Sing For Me

Sing For Me A FAKE DATING, SECOND CHANCE ROMANCE CLAIRE WILDER Copyright © 2023 by Claire Wilder All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Cover design: Wildheart Graphics Editing: Erica Edits Proofreading: Yvette D’eon For everyone with a dream too wild. Contents Prologue 1. Reese 2. Eli 3. Eli 4. Reese 5. Reese 6. Eli 7. Reese 8. Eli 9. Eli 10. Reese 11. Reese 12. Eli 13. Reese 14. Eli 15. Reese 16. Eli 17. Reese 18. Eli 19. Eli 20. Reese 21. Reese 22. Eli 23. Reese 24. Eli 25. Reese 26. Eli 27. Reese 28. Eli 29. Eli 30. Reese 31. Reese 32. Eli 33. Reese Epilogue Acknowledgments About the Author Prologue ELI This prologue appears as an epilogue in Fall For Me. APRIL It was weird as hell being back here in Jewel Lakes County. It was like stepping back into an old pair of shoes that not only didn’t fit, but made me feel like shit, too. Plus, seeing my sister and best friend looking like they wanted to eat each other for breakfast… just weird. Worse than that—it made my chest hurt. “Okay, well, I’m going to leave you two to it,” I said, awkward as hell. “I’ve got some shit to do.” “Bye Eli,” Chelsea said. Seamus just waved me away. I headed for my truck with my insides tied in all kinds of ugly knots. I was happy for them. Damn happy, honestly. But I couldn’t help thinking about how I thought I’d been so happy once, in this very place. As the windshield wipers thudded against the edges of the rain-streaked glass, I cranked up the radio. It was Tom Petty’s Wildflowers. I swore, switching over to another station. This one was playing Aneurysm, by Nirvana. Much better. Nothing romantic for me, not when I was heading to Stor-Rite Super Storage to go through the objects of my failed marriage. I glanced over at the envelope sticking out of one of my cupholders. I’d recognized the handwriting the moment I pulled the letter out of the stack at home. But it had taken me weeks to finally open it. I wished I’d burned it. The letter informed me that first, I was an asshole for blocking her email address. Then, that she was removing several items from the locker and tossing the rest. The locker was in her name, she said, even though it was my credit card paying the bill. The Stor-Rite was a depressing cinderblock box, though the doors to the lockers were orange. I located the unit easily enough, and with shaking hands, opened the lock, hauling the door open. Fuck. Everything was in here. The furniture, boxes of books, records, and decor. Wardrobe boxes filled with clothes. I was suddenly hit with a sense of overwhelm so heavy I dropped down into the loveseat Kelly and I used to watch movies on in the den and held my head in my hands. I don’t know how long I sat there, listening to the rain splatter on the concrete outside. Long enough that I was starting to get stiff. And long enough to know I didn’t want to deal with any of this. I was going to tell the Stor-Rite people I was abandoning everything Kelly didn’t take. They could bill me, whatever. I just didn’t want to touch any of this shit again. I didn’t want any kind of reminder that I’d even had a life here. I wanted to scrub Kelly from my goddamned head. Except just as I stood up, I heard the rumble of a car outside. Not the rough rumble of a truck, but the low purr of something more expensive. What the hell is a car like that doing in a place like this? The Bentley pulled to a stop right across from this unit. I stood just inside, out of the rain. The guy driving was a snazzy-looking dude with silver hair and thick, black-rimmed glasses. He looked just as rich as his car, and slightly familiar, too, though I couldn’t place him. When he got out, he grinned, opening his arms. “The famous Eli Dunham, in the flesh,” I noticed vaguely that he had a thick British accent. “Do I know you?” “Ouch,” the man said, laughing as if this was just the funniest thing in the world. “I’m Neil Brock.” He said it like I was supposed to know who he was. Then the guy—Neil—seemed to notice the rain coming down on his black blazer. He was wearing that over a white v-neck shirt that went so low I swear I saw his sternum, plus jeans and cowboy boots. Cowboy boots—where the hell did he think we were, Montana? He laughed again, then went to the back of his car to pull out an umbrella. That’s when I noticed he wasn’t alone. My stomach dropped, practically splattering on the concrete floor of the locker. There was a woman in the front seat, with a soft swoop of jet-black hair, and a perfect, pointed nose. One I’d brushed my own nose against a hundred times. She stood up, raising her own perfect red umbrella. “Hello, Eli.” I swallowed. “Kelly. I thought you weren’t coming by until next week?” Her letter had given me two months’ notice for when she was going to close the locker, but of course I’d squandered all of it. “No,” she said, as she and Neil strode closer to where I was standing, still under the cover of the storage unit. “This was the week I indicated in the letter.” She said letter in a way that made me know she was still miffed about me blocking her email. I don’t know why; she knew I was all-or-nothing as