Take A Chance With Me (With Me in Seattle 18)

He’s quiet while I wander around the kitchen, gathering my thoughts.

“On a whim, about a year ago, I posted a video of me singing, and it caught on. Went viral, as they say. And it just sort of evolved from there. Now, I try to post something every day, or every other day at the very least. I record everything in advance to make it easy.”

“How many followers do you have?”

“Just over three million.”

He’s stunned silent, and then he clears his throat and says, “I’m sorry, I thought you just said three million.”

I laugh and nod. “Yeah, I did. It’s a lot of people. Of course, thanks to algorithms and stuff, not all of those people see every post. But a lot do, and they say nice things. I ignore the trolls.”

“What’s your handle?”

I bite my lip. “I haven’t even told my family that I’m doing this.”

Cam frowns. “Why not?”

“Well, Kane wouldn’t know how to use the phone to see it anyway, but I just, I don’t know. I’ve kept it to myself. I’m not embarrassed or anything. It just feels silly.”

“Why?”

“Because they all have such important things going on. Kane with his glass, Keegan and the pub. Shawn writes movies, and Maeve sells houses. And I’m not saying that working at the pub is dumb or anything, but I wanted something that felt like I was successful in some small way.”

“And you don’t think they’d be proud of you?” Cam shakes his head. “You’re wrong. Hell, they’d probably arrange for you to record an album or something.”

I take a long, deep breath as butterflies fill my stomach.

“You have connections through Anastasia’s family,” Cam reminds me. “Hell, why not call Leo Nash? The man’s a rock star.”

“I’m not going to use my family connections,” I reply softly. “The truth is, I don’t want to record an album. I like my life just as it is. But I would love to record just one song. In a studio, with a producer. Just once so I could see what it’s like. I’m a simple girl. I don’t need fame or even a recording career. I like having fun with it. I sing old Irish songs, and sometimes, I take requests. I recorded a Taylor Swift song in the style of an Irish ballad today.”

I take my phone out of my pocket and bring up my account, passing it to Cameron.

“Here, you can look through while I dish up dinner. Do you have social media?”

“No. It’s not secure enough. I have too much information that can’t ever be compromised.”

The kitchen is quiet except for the sound of me singing as he watches the videos, and I get dinner ready. Even after I set a plate in front of him, he continues viewing as he eats.

It’s awkward to eat and watch him watching me. But it also feels good when he smiles down at the screen or when his blue eyes shine in what I now know is lust.

His face is so expressive.

Finally, he passes the phone back and smiles over at me. “You’re fucking amazing.”

I bark out a laugh and cut a piece of my lasagna. “They’re just little one-minute songs, Cam. It’s not a Grammy or anything. Although, it is fun when people duet and add harmony. I’ve even had people add instruments. Musicians are so clever.”

“You’re clever.”

“And you’re flirting with me.”

“At last, she notices.” He winks and watches me as he chews his last bite. “Do you have plans this evening?”

“I think I’ll be hanging out with you.”

He nods, taking his plate to the sink for a rinse before loading the dishwasher.

“You brought dinner,” I say as I finish my food. “I’ll clean up.”

“If we clean together, it’ll be done faster.”

“Are you for real? Like, are you like this all the time or just now while we’re flirting and stuff? After a few months, are you going to get comfortable and relax, and I’ll find out that you really are an inconsiderate jerk who doesn’t do much to help me or do nice things?”

“Breathe.” He sets the covered lasagna aside to cool. “You really overthink, don’t you?”

“No. Well, yes, I do, but not about this. Because it happens a lot. And it’s not because someone is a jerk, actually, but because they get comfortable, and it’s just not important to continue to try to impress the other person anymore.”

“Okay, first of all, yes, there is always going to be some of that. It just happens, Mags. But I’m this person. I’ll bring—or make—dinner, and I’ll happily clean it up. I’m not going to change from Dr. Jekyll to Mr. Hyde. That’s not me. That might be people from your past, but it’s not me.”

“Okay.”

I turn to wipe the counter down, but I feel his eyes on my back.

“That’s it?” he says quietly. He’s closer now, his hands gliding over my hips. “Just okay?”