywhere. He could lead me right out the door, up the interstate, crossing state lines forever and ever, and I’d still follow him without so much as a second thought.
As a slinky little jazz number comes to an end, Cameron takes my hand and pulls me close to him by the small of the back so that we’re facing one another. “Dance with me,” he purrs his eyes shifting past me. A few seconds later, a familiar tune floats over the speakers from the stage where the lead female is crooning Etta James. Cameron’s eyes grow as he smiles at me in delight. And then I realize. This was the very first song we’d danced to at the Gordon House over five years ago, “Anything To Say You’re Mine.”
My jaw drops as I look up at him, my brow furrowed and eyes full of stars. “How did you—”
“I know some people,” he chuckles with a shrug. Brushing his thumb over my cheek. “Just enjoy the song, sweetheart.”
Shaking my head at him, I pull him down by the neck and kiss him hard, exactly how he loves it. His lips are gentle against mine as he smiles against my mouth, but then he pulls away and whispers to me. “I have something for you,” he says, opening his suit jacket like he had earlier when he helped me save face in front of Carson Comforts. Cameron pulls a tiny, oblong box from his jacket pocket, one I hadn't noticed on him earlier.
I don't know what the box is, but I'm so shocked that I retract my limbs from him, stopping our dance mid-song.
As the lead singer continues to croon Etta James all around us, her soulful tone echoing off the walls, I feel like we’re the only two in this room. Cameron locks eyes with me and hands me the box. “This is for you. And no complaining. I just wanted to show you how important you are to me,” he says, staring deep into my eyes. I’m seeing oceans in him. Wild, dancing oceans in the blues of his eyes.
My hands tremble as he helps me open the box on its miniature gold hinges. When he pops the lid open, I see it and fall straight into a well of unbearable emotion. It's a pearl-drop necklace. Not with one pearl, but with two single pearls on it.
He breathes out as if he's nervous all the sudden. “I got you this necklace because I want you to have one that means something to you. Two pearls. One for me, and one for you. They’re Basra pearls— the rarest in the world. Just like you. You are the rarest, most extraordinary woman I know. And I'd be dumb if I didn't tell you right now, that I want to be with you for the rest of our lives. Because I love you.”
And there they are. These words from him are the first time I’m hearing them.
My breath grows shaky as my heart pounds against my rib cage. And I’m so on edge that I can almost feel my pulse through the heat of my skin. I look at this man in front of me, this guy whom I've adored for so long now in a hundred different ways. And the one thing I can't help but think right now is that a life spent with him will be a life well-lived.
As his lips crash down onto mine, surrounded by a busy world who isn't aware of just how wonderful this man is, I latch on to him tighter and kiss him back with every ounce of adoration I can muster. "I love you too, Cam."
The End
Songbird Preview: Chapter 1 Ellie
Pulling the near-empty pack of American Spirit cigarettes from the inside pocket of my faded military jacket, I wrench the knob on the radio in time to catch a good line. “At my best when nothing feels right, your storms they always soothe me,” I belt out into the car between us.
Brooke twists the volume knob back down, killing my vibe. “What are you doing?” she asks, her voice harsh as she drowns out the rest of the chorus.
Sighing, I look over at her with my cigarette between my teeth, lighter paused in front of the tip. "What's it look like?" Flicking down on the tab, I produce a small orange flame. The scent of sweet Native American tobacco and sharp, cloying smoke fill the inside of her 2011 Accord.
"Seriously, Ellie?" Brooke waves a frantic hand, pushing the smoke up through the sunroof. "At least open a window."
Rolling my eyes, I crank the passenger-side window down and let my right arm hang free in the early-evening heat. The passing North Carolina landscape is dense with parched trees and dotted with occasional bursts of pastel-painted river cottages every other mile. In the side mirror, I notice the clouds behind us look bloated, like they could bust open into a downpour at any second.
"Sometimes you're stormed on, sometimes you're the storm," I say under my breath. Though it's cheesy and reads like one of the lines I'd write for Hop Hing to stuff inside his NYC-famous fortune cookies, I like the way it sounds rolling off of my tongue. It holds a ring of empowerment. "I think that's my new motto," I say, studying the knotted up necklace of pearls that's dangling from her rearview mirror. Brushing the wind-blown hair from my eyes, I take another drag of the cigarette. "Be the storm."
Brooke scoffs. “You’re being a tad dramatic. You gonna submit that one to your boss?”
"He's not my boss," I say, fiddling with the lighter before sliding it in my pocket. "At least not really."
