My ex-boyfriend froze and measured his next words. "What does your singing have to do with applying for a position at the Ritz-Carlton?"
"I love singing."
Joshua laughed. "And it's the perfect hobby for you, but it's not going to pay the bills or get you the career you've studied so hard for, now is it?"
I turned and looked at the stage. The vintage microphone glinted like a far off star, and I felt the old pain in my chest. It was the familiar pain of saying goodbye, of leaving something I loved for something better.
It was the same feeling that had followed me since I left South Dakota and never looked back.
CHAPTER TWO
Penn - 2
I should have kept walking. The thought occurred to me for the tenth time as I watched her toss her golden blonde hair. Corsica stood too close to her ex-boyfriend, her eyes bright with excitement over whatever news he was sharing. I rubbed my chest and cursed myself. When would I learn?
Women like Corsica, prim and perfect, were dangerous. Anyone who spent all their time polishing a perfect facade disgusted me.
Except, disgust was the wrong word for my reaction to her. Attraction wasn't even a strong enough word. I could feel her pumping through my veins and, for the life of me, I couldn't look away.
There was some comfort in the way her sky-blue eyes kept coming back to me, even as her catalog-model boyfriend talked. I winked, and she frowned.
Corsica had already made it clear that I was not her type. I tugged at my beard. My careless clothes and my tattoos were not a disguise, they were me, but I had always been glad my look deterred women like her. One whiff of my bank accounts would turn her into a heartless, husband-hunting machine. Then, she would want to change me, outfit me like her perfect ex-boyfriend, and parade me around town.
I ground my teeth and turned back to the bar.
Corsica's friend, a tiny pixie of a woman, leaned next to me. "They aren't dating anymore, thank god," Ginny said.
"You really don't like him?" I was surprised.
"Oh, Joshua's fine, really. He means well. I just hate how he's got Corsica on this straight and narrow path."
I watched Corsica glance back at the stage. The microphone seemed to call to her. "And that path doesn't lead to singing?"
Ginny snorted. "Joshua has never encouraged Corsica to sing. Even though they met at open mic night at his parents' inn."
"His parents' inn?"
"Yeah. His parents own one of those fancy inns down in Santa Cruz. You know, the ones with the white linen tablecloths and seven-course dinners."
I chuckled. "What's wrong with that?"
"I don't know," she admitted. "It's just that he plans to turn Corsica into the perfect hostess. I don't want to see her stuck in a dress suit and pearls, kissing the ass of every rich couple that walks through the doors."
"And what does she want?" I asked, glancing at Corsica again.
Ginny gave a dark frown. "Doesn't matter. She'd never admit to it. Corsica's too determined to get ahead."
That was it. That was my cue to turn my back and forget about her. I should have kept walking the moment I met Corsica. With self-preservation in mind, I glanced at my phone for a distraction. Unfortunately, the only thing there was a text message from my father. I scowled, thinking how impressed my father would be with Corsica's ex-boyfriend. If anyone appreciated careful presentation and impeccable self-grooming, it was my father.
If there was one thing that Xavier Templeton loved, it was a polished image. My father looked down at the world from his towering command over Silicon Valley. He was every inch the legacy billionaire, from his custom, Italian shoes to his obscenely expensive haircuts. My father was just the man that people like Joshua and Corsica hoped to meet.
I, on the other hand, was pissed off at the idea of seeing him. I'd only come to town because my father's summons seemed so dire. We hadn't spoken in years, so plain curiosity was enough justification for me to come to San Francisco. It was becoming clearer and clearer that coming to the city was a mistake.
I read the text message again. My father was running late and wanted me to meet him at his house. As if that if that multi-level monstrosity of a mansion on Telegraph Hill could be called a house.
It was only minutes away, so I raised my hand to order another drink. Then, I saw Corsica gathering up her purse. She was going to leave with tha
t blond, Polo-shirted asshole. My throat burned, and I decided to skip another drink. Besides, I could piss off my father by getting into his aged Scotch while I waited.