Chapter 1

Elena Johnsson

Seven Years Later

I have a deep secret. Seven years ago, my name used to be Ethan Archer, and I had a penis—I don't think anyone would believe me if I said that to their face on our first date. Because the guys I've met seem to believe that people who weren't born as women can't be gorgeous, and god forbid them to be attracted to us!

After my operation, the men I dared to be honest with never accepted me or found me beautiful after finding out the truth. Instead, they looked at me as if I were an alien; therefore, I like to keep my past a secret.

There is no judgment from anyone that way. People see a desirable girl with killer-heels, emeralds eyes, and blinding confidence, and that's the way I like it! They don't have to know that I'm insecure, scared that someone might look at me and see that I'm a fraud.

I'm vulnerable with my secret, and that's why I'm so terrified of falling in love. I don't want to give my heart to anyone. My heart bleeds at the thought of loving someone as much as I loved Logan and then have them break the pieces I've worked so hard to put together. I don't want to suffer another heartbreak.

It's the last thing I need.

I'm happy being on my own, and even though it's only my cat Bailey sleeping in my bed with me, I'm not lonely. I have made friends with all the wonderful girls I hired at my bar and pub, which I've named The Snowflake. And I know it's cheesy, but the names come from my belief that everyone is unique, just like a snowflake.

"Elena?"

I look up from polishing a wine glass behind the bar desk when Emma runs up to me with her blonde ponytail swaying. She is wearing her server clothes, black and white, the same as me.

"Is there a problem?" I ask, even if I'm fully aware something must have happened if I'm to judge from Emma's panicked expression.

Emma is heaving with her hands resting on her knees as she bends forward. "Louise... She called in sick..."

I arch an eyebrow. "Again?"

Emma stands up, swallows, and then nods at me. "I tried calling around, see if anyone could cover for her, but it's hard finding another singer."

My eyes dart around the floor as I try to think of a solution. Emma is great at pole dancing; she got the perfect body, curvy and athletic with some muscle. So no one would complain if she danced on stage.

But I promised my regulars there would be live music tonight. I need to figure this out: what do I do, who do I call? Abigail's vocals are extraordinary, but I suspect Emma must have already called her.

Taking a deep breath, I look into Emma's expectant face with a nervous smile of my own. "I will sing tonight. Could you arrange the stage? I will need an electric guitar and some dim lights."

Emma widens her eyes, and then a slow-spreading smile takes over her glossy lips.

Emma has seen me perform before and doesn't understand why I don't do it more often. All the girls working here seem to love my singing, but I'm incredibly self-conscious and terrified I might sound like a male at some parts. But that's just me being stupid.

After my surgery, I had a lot of voice and singing therapy. Singing has always been a massive part of who I am, so I trained hard, and my therapist expanded my range. She taught me how to read my pitch, hold it and form it with ease. And these days, I can sing with confidence, but I would never pick an Adelle song.

"What will you be singing?" Emma asks. I can see the wheels turning inside her head; she is already planning, trying to create the perfect stage within her mind.

I hand her a crooked smile. "I will sing LP's song, lost on you."

Emme blinks in surprise, but then she smiles hugely. "That's an interesting choice,"

I lift one shoulder in a shrug. "It speaks to me,"

"It's an excellent song." Emma picks up her notebook and scribbles something down while nodding her head. She is smiling, already excited. "Alright, I will set up the stage for you tonight, nemas problemas!"

After my talk with Emma, I hurry into the changing room.

There are bright lights by the mirrors, everything vintage. I found the chairs at a flea market and the beige curtains as well. Plenty of the vibrant, extravagant dresses hanging in the room used to be bed sheets. Some girls working here are superb at creating art with whatever fabric I give them, especially Harper.

Harper is our incredibly skilled makeup artist slash artist. When you combine Emma and Harper, you get this unstoppable working force—both their brains are amazing.

"Hello, hello," Harper greets me with her eyes looking me up and down, and I laugh because I know she probably wants to strip me naked and change everything that I'm wearing.

"Good evening, Harper," I say.

Harper shakes her head. Like always, she is wearing dark makeup around her brown eyes, making them pop beautifully. "You're not going to wear that, are you?"

A giggle slips out through my lips. "I guess not?"

"Let me fix your hair and makeup." Harper already got a chair ready for me. A big smile is covering her friendly face, and I sit down. She immediately pulls my hair back with her lime-colored fingernails. "Big performance tonight, huh?"

"Big performance indeed, I'm a bundle of nerves!"

I observe my reflection while she brushes my hair. Her eyes meet mine, a smile touches her lips, and then she goes back to taking care of my short mess, spraying something that smells delicious before brushing through it again.

"You ought to be on the stage more often," Harper says. I have a hard time keeping myself awake in her chair. Her hands are gentle, professional, and it feels like I'm getting a scalp massage. "You're so pretty, and you're single. Standing on stage might bring all the boys to the yard,"

My eyes fly open. "HARPER?!"

Harper laughs in amusement. "What? You know I'm right. How long has it been since you..." Harper hums and nods to the left multiple times. "You know..."

A fire ignites within me. I want to sink through my chair and disappear from the face of the earth. Climbing up on that stage suddenly sounds like a bad idea, especially with Harper standing in the audience and trying to find me a man.

"It's been a year since I dated someone," I tell her. "B-But I'm not looking for a relationship right now! I'm happy living with my cat,"

Harper rolls her eyes. "Girl, you are going to have twenty of those felines if someone doesn't stick it in you—you need penis,"

I almost choke on my tongue. Why did I hire this woman again?

"I-I do not-..."

"Yes, you do," Harper interrupts me. "But not to worry, aunt Harper will get you ready for the stage. The audience will be like a smorgasbord of penises, and after hearing your voice, they will all be in love with you."

By the time Harper starts curling my hair and making it look like a blossoming flower, I already got cold feet. All this talk about finding someone has made me nervous, and when I'm on that stage, there will be so many eyes on me! And my conversation with Harper hasn't exactly made me any less nervous!

After Harper has made my hair look amazing and applied natural-looking makeup to my face, she holds up a beautiful dress with both her hands. It's a red little thing that will stick to my body like glue. It's a bit on the short side, but I think I can pull it off without looking scandalous.

My hair might not be a lion's mane. It's short and more copper than brown; combined with my emeralds eyes, I sometimes feel like I'm staring at a fairy when I face my reflection. With the dress, however, maybe I will look more sexy than beautiful.

"This one will match your copper hair, and combined with your doe-eyes it will make any man swoon,"

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. What is with Harper and trying to get me laid? Whatever. I smile and take the dress from her hands.

"Thank you,"

                                                                 *** Later ***

The stage is perfect. The dim lights create that classic atmosphere, but instead of a piano, there is a red electric guitar waiting for me in the middle of the stage.

"Will there be rock music?" I can hear someone whisper in the audience as I pick up my guitar.

There is a strap around the red electric guitar, and I hang it around me as my eyes watch the people here tonight. It makes me happy to see The Snowflake is crowded tonight.

"This will be interesting." Another voice says. I think it's one man sitting up at the front. They are all drinking beer and enjoying homemade burgers while glancing up at the stage.

There is a snort coming from somewhere far away as I calmly pick up the microphone. "I bet this woman can't even sing..."

I ignