Ten Days of Perfect (November Blue #1)

The clapping began as I stood wide-eyed like I’d never heard music before in my life. I joined in before anyone noticed. For the rest of his set he held me captive through the covers I recognized on his CD, as well as some songs he identified as his own. It was heaven; the few times we made eye contact, his gaze ignited something in me, and heat spread through my body. The way his mouth turned up in a grin was nearly enough to send me running for the fire exit. I sang loudly along to all of the songs, and Monica joined in.


“Thank you all for letting me share some music with you tonight,” Bo said, shifting on his stool. “It’s my understanding that you all enjoy a little live karaoke? I had a request placed at the beginning of the night, so I suppose I ought to honor that. Could Monica and . . . Ember join me?”

Josh wrapped his arms around Monica and me, giving a slight squeeze before saying, “You’re welcome.”

You’re welcome indeed. When Bo started the intro, I thought I’d crossed into a different dimension. He began The Wailin’ Jennys song, “Heaven When We’re Home.” Monica and I squealed like the college girls we were when we saw them perform this song on campus during our junior, post boyfriends, year. The Wailin’ Jennys were one thing Monica and I had always agreed on and no one at Finnegan’s had ever played them.

Nervousness took over as I got up on stage; I had never felt nervous on stage before but I froze under Bo’s striking masculinity. While his shoulders didn’t overpower his guitar, I flippantly thought about them overpowering me. He stopped playing to shake our hands.

“Bo Cavanaugh.” He stuck out his hand.

“Monica, nice to meet you. I can’t believe you know this song!” I was glad she spoke first because my eyes were the only thing working in that moment. He is really something to look at.

“You must be Ember? I like it.” He gave my hand a gentle squeeze.

The second our hands touched I felt it run up my arm, through my veins, and land square in my gut. A ribbon of instant desire tightened around my insides at the sight of his half smile just a few short inches from my face. I managed a small grin in return, and let my eyes linger on his as our hands parted.

“Yea, Thank you. I’m thrilled you know this song.” I silently thanked my voice for making a gracious return.

“Are you kidding? Judging by the crowd here tonight I’m thrilled you know the song,” he chuckled.

Bo started strumming the intro again, and I swear I could feel his soul through the music. Thankfully, Monica broke my uneasy stare at this beautiful guitar-playing god by tossing me the microphone. Bo cocked his head to the side, indicating he wanted us to sit on the stools on either side of him, so we obliged.

Bo sang the first verse with us and the crowd went wild.Josh, Sarah, and Callie were beaming, air toasting us with their drinks as we sang, “Don’t know what time it is, I’ve been up for way too long And I’m too tired to sleep I call my mother on the phone, she wasn’t home, And now I’m wondering the street I’ve been a fool, I’ve been cruel to myself I’ve been hanging onto nothing When nothing could be worse than hanging on And something tells me there must be something better than all this . . .”



It only took until the end of the first line for our voices to harmonize. I’d never heard a guy sing this song before, let alone with two women, but it was hot. His low register pulled the soul of the song from deep within my body and cast its spell over the crowd. Everyone was staring, like they were all wondering if we’d cooked this up ahead of time.

Electricity amplified on the side of my body closest to Bo, and I liked it. I held the microphone in my right hand, causing my elbow to brush against his left arm as we both moved to the music. Each note he strummed found its way into my body, leaving it thirsting for more. He let Monica and I carry the next two verses as he guided his skilled hands across the neck of the guitar.

The fourth verse of the song is my absolute tattoo-worthy favorite. I was so lost in the music and watching Bo’s hands that I got carried away. I stood up from the stool, placed the microphone in the holder, and really went for it. Monica stopped singing and Bo grinned behind his microphone.

“There’s no such thing as perfect And if there is we’ll find it when we’re good and dead Trust me I’ve been looking But tonight I think I’ll go and take a bath instead . . .”



The guitar stopped as I sang the word “instead,” and I turned as I held the note. Bo tilted his chin toward me to tell me to keep singing, only this time he stood up, put his hands on the microphone and joined in-a cappella. As his lips brushed the microphone, he placed his index finger under my chin, lifting my gaze to his. His dark eyes held a stare that ripped through me; a stare that said something I couldn’t read, but begged me to learn its language. We were singing this incredible song to each other, for the crowd, as if we’d written it ourselves. My soul wept with excitement and pleaded for more. If there was such a thing as song sex, I reached my climax as we sang,

“And then maybe I’ll walk a while And feel the earth beneath me They say if you stop looking It doesn’t matter if you find it And who’s to say that even if I did It’s what I’m really looking for . . .”