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birthday.
    My first birthday gift.
    I remember hiding in my room, crying my damn eyes out after they told me we’d be seeing him perform. And I loved every minute of his astonishing show. Trying to soak it in. Knowing it wouldn’t last forever.
    This is one of those moments.
    “She’s so good.”
    The strange company I keep looks down at me. I can feel the weight of Jude’s fire blue stare. It’s easier to return that stare now. His nose is straight and a touch long, while his jaw is strong and defined. His lips are thin with an oh so kissable dip on the upper one. His eyes are narrowed, with those arching brows lifting and digging horizontal lines across his forehead. It’s as if all his features decided to be horizontal or vertical. Little middle ground—just his cheekbones, carved into sharp but graceful slopes that angle toward a tiny pair of laugh lines at the corners of his mouth. His posture makes his neck seem longer, striped with strong tendons. The effect is predatory.
    That’s the look. Predatory .
    It’s not like it matters now. That’s his girl onstage and he’s a player and I’m that lamb braying for a quick death, not a slow bleed-out by humiliation.
    I tear my gaze off his face, away from his bemused expression, his . . . ugh, just him .
    Applause follows the apparent conclusion of Adelaide’s recital. Only, she doesn’t stop. She offers the crowd a quick nod before launching into a rip-roaring rendition of “If You Hadn’t But You Did.” Clair and John hired my high school music director to be my piano tutor, and she insisted on Broadway as well as the classics. She was weird and supercool. Horn-rimmed glasses and a slip showing—the goofy teacher everyone loved but didn’t really get. She adored Broadway and made a solo pilgrimage every year to catch a show or two. The genre never clicked for me, but if anyone can change my mind, it’s Adelaide Deschamps.
    The mic isn’t just for show. Her voice is Marilyn Monroe after sucking one little gulp of helium. She has the perfect blend of sexiness and playfulness. She hits the high notes, and she growls low, sultry notes as she accuses a phantom lover of cheating, all the time rollicking on the piano. She’s two different people in one body—half master musician, half rockabilly sexpot.
    I’m surprised when Jude’s big hand finds my knee and gives it a squeeze. I’d been tapping my toes furiously, and our legs are still crammed together. I do the unthinkable. I pull his hand off my thigh—instantly noticing the lack of warmth—and go back to tapping my toes. I can’t help it. The music is amazing.
    I glance over to see if he shows any sign of being offended. Not a bit. That big, shark-wide grin is back, in profile, filled with teasing. He’s toying with me to pass the time. I hate that.
    Take me seriously or don’t.
    I shake off my annoyance. Adelaide doesn’t play all hurricane-possessed like me. She’s perfectly aware of every gesture. A slinky bit of side-eye. A beaming smile. A pause—then an exaggerated wink to add a touch of comedy to her sex appeal. Forget the Met. Her stage presence screams, Doll me up and make me the next YouTube sensation .
    She’s living art—consciously vampy and raunchy and complex and dramatic.
    Her performance, plus Jude’s totally surprising crash-bang into my life, makes me want to slip free of my skin.
    When Adelaide finishes, she flips her shining curls over her shoulder with a dramatic flourish. She stands to receive a riot of clapping and shouts. Beaming, she dips a few curtsies more suited to a junior high kid making fun of the performance she’s been forced to finish. Clown-like. She blows air kisses and wiggles her fingers at a few people.
    Jude crosses his arms, which accentuates the striated muscles of forearms dusted with brown hair. His biceps pull against the material of his shirt. The fabric clings. I can barely keep from drooling. His brows are pulled down low. The set of his