Page 18 of On the Power Play

Jack nodded. "Hey, I'm here to pick up two tickets."

She scanned his face, gave Clara a passing glance, and didn't even ask for his name before handing him the tickets. "They didn't think you were going to show."

He thanked her, then pushed through the glass doors to an instant immersion of his senses. The heat and humidity, the smell of fries and chicken wings, the sound of loud conversation humming under the strains of a guitar, but floating above everything else was that voice. He'd heard Delia sing countless times on the radio, but now that version of it seemed like an echo. Her voice drifted through the entry, lilting with ethereal dexterity, so clear and pure he shivered.

Clara grabbed onto Jack's arm as he wove through the crowd, fighting upstream until they were past the bar and in the main ballroom. They nestled into a corner behind the ring of tables surrounding the large dance floor.

And there she was.

Standing on stage with her guitar, her auburn waves brushing her shoulders as she strummed. She was taller than he’d expected, which didn't make any sense because he'd never once thought about how tall Delia Melise was. She wore a soft blouse and pants that were . . . Jack smirked. They were almost the exact same colour as his shoes.

"She has good taste," Clara called to him, winking.

"Excuse me, are you—?" A woman with chunky black glasses slid off her stool, peering closer at him. "Holy shit, you are Jack Harrison, aren't you?" He nodded, hoping nobody else had heard the woman over the music. "Can I get a selfie?"

He nodded again, but didn't put his arm around her as she leaned in close and snapped a photo. It was beyond awkward. Where was he supposed to put his hands? One time he'd tried to look friendly by putting a hand on a woman's back, but she'd unexpectedly turned and he'd nearly felt her up. Now he kept his hands at his sides and tried not to look like a robot.

"Jack!" a voice called out, and he turned as the woman wobbled back to her table. A man in a crisp button-up shirt and hair like the models in a "Top 100 Men's Haircuts" magazine pushed through the crowd toward him, smiling apologetically. Jack frowned. He had no idea who the man was but had a sinking suspicion he was supposed to. Could he be someone from the Blizzard administration? A journalist he'd spoken to?

The man stopped in front of him. "Damn, this place is packed tighter than a can of sardines." He straightened his sleeves and held out a hand. "I'm Tony. Sorry I didn't find you sooner, we were expecting you about forty minutes ago."

The pieces clicked into place. Tony. The publicist he'd talked with on the phone who'd set this whole thing up. Jack's heart picked up speed as the crowd erupted around him.

This was real. He was here watching Delia Melise perform and talking to her publicist who wanted them to pretend get together. What the hell had he been thinking agreeing to this?

"Is this your sister?" Tony leaned in and put out a hand.

"Hi, I'm Clara!" Her voice was barely audible over the audience singing along with Delia's lyrics. Tony motioned for them to follow. He guided them to a table where a man sat nursing a beer. "This is my assistant, Kels." He was wearing a T-shirt and vest with artistically messy hair. Apparently, he didn’t get the Henley memo.

Jack and Clara shook his hand, then took the seats opposite him.

Tony motioned for a server who looked more frazzled than a Co-op employee after a Blizzard home win. "What are you drinking tonight, Jack? Clara?"

"Whatever he's having." Jack pointed at the beer across the table.

"Just soda water, cranberry, and lime for me," Clara said.

The server nodded and whisked back into the crowd. Jack turned to the stage. Delia had started another song with a chorus he recognized, but he still felt a little like he'd shown up to take a provincial exam without cracking a book. Everyone around him, including Clara, was riveted, chanting every word.

Tony leaned in. "She's something else, isn't she?"

Jack nodded, not sure what he was supposed to say to that. Would it be better for him to make it clear that he was totally uninterested so her team wouldn't worry he was going to try something skeezy? Or would that come off as pompous, considering any hetero guy with a pulse witnessing this would consider the possibilities?

Delia was the definition of attractive, her feminine curves on full display as she curled around her guitar. It wasn't so much her particular features but how she moved—the way her arm flexed as she strummed, how her brow furrowed as her glossy lips shaped each syllable, how her collarbone cast shadows in the stage lights. Did he finally understand why women threw their bras at heroine-addict-looking rock stars?

He settled on, "I don't go to concerts often. This is impressive." Compliment her skills and ability to bring in a crowd. That had to be safe.

When the server brought their drinks, he tried to relax and enjoy the show, but his head wouldn’t stop spinning. It felt all kinds of wrong to be ogling a woman he’d never met but was hoping to for monetary gain.

When he'd expressed his concerns to Clara and Oscar, they'd related it to any other business deal. "Would you feel weird about going to a meeting with SportChek? If you were hoping for them to carry your brand and make your company money, would it be wrong to meet and sign a contract?" Clara asked.

He'd argued that he wouldn't have to wine and dine anyone to seal the deal, and Clara said he better not ruin anything for her. So now he was here. Watching Delia Melise in person and trying not to sweat through his shirt.

"Your shoulders aren't supposed to be earrings." Clara put a hand on his arm. Jack drew a deep breath and held it. "What are you so nervous about?"

He leaned in. "You know what I'm nervous about."

"No, I don't, actually, because this isn't a real date."

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