“No. What is it?”

“We’re making hats and scarves for kids in need. Students were asked to submit ideas for our project, and this is the one that was picked. Harrison, a friend of Noah’s, suggested it. We’re using circular looms to knit the hats and scarves.”

She reached for another piece of bruschetta. “My mom usually takes charge of things like that, but she’s busy right now, so my sister, Reggie, is going to be running the work sessions. Reggie’s back in town through New Year’s. My parents are renewing their vows and she’s helping with that, too.”

“Reggie is going to be busy.”

“Yes, she is.”

He seemed more relaxed, she thought, watching him eat and sip his beer. He was just so handsome, but not in an off-putting way. There was an ease about him—she supposed he was a man comfortable in his own skin. It was hard for her to imagine he was famous.

“You really wrote ‘Moonlight for Christmas’?”

“I did.”

“With your ex-wife? Wasn’t that awkward?”

He chuckled. “We were married at the time. Electra and I—”

“Electra? Seriously?” Dena couldn’t help grinning.

“Not her real name.”

“Astonishing.”

“It is. We met when she auditioned to be a backup singer for our first tour. Darryl John James was still a new band, not sure if we were going to make it. She and I discovered we both liked to write songs.”

“If she’s your ex-wife, you discovered other things, as well.”

His eyebrows rose. “Ms. Somerville, you shock me.”

“I doubt that. Was that your first hit?”

“It was. Things just took off from there.”

“While I won’t be googling you, I think I have to download some songs and listen to them.”

“Yeah, don’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“You’re not going to like them. There isn’t any twang.”

She laughed. “I like other kinds of music. Besides, I know you now. The songs will be special because of—”

She set down her mug and tried to suck in air as nausea hit her hard. Control seemed impossible, so she was going to have to make it to the bathroom. No way she was throwing up in the sink again. It was too humiliating to consider.

Before she could try to remember where the restroom was, Micah was out of his chair and crouching next to her. He took her forearm in his hands and pressed in several places, his dark blue gaze locked with hers.

“Breathe,” he murmured. “Hold it for a count of—”

“Four,” she said, already feeling better. “I remember.”