I've explained it to her a hundred times. Hop Hing owns a Chinese joint in Brooklyn that became an overnight sensation for its unique fortune cookies. Instead of using the same dull, manufactured fortunes as every other Chinese restaurant, he hires someone to write his own. I happened to land the gig online last year. "I write one-liners for the guy, that's all."
"Whatever," she says with thick judgment in her voice. "When you gonna start writing stuff that actually means something? Maybe something for the festival. Not this meaningless fortune nonsense."
I don't need to look at her to know that she's serious. And she's right. But shrugging, I ignore the sentiment and pull my phone from the door cubby to tap my new slogan into my notes. I'm planning on drinking tonight, and I don't want to live through a beer-fueled high of a night only to forget my new personal motto.
“When did you start smoking, anyway?”
Brooke's question pulls me from my thoughts. When I look over at her, her red hair is glowing in the low-setting sun that's laid out ahead of us as the car races up Highway 17 from Southport to Wilmington. "John will be there tonight," I say, hoping I sound casual enough to
convince her that I don't care.
Her head flickers toward me, her green eyes full of worry, and from my periphery, I notice her knuckles white against the steering wheel. “How do you know he’s going? You’re not still talking to him, are you?”
Me? Talk to my ex-boyfriend? In what life is Brooke living that she thinks I'd ever be so cordial to communicate with that piece of garbage?
Taking a deep breath, I shake my head. “Just a feeling. I bought all our tickets months ago. I have his with me.” I add this last part in nonchalance knowing it won’t fool her.
Brooke’s mouth twists to one side. When you’ve been friends for fifteen years the way Brooke and I have, it’s impossible to keep secrets. Even when you’re saying nothing at all, you’re saying something. That's why Brooke is a good friend— the best even. Because she tells me what she's thinking without concern for my feelings. Always the truth. It's a blessing and a curse. But John is a sore subject these days, and her sour expression is tell that she's playing it diplomatic instead of honest tonight.
"I wouldn't worry about it." She flips the right turn signal as we near the exit ramp. "Although, I'm sure he bought another ticket after he—"
"—Left me?" I ask, finishing her thought. My tone is mocking, more petulant than I intend, but I can't help it tonight for how on-edge I feel. Taking a long, final drag of my cigarette, I flick the butt out the window aiming for the guardrail. Dry as it is this week, I know better, but what else am I supposed to do?
"You realize I think he's a piece of shit, right?" Brooke furrows her brow as she searches for the Route 74 sign into Wilmington. "I know you're upset he likes the Boxley Brothers, too. But the chances of us running into him are literally slim to none. It's a huge venue."
I drum my fingers on the pack of cigarettes in my lap. The venue isn't that huge, but I let the comment slide. "He shou
ldn't even be at the show. I'm the one who introduced him to the Boxley Brothers. They're my band. If he seriously thinks he's going to—"
"—Give me a break," Brooke hisses, veering into the left lane. She hauls ass to pass a menacing tractor-trailer. "You can't lay claim to something intangible, Ellie. You don't get to keep the music all to yourself."
She's right. I bite my lip and consider lighting a second cigarette but know I won't be able to afford another pack until payday at my 'real job,' Brooke calls it. I understand Brooke wants to keep the peace, that it's painful to watch your best friend have her heart broken during a severely vulnerable time in her life. But ignoring the issue won't resolve it. And tonight, the issue is my ex-boyfriend showing up to enjoy my favorite band.
"It's the memories," I say blankly, staring out at the dark clouds to my right. "You know how I feel about music. The Boxley Brothers are everything to me. The memories I have associated with them are rooted deep. I don't want to relive all that with John right there next to me. Don't you get how disgustingly awkward that'll be? Having my favorite band in front of me while being subjected to sharing air with my least favorite person in the entire world?"
I say this understanding that music is just a series of notes to Brooke. It's some
overplayed song on the radio serving as background noise to the more material things in life. But not to me. Music is everything.
“It’ll be fine. He’ll probably take the ticket and sit on the lawn,” Brooke muses, glancing down at the GPS on her phone. “I don’t see what the big deal is.”
Her reaction proves she doesn't know John like I do. I don't tell Brooke this, but over my dead body is John getting the ticket. I don't want to explain why I have it if I intend to keep it from him. But I'm sure Brooke sees it as a lofty excuse for me to talk to him or some kind of a sick power trip. And maybe it is. She'd say I still have feelings for him or some twisted sort of desire to see him again. And maybe that's true, too. But no matter what Brooke thinks my intentions are tonight, there’s one thing I know for sure: John is not getting that ticket.
Whiskey Heart: An Alpha Billionaire Friends to Lovers Romance Page 12
