Page 38 of That Reunited Feeling

“Not sure about Divine Justice,” Tom says. “They didn’t grab me the way I’d hoped. Let’s see what this last lot are like.”

“Well, if my first selection was anything to go by, we might as well leave now.” I take the final folder from my bag and hand it to him.

He leans back against the wall and flips through my notes. Why are those chunky rings on his fingers so goddamn sexy? Is it because I can imagine the cool metal against my skin as he skims his hand over it?

The crowd erupts in applause, jolting me back from thoughts I know I shouldn’t be having. Just a few days ago I would have cheerfully given him a profanity-laden explanation of exactly where he could go. But now I’m thinking about his crotch against my butt and imagining him stroking me all over.

I need to get a fucking grip and focus on Jane Doe and the Stags who’ve just run onto the stage.

Tom closes the folder and tucks it under his arm so he can join in the clapping.

In seconds it’s obvious this band has it. The lead singer, presumably Jane Doe, has an amazing voice with a quality somewhere between blues and rock. She’s sexy, charismatic, engaged with the audience, and means what she’s singing. The four guys behind her are a tight band who clearly rehearse to within an inch of their lives.

And the crowd loves them. All eyes are on the stage and the room is already buzzing.

I look at Tom. He looks at me. A knowing and ridiculously alluring smile forms on his lips as he nods slowly.

Yes!

A thrill rushes through me. I’m certain it’s not only from Tom’s smile. No, it’s from knowing I got it right. That I do have skills other than being Dylan’s mom and cleaning and organizing. Iknowmusic. I always have. And I haven’t lost it.

I’d listened to Jane Doe and the Stags online a few times, so as their set goes on, I have no problem singing along with most of their songs.

Even the ones I haven’t heard before are easy to pick up. For me, anyway. Grasping lyrics and melodies has always been effortless.

Tom leans down, putting his mouth way closer to my ear than he needs to. There’s a hint of beer on his breath, and a strand of his woodsy-scented hair flops down and brushes my forehead. He scoops it back off his face. “Don’t you miss it?”

My singing is halted by the tremor in my chest. A tremor sparked not just from the breath and the hair or the look in his eye that says he knows me, he gets me. But also from the way his question hits at the deepest part of me, at everything I gave up for my son.

I shrug. “That was a different life.”

“You still sound amazing.”

My cheeks heat like a bashful schoolgirl’s after a compliment from the hot jock. “Thank you.”

“It should be you up there.” He nods toward the stage.

I shake my head. “Too late. That was then. This is now.”

Five more perfectly performed songs and plenty of singing and dancing later, the band wraps up to applause, cheers, and whistles. They bounce off stage, leaving an electrified crowd behind.

“Give me that scorecard,” Tom says as the noise dies down.

He’s humoring me. I could tell he was only being kind earlier when he said it was a great idea. “You thought it was silly.”

“I absolutely did not.” He holds out his hand. And does seem to mean it. “Please.”

Rolling my eyes, I reach into my bag, take out the laminated sheet along with a marker, and slap them on his palm.

“Thank you.”

The buzzy crowd around us starts to dissipate as Tom pulls the cap off the pen with his shiny white teeth and holds it there while he writes something on the card.

He jabs the pen back into the cap but misses and plants a black dot above the right corner of his mouth.

A giggle bubbles up that I can’t contain, even by pressing my hand over my mouth.

He jabs the pen again and this time hits the target.

---