I figured we’d grab post-rehearsal dinner and then get back to his apartment for another composition session, so I’d thrown on a comfy black dress, but when he met me on the sidewalk to head out again, he was dressed to the nines.

“I have a surprise for tonight,” he sang.

“Another section?” I grabbed his shoulders and jumped up and down. “Please please please?”

“No.” His dimple flashed. “Yes, but it can wait till tomorrow.”

“Such a tease!”

“No, no, it’s rough. And we need a night off.” His eyes lit with mischief. “A night out.”

•   •   •

The taxi pulled up outside a low-lit building with no sign marking it. The line to get in stretched all the way down the block.

“Um.” I eyed the burly doorman, then looked at Oscar. “Is there a VIP entrance?”

“Yep.” He smiled wickedly. “This way.”

Taking my hand, he led us directly to the front of the line. My dress suddenly felt a million times clingier.

“Hey.” Oscar gave the bouncer an up-nod. “Yeah, I’m Oscar Bell.”

The huge dude up-nodded back, waved the line a step away, and opened the door for us to go in. I glanced behind us, totally bewildered, just as a flash went off—this one aimed at us.

“Whoa,” I whispered as we hurried past the vacant coat check. “Are you a celebrity?”

“I think I might be!” He shot me a double thumbs-up, the Mr. Cool act from seconds ago thankfully discarded. “You’ll have to give me pointers.”

There was too much there for me to unpack, so I just asked, “Where are we?”

Before he could answer, I heard music from the next room. Not awful Top 40. Jazz. “Is this Speakeasy?”

“You got it.” He wrapped his shirt-sleeved arm around my shoulders. “A bunch of the philharmonic guys have been moonlighting here. They said I could jam with them, so I’ve come a couple times, sitting in on the piano. Once on the clarinet.”

I stared at him, my mouth open. “When did you—?”

“Middle of the night!” He shrugged. “I popped in last Tuesday after you went up to bed. I told you I don’t sleep much.”

“You play the clarinet.” Of course he played the clarinet.

“Eh, it didn’t go that well. They didn’t make fun of me too much, though.”

Oscar waved to the trumpet player on the stage, finishing a solo. He raised his instrument in greeting.

I couldn’t stop staring. “Who are you?”

“Your boyfriend! Come on, we’re audience members tonight.”

He found us a tiny table toward the back and drew a chair for me to sit. As I settled in, I scanned the snappy crowd, wonderstruck.

Then I stood again so fast, I nearly knocked the table over.

Oscar was staring too. “Is that . . . Alice?”

“It can’t be. She never goes out. She never does anything!”