Part 3Falling For The King Of Cheap Dates

During college, I worked as a resident singer at a upscale-ish lounge called The Velvet Room. My voice was smooth, a bit jazzy, and apparently, I had enough "sweetheart energy" to keep the bar stools filled on weeknights.

The place was usually packed, until the Tuesday night the world went quiet.

“Where the hell is everyone?” my boss, Mike, grumbled, pacing the floor like a caged bear.

I gestured toward the window with a tilt of my chin. “Your regulars are across the street, Mike.”

He strode over, leaning his weight against the glass, his eyes practically glued to the entrance of the rival bar, The Sound Garden.

“They’ve got a new resident singer,” a regular informed us with the kind of brutal honesty only a drunk person possesses. “Kid’s got the voice of an angel. The place is sold out.”

Mike turned to me, his eyes squinting in a desperate conspiracy. “Riley, honey. Do me a favor. Go over there. Find out what kind of 'heavenly voice' is stealing my business.”

“Not interested,” I said, filing my nails. “I’m not a corporate spy.”

“I’ll double your set fee for the week,” he whispered.

“Deal.” I didn't feel a lick of guilt. A girl has to eat, and Mike had deep pockets.

A few nights later, I walked into The Sound Garden on the company dime. I hate to admit it, but the guy actually had something.

He looked young—mid-twenties, maybe—with a refined, almost academic handsomeness. But it was his eyes that caught you; they were dark, focused, and incredibly expressive.

When he started singing, his voice was a deep, gravelly baritone. It was sexy. It was the kind of voice that felt like being pulled underwater—warm, suffocating, and impossible to escape. I could see why the room was breathless.

“Your drink, miss.” A server’s voice snapped me back to reality.

“I didn't order anything,” I said, confused.

“It’s from the singer,” the guy smiled, nodding toward the stage.

I looked up. Wyatt was still singing, his eyes closed, seemingly lost in the music.

During his break, he found me.

“Do you like it?” I looked up and met a pair of eyes shimmering with a quiet, playful light.

“Do I know you?” I asked, playing it cool.

“You’re the lead at The Velvet Room,” he said, his tone lazy and unhurried. There was a certain nonchalance about him, a lack of the usual desperation I saw in men.

I picked up the glass and took a slow, deliberate sip. “Has anyone ever told you that you look like a 'dangerous gentleman'?”

The stage lights reflected in his pupils, making them look like twin galaxies. He laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “And do you like dangerous gentlemen?”

I looked away, my heart doing a strange little stutter. “The drink is good. Thanks.”