Christmas In The City (Imperfect Match 1.50)

But he didn’t move. When I set my beer down—now half gone—I glanced at him. Again he was watching me, his eyes still warm and interested.

Huh.

“Do you—” he started.

“And how have—” I began.

We both stopped at the same time, sharing a small smile and a chuckle. My goodness, he really was excessively handsome, especially when he chuckled. His smile plus the low, deep timbre of the sound had that flutter in my stomach growing more pronounced.

He gestured to me and said, “Please. You first.”

“I was just going to ask, how have you liked your stay?”

“Dublin’s a great city, but this wasn’t my first visit.” He scratched his chin. “I have some friends here, so I travel back and forth a lot.”

“A jet setter then.”

His smile deepened, persisted, and my breath caught just above my rib cage.

Yeah. This is definitely a dream.

“I get around. I’m Broderick, by the way.” He held out his hand, his gaze seeming to grow more searching, like the revelation of his name might mean something to me.

My gaze dropped to his hand and I looked at it for a moment, then finally shook with him. “A fancy name for a fancy lad,” I said, unable to ignore the warm slide of his palm against mine, and how warm and solid he felt. “I’m Ophelia. It’s nice to meet you.”

“A pretty name for a pretty voice.” He continued holding my hand, not shaking it, but not letting it go either. “And it’s nice to meet you, too.”

“You liked the song?”

“It gave me chills.” His voice dropped to almost a whisper, the smile dropping from his face, replaced with a rough kind of sincerity that gave me a shiver.

I looked away, flushing slightly, and he immediately released my hand, allowing me to turn back to the bar. I wasn’t used to compliments, not from strangers, and most definitely not from random, jet-setting, sophisticated men. Then again, I rarely stuck around long enough after performing a song for people to tell me whether they liked it.

“Do you sing professionally?”

“It’s just a hobby.”

“A hobby.” He sounded disbelieving.

I wiped my thumb through the condensation at the base of my pint and blurted, “No. Actually, more like a compulsion.”

“A compulsion to sing?” Now he sounded intrigued.

“If I don’t—” I lifted my hands, motioning to my chest. “I can’t seem to breathe, and it weighs on me, like wearing a hundred coats. It’s a heaviness, a burden, but also like a blockage. I get all backed up.” I paused to laugh, wrinkling my nose at myself and all this oversharing. Maybe it was the Guinness. “Sorry.” I peered at him. “That sounds disgusting.”

“No, I get it.” He leaned closer, his expression intent and earnest, both easing and arresting a knot in my chest. “I don’t sing but I love music. I love listening to it, being around it. It feeds my soul.”

Again, we shared a stare, and a moment of quiet passed. Where had this man come from? He talked like he was in a movie. I’d never met anyone like him before. Maybe it was an American thing. He expressed himself so openly, without any self-consciousness or self-deprecation. And the way he looked at me, like he knew me, or was waiting for me to recognize him, it was all very . . . unnerving.

“Anyway,” he went on when I didn’t speak, leaning away now as though coming back to himself. “I just wanted to tell you that I enjoyed your song and I think you’re very talented.”

I blew out a breath. “That’s very kind of you but there are plenty singers out there with much better voices than me.” Ugh, what was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I just take the compliment?

“It’s not just about your voice,” Broderick countered. “The greatest singers aren’t always the best artists. The world is full of singers, but true artists are few and far between. The ability to connect with an audience, convey emotion, make the world feel the words—and more than just the meaning behind them, but live the experience—that’s what sets them apart. When you sang, I felt your loss. I felt the magnitude of it from twenty feet away. It moved me.”

His gaze dropped and he placed his feet on the ground like he planned to stand and walk away. A jolt of panic—that this man who seemed to truly understand how I felt about music might just disappear—sent a flare of heat climbing up my neck to my chin and cheeks and nose.

Before I quite understood the intent of my instincts, I stood first, jumping to my feet and stammering, “Thank you. It’s good to hear I’m doing something right. Here, as a thank you, let me buy you a drink.” Feeling oddly breathless, I lifted my finger in the air, attempting to get the attention of the bartender. I didn’t have money to be spending on drinks at pubs, but this was the first time in a long time that reality had come close to being as enjoyable as one of my daydreams. I desperately wanted the moment to last.