Page 48 of The Lonely Hearts Book Club

I find I do not have a great deal more left to give.

MATEO

16

“Mateo, we’re going to be late if you don’t hurry.”

Lincoln popped his head into the bedroom where I stood in nothing but my underwear, three nearly identical outfits laid out on the bed in front of me. Black slacks, black button-down shirts, black socks—it looked like I was getting ready to attend the funerals for all three of Goldilocks’ bears.

That one had a collar that was too big.

That one had a waistline that was too tight.

And that one… Well. It’d have to do. Like Lincoln said, we were running late.

“I don’t know why you’re so worried.” Lincoln came up behind me, his arms around my waist and his head propped on my shoulder as I made my selection. “It’s not like anyone’s going to be looking at you. You know what happens the moment your mom takes the stage.”

I changed my mind at the last second and grabbed the outfit that was too small around the waist. I’d be uncomfortable all night long, and there was a fifty percent chance I’d rip through the seams like a Jazz Age Hulk, but one had to suffer to be beautiful.

That was one of my mom’s favorite sayings, so she’d have been the first to agree. She had four different embroidered pillows in her house warning of just such a fate.

“A bold choice,” Lincoln said, his voice low with approval as I shimmied and squeezed my way into the pants. “Who are we trying to impress?”

“You,” I lied as I sucked in a deep breath and snapped the button closed. I struck a playful pose and did my best not to feel like a sausage about to break free of its casing. “Is it working?”

He grinned in the way that won him friends and admiration everywhere he went. “You look perfect.”

I didn’t, but it was sweet of someone whodidlook perfect to say so. Hyperbolic as it seemed, Lincoln Jonas was walking, talking perfection. He stood six foot two—and not in the way that five-foot-eleven men sometimes refused to stand next to anyone but short people so they had the benefit of perspective. He was that tall in his socks in the middle of the living room. He also had the build—and the heart—to fill that frame. Add in a full stern-brunch-daddy beard and a tendency to wear flannel literally everywhere, and that was my boyfriend.

My love. My partner. The gravitational center of my universe.

“Ready?” Lincoln asked. “I promised your mom we’d be early enough to snag a table at the front. You know how much she likes being able to see us when she performs.”

“The great Althea Sharpe?” I said, unable to resist the impulse. “How strange. I had no idea she cared so much.”

Lincoln laughed, his barrel of a chest rumbling as he whisked me out the door and into the UberLux waiting outside for us. On her opening nights, my mom preferred as much fanfare as possible, which meant my poor little Fiat wouldn’t cut it—and Lincoln’s half-refurbished motorcycle was adefiniteno-go.

“The whole Sharpe family is known for their dramatic flair,” Lincoln said as he scooted in behind me. The sleek black Jaguar oozed leather, class, and the indefinable scent of overcompensation. “It’s kind of what I love about them. I don’t know if you know this, but they’re drawn to it like moths to a flaming inferno.”

As always, that word—love—rolled off Lincoln’s tongue like butter melting in a pan. The only thing he loved more than love itself was saying it out loud. And putting it in greeting cards. And blasting it from the rooftops.

If ever romance had a poster boy, it was Lincoln Jonas.

I should have been delighted about it—Iwasdelighted about it—but that was the problem with dating a gravitational center. No matter what I did, his pull never wavered.

“That’s not a real saying,” I told him, but I could feel myself starting to relax. Especially once Lincoln started rooting through the UberLux candy selection until he found a roll of my favorite strawberry Mentos. “And we Sharpes don’t love drama. Drama loves us. It’s different.”

***

The jazz club where my mother headlined was small, private, and known to just about every person living within a hundred-mile radius of Coeur d’Alene. What had started as a secret underground club had rapidly become the hottest spot to enjoy twenty-dollar cocktails and live performances, thanks in large part to the recent fame of our lakeside town.

Not too long ago, Coeur d’Alene had been little more than a sleepy resort wrapped up in a gorgeous Idaho forest and with a population that bleeds conservative red. In recent years, however, the town had been discovered by the Hollywood elite. A few Kardashian vacation snapshots on Instagram and all of a sudden no one could get enough of us. It was as though Hotel California had finally unlocked its doors, and everyone was streaming out to get a piece of the action.

Not that I meant to complain. All it took was one glance at my mother, the fringe on her flapper-style dress swinging as she belted out her favorite Édith Piaf hit list, and it was difficult to regret our city’s recent descent into fame.

I’d never seen her so beautiful…or so compelling. Lincoln wasn’t the only one who burned a little too bright in the limelight of my life.

“Can you believe we’re seeingtheAlthea Sharpe live?” The couple at the table next to us had to shout to be heard over the big band, but they seemed to have no qualms about doing it. “With a voice like that, I thought she’d be a lot bigger.”