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The bacon and cream in front of me turns hazy as I absorb the compliment, as it reaches inside and warms something I didn’t know was cold. “Thank you.”
“Tell me about the singing.”
With my back to him, it’s easier. “I always sang as a child. My mother likes to say I sang before I spoke.”
“Recording a demo is on your bucket list.”
“Yes. I used to sing a lot. Even had a YouTube channel, actually.” I shake my head. “But that’s over now.”
“You posted your singing online?”
“Yes. Just for fun, you know. Not because I thought of myself as having a voice worthy to share or anything.”
“It is, though,” he says. “Are the videos still up?”
I shake my head. “I took them down a few years ago.”
“How come?”
Shrugging, I turn up the heat for the pasta water to boil. Edging closer to a truth I don’t know if I want to reveal. “Do you remember the ex-boyfriend I mentioned? The one I broke up with a year ago?”
“Yes. You said the break-up was a good thing.”
“Well, he was a musician. And a sociopath, probably.” I add a laugh.
But it’s not really funny.
“How so?”
“Well, he had a lot of opinions, and he was great at expressing them in very convincing ways.” I’m dancing around the truth here, but admitting to being manipulated in front of this man… He’s so sure and stable and radiates the kind offuck-offenergy that tells people to not even try.
He would have seen Robin for what he was a mile away.
I add the fettuccini to the now-boiling water. “Anyway, he didn’t like me putting singing videos online. Didn’t like my vocal coach, either. It went from telling me I should practice more, to how it would be better if I focused my energy elsewhere. He implied people were just indulging me when they said nice things. That he was the only one doing me a favor by telling the truth.”
Anthony’s voice is glacial. “He said those things.”
“Yes. I don’t like to call people names, but he was sort of an asshole.”
“He sounds like a lot more than just an asshole.”
I force nonchalance into my tone and turn to where he’s sitting, straight on the kitchen chair, his dark gaze on me. It’s serious.
“It’s on me for listening to him, in the end,” I admit. “For not realizing what he was doing until it had already happened. He was very convincing.”
“He was wrong,” Anthony says, fury beneath his words. “Both about your singing and about whatever else he might have told you. You know that, right?”
“I know. Even if it’s sometimes hard to remember.”
His frown deepens. “You will, in time, and so much the better for the rest of us. You sing beautifully.”
“Thank you,” I say. “He did say I was wasting my time at Opate Match, and working for my aunt.”
Anthony gives a low snort of derision. “Of course you’re not. It’s a well-paying job and the company is well-regarded. Give it a year and it’ll be a much larger operation, too. Not to mention you’re great at what you do.”
Every single one of his words lights up something in me. Tugs at my lips until I have to grin. “Never thought I’d see the day,” I say, “when Anthony Winter defends Opate.”
There’s a low scraping across the floor as he pushes the chair back and joins me by the counter. He holds the bowl as I drain the pasta into it, and we both watch as I add the sauce, combining the two into a mouthwatering dish.
