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Eliot glared. “Nobody wants to hear country music at a brewpub, Parker.”
“That’s not exactly true,” Hardison said. “I have it on good authority that anybody would want to hear you sing, long as you played the guitar and maybe wore a tank top while you were doing it.”
That didn’t make Eliot’s glare go away.
Parker batted her eyelashes. She wasn’t very good at the whole “puppy dog look” thing, mostly because both of her boys knew her too well to be taken in, but she was willing to try any tactic she could. “You’re a great singer, Eliot. And a great musician. You could sing It’s a Small World After All for three hours and people would love it.”
“No!” Eliot and Hardison shouted at the same time.
“Oh God no.” Hardison shuddered. “I love you, man, I do, but no.”
“That song falls under cruel and unusual punishment,” Eliot said. “I would know.”
Parker rolled her eyes. “Fine. But I still think we should do an open mic night and I still think you should sing for it.”
“I’m a hitter and a chef,” Eliot said. “I’m not a singer.”
“Bruh, I got footage from like five cons that proves you are,” Hardison said. “I’ll pull up the tapes, you want me to pull up the tapes?”
Eliot brandished a whisk at him. “No, I don’t want you to pull up the damn tapes, Hardison. Besides, that was for a con. That’s different.”
Parker tapped her finger on her chin and regarded Eliot shrewdly. “You know…you haven’t actually said no.”
Eliot turned his glare back to her. “Yes, I have. Repeatedly.”
“No, you haven’t. You said no one wants to hear country music at a pub, you said no to singing It’s a Small World After All, and you said you’re not a singer, but you never actually said ‘No, I’m not going to sing.’“ Parker leaned over the counter and grinned. “You want to. You just don’t want to admit it.”
Eliot turned away from her, back to the stove, but his cheeks were bright red. “I never said that.”
Parker held up one finger. “One song. If it doesn’t go well, we won’t pester you about it again. If it does?” She tapped her fingers on the counter. “I think we’ll have a pretty great Friday night music showcase. And if you really don’t want to, say ‘Parker, I don’t want to sing at the pub,’ right now, and I’ll drop it.”
Eliot narrowed his eyes at her, whisking the wine reduction on the stove without even looking at it. “One song,” he growled.
Hardison and Parker high-fived, and Parker shimmied in her seat. “All right, let’s go steal an open mic!”
Hardison facepalmed and Eliot groaned.
(One song turned into five. Eliot wore the tank top and played the guitar. He was easily the most popular act the entire night. And though he didn’t say anything, Parker could tell by his grin and the way he hugged her after that he’d loved every minute of it.)