Once Upon a Sure Thing (Heartbreakers #2)

But as I take a break from the world of night magic and rogue teen witches battling armies of spirit clones to check my email, I seem to have forgotten the basic mechanics of respiration—because of this email.

I close my eyes, will my jackrabbiting pulse to settle, and finally take a breath. I open my eyes and reread the email from my best friend. The subject line is Blown away.



Thought your song was fantastic! Can you meet me on Monday at ten forty-five to sing?



Then there’s an address for a studio Miller likes to use.

Mine.

He must have booked the time with one of my colleagues.

I fan my face and try to collect my thoughts as excitement zigzags through me.

He thought I was amazing. He thought I was great.

I’m so screwed.

There’s no way I can pull this off.

How am I going to walk into my studio, say surprise, and then knock out a song with my best guy friend as my newly created, sexier, smokier alter ego?

I mean, obviously, I knew this was a possibility. I’d hoped for this possibility.

I wanted him to pick me because he loves my voice, and if he’s calling me in, it means my vocal gymnastics worked.

The key is to keep blowing him away as Honey, and Honey has some naughty in her. She has a dose of sultry, a dash of cinnamon, and a whole lot of spice.

I can’t walk in there looking like Ally Zimmerman, the a cappella queen. I need to jettison the whole look and character I mastered when I was half of the family-centric brother-and-sister duo. No ponytails, no collared polo shirts, and no bouncy Keds shoes.

I won’t be the soprano princess with a voice like a bell, the kind of woman who lights YouTube on fire singing “Amazing Grace” mashed up with “The Four Seasons.” Or “Only Fools Fall in Love” mingled with “Hallelujah.” The Zimmerman duo has nothing in common vocally with Miller’s pop-rock style of big anthems and powerful songs designed to be played in arenas.

But I can do that stuff.

I simply need to look the part.

I reach into my purse to freshen up my lip gloss, my fingers rubbing against the stack of bills I need to pay.

Chloe’s school bill.

Chloe’s therapist.

Not to mention the rent.

Maybe if I sang with Miller, I wouldn’t have to worry about hustling so hard for every book, every contract, and every deal.

Later, I finish fending off today’s tribe of spirit invaders, and I head home. As Chloe and I plan our outfits for the Christmas party at Campbell’s house tomorrow, I start to formulate my plans.

I call my friend Macy and tell her I need a little night magic.



*

I grew up in New Paltz, New York, the youngest of three kids to a literature professor and a dentist. My parents were and still are regular churchgoers, and that’s how my brother and I started singing. Sundays, Easter, Christmas . . . those were my favorites—since our church was more casual, we sang “I’ll be Home for Christmas” right along with “Oh Come All Ye Faithful.”

I parlayed that love of singing into chorus in high school then an all-girls a cappella group in college.

Our sister, Lindsay, laughed at her lack of musical talent and pursued a college degree in environmental science, nabbing a great job in her field shortly after graduation. At just twenty-three, she became pregnant after a one-night stand who told her he never wanted to be a father. Determined to do it all, Lindsay managed to raise her kid on her own and juggle a career for the first six years of Chloe’s life.

Until she drove to a friend’s house one snowy evening in March, lost control of the car on a patch of ice, and lost her life when a truck rammed into her.

The seatbelts in the back seat did their job. Somehow, miraculously, Chloe only broke an arm.

I say only, but she lost so much more.

My parents are older and retired, and they offered to raise her. Trouble was, their health was on the decline. Besides, Lindsay had asked me one Christmas, as we were setting gifts under the tree, the blue and white lights twinkling in her living room.

“Will you take care of my girl if anything happens to me?”

I stared at her as if she’d sprouted a unicorn horn. “Nothing is going to happen to you. You’re healthy and safe.”

“You never know.” Lindsay grabbed my arm, held it tightly, forcing me to look into her brown eyes. They were sad but determined. “Will you raise her? Make sure she’s happy and healthy and knows right from wrong? Make sure she has fun and does all her homework too? I want you to be her guardian if something happens to me.”

“Are you sick?” I’d asked, fear thick in my voice.

“No. Just trying to be smart. You never know what a day has in store for you.”

“Of course. But stop talking such nonsense on Christmas.”

Three months later, fate had the worst in store. Lindsay died on impact, and Chloe became mine.

Kirby and his wife, Macy, have helped over the years, taking care of her often, pitching in with bills. My parents spend many weekends with her. But at the end of the day, my house is her home. I’m the one who signs her permission slips, who’s listed as the emergency contact, and who’s her guardian.

Without a roadmap, I’ve done my best to give her stability and love. It hasn’t always been easy, and Chloe was, understandably, devastated when her mom died. She was shy and withdrawn for a few years, and that’s why I sent her to a therapist. She’s resilient though, a tough little cookie who’s learning how to adapt.

I love my niece like crazy, and I want to give her the best chance a kid can possibly have. That’s why I pay to send her to a school where she’s finally thriving, and to do fun activities she enjoys, like photography and art classes, and why I do everything I can to be there for her. That’s why the last guy I dated was history after only one month. That was more than a year ago, and Jake didn’t understand why Chloe was my priority. “She’s not even yours,” he’d said. “I wish you’d make time for me the way you do for her.”

“Not even a minute, Jake. You won’t even get another second.”

And Chloe is also why Miller’s audition appeals to me. This new band could be a little extra on the side.



*

I’m humming to myself in Campbell’s kitchen the next day.

He and Miller are picking up last-minute items for the Christmas party. Even though it’s early in December, Campbell’s daughter, Samantha, loves the holiday so much she’s insisted on having two parties—one early and one later.

Plus, Miller’s younger brother, Miles, is in town for a couple weeks, during a break between his tour in Australia and a short European leg, where he’ll spend the rest of the month.

Chloe and I grab stools at the kitchen counter.

Samantha loves to bake, and she’s enlisted me in the not-terribly-complex-but-terribly-tempting task of sprinkling powdered sugar on top of the Nutella bread pudding.

Chloe leans close and stage-whispers out of the corner of her mouth, “Want to sneak out with this one? I’ll guard the door while you make a run for it.”

I laugh. “I’m one hundred percent in support of this plan.”

“I heard you,” Samantha cuts in, in what has to be her sternest voice possible. “No one is making off with the Christmas goodies.”

As she scoops chocolate peanut butter balls from a tray, Mackenzie nods quickly, seconding our plan. “I’ll just stuff these peanut butter balls in my bra right now, and then we’ll make our escape.”

“Patience, ladies, patience,” Samantha calls out as she checks the timer on the oven. “Also, under no circumstances are you putting any peanut butter balls in your undergarments.”

Mackenzie’s eyes widen, and she mimes removing contraband from her pants.

I crack up.

“Just give me a treat. Something to tide me over, then. I’m dying, Sam. Dying, I tell ya,” Mackenzie says, swooning dramatically against the counter.

“This is indeed torture of the highest degree,” I say, as I sprinkle sugar on the dessert. “You should try doing this without jamming your whole face into the bread pudding.”

Samantha swivels around and points a finger accusingly at me. “Do not ruin my Christmas treats. If you do, I will banish you from Samantha’s Treat Zone.”