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James took me to a karaoke bar last night. Yes, some things can still surprise me about this line of work. He signed himself up for a Dean Martin standard and got us each a beer.

“Bianca, do you sing?”

I laughed into my Sierra Nevada. The sharp tang of hops tickled my nose. “A little.”

He scribbled something on a card and handed it to the emcee.

“What are you doing?”

“Fulfilling a lifelong dream.”

I said nothing. He crooned like a lost member of the Rat Pack. I watched a table of women watching him hungrily. He was lovely to look at. Dark hair, those smudgy gray eyes, an athletic body he tones by training for triathlons. I had a sudden desire to leap out of character and give all three of them his number.

James sat down and clinked his pint glass against mine. “Here goes.”

The three women shot me the stink-eye and the emcee took the mic.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the Pago Pago stage the next Dusty Springfield, Ms. Bianca N!”

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