Page 5 of Going Solo

“I Will Always Love You!” he said, inspired.

“I appreciate the sentiment, but you ain’t even taken me for a test drive yet.”

Cole didn’t laugh.

“If you can’t do it better than Whitney, don’t do it,” I said.

“Livin’ on a Prayer?”

“Not being muggy, but why is that song even in your repertoire?”

“I play it at the pub sometimes. It goes down well.”

This was an idea I could work with. “When you’re singing down the pub, is there a song the crowd goes absolutely batshit for?”

“I’m not doing ‘Five Hundred Miles.’”

I laughed.

Cole roared in what I guessed was frustration. “I was so prepared!” The vein pulsed in his neck. Another bead of sweat rolled down his chest, and I wondered if there was a discreet way to lick it off him. His intensity was dead sexy.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said, touching his elbow, “you’ll find the perfect song. Trust me, you got it.”

Cole seemed to grow two inches taller. His confidence had returned. “You’re a genius.”

“Who’s a genius?” Orla asked. She thrust a bottle of water between us, and I let my hand drop from her son’s elbow.

“There’s been a change of plan,” Cole said.

“Hallelujah!” Mum said.

Gaston barked.

ChapterTwo

The first time I ever heard Cole Kennedy sing, he was standing on the other side of a closed door. Even then, it was obvious he was good. Like,reallygood. He was a natural baritone and had serious range. His voice had a smooth, silky quality. He sang with real emotion and incredible power. He’d chosen to sing Roy Orbison’s “You Got It,” and when he finished, there was clapping in the room. This was only the producer audition (the audition you did before you auditioned for the TV judges), but we’d probably listened to the last twenty acts performing through that door, and we’d never heard clapping before. How was I going to follow that?

The door opened, and Cole emerged with a massive grin on his face. “I’m through to the judges.”

Orla threw her arms around him. “I’m so proud of you!”

Cole, still holding his guitar, wound his free arm around her. Then he looked directly at me and dipped his head in a small bow. “It’s all thanks to Toby. Changing song was absolutely the right call.”

When Orla finally released him, Cole hugged me. My heart was thumping like it had joined a stampede. I hugged him back, tucking my head into his shoulder, breathing in the smell of him—the shampoo, the leather, the Lynx Africa. A bead of sweat was within licking distance. I nearly went for it.

A Scottish voice boomed throughout the room. “One hundred and forty-six!”

Mum whacked me in my ribs. “That’s you, Tobes. You’re up, bubby.”

“One hundred and forty-six!” the voice called again.

“I better go,” I said, pulling free of the hug.

Cole put his hand on my shoulder and looked me square in the eye. “You got it.”

“Do you two know each other?” It was one of theMake Me a Pop Starproducers, the same one who had been calling out my number.

Cole turned to the woman and grinned. “We met in the line earlier.” He let his arm slip around my shoulder and pulled me into him. Then, like a gentleman in a regency romance, he introduced us. “Indira, this is Toby. Toby, this is Indira—she’s an assistant producer on the show.”

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