Page 27 of Breaking the Ice

“Sure. What else?”

“Wait, do you like show tunes?”

I shrug. “Who doesn’t love Hamilton?”

“Fair.” She smiles, and my heart pounds faster. “Pop songs are for cleaning. You know, nice and upbeat to help get the job done. R&B is for…” Looking down at the table, her cheeks color. “Well, it sets a mood.”

“What kind of mood?” I tease, loving the blush that spreads to her neck.

“I think you know.” I definitely do. Isabella clears her throat. “Moving on. I like nice background music for studying. Noise, but something that won’t distract me.”

“I need that.” I pull my phone out of my pocket. “Will you send me your Spotify playlists?”

“Sharing playlists? Are you sure this friendship has progressed to that stage?” she asks, but she grins, so I know she’s playing with me. I don’t mention how I want things to progress beyond friendship.

“Just for that, I’m not sharing my workout playlist with you,” I taunt, waving my phone. “And it’s amazing.”

“How about a trade? You share that one and I’ll share one back. Do you want my cleaning playlist or my study playlist?”

“What’s it take to get both?”

Her answer is interrupted by our waiter bringing our food. The fish and chips are good, and Isabella says she likes the beef stew. As I’m polishing off my last bite, one of the bartenders taps a microphone.

“Dia duit, everyone, and welcome to Sing-O.”

The crowd in the bar cheers, and Isabella smiles and raises her glass, her eyes alight with excitement.

The bartender explains how to play the game, and Isabella shifts her chair around so we’re on the same side of the table.

“So I can see better,” she says, pointing at the bar. I don’t care why she did it, I just like that she’s closer.

“Alright, folks, here we go.”

Journey’s famous piano riff plays, and the entire audience sings along as the song starts. “Just a small-town girl, living in a lonely world…”

The bartender cuts the music, but the crowd keeps singing the lyrics. Isabella throws her head back and laughs. “This is great!”

“Do you have it on your Bingo card?”

“Oh, yeah, I almost forgot about that part.” She points to a spot. “Don’t Stop Believin’. Right here in the top corner.”

Isabella sings along with the next three songs—Call Me Maybe, Come On Eileen, and Starships—but when she hits the high notes with Whitney in I Wanna Dance With Somebody, I get chills down my arms. Other patrons glance over at our table, and a few applaud.

“Wow. Bella, your voice is incredible.”

Blushing, she stares at her Bingo card. “Thanks.”

I tilt her chin up to meet my gaze. “Seriously. Are you sure you want to waste that on teaching kids?”

But once again, I’ve said the wrong thing. Because she stiffens and pulls away. The happiness in her eyes disappears. Then she stands up. “Um, I have to go. Step outside. I need some air.”

“Bella, wait!” I growl at myself in frustration as I hurry to follow out the doors of the restaurant into the parking lot. Gravel crunches under my feet as I catch up to her. “I’m sorry. Teaching’s not a waste. It’s just, you’re a really good singer, you could be the next Taylor Swift⁠—”

“Yeah, right.” Spinning on the heel of her bootie, she faces me in the dim glow of a streetlamp, swiping moisture off her face. She waves her hand up and down her body. “Someone who looks like this could never be Taylor Swift. Haven’t you seen her? She’s thin and blonde and⁠—”

I pull her to me and press my lips against hers.

What came over me? I’m not sure. But there’s no universe in which thin and blonde is better than Bella’s fiery red hair and voluptuous curves. What better way to convince her those words should never be in her mouth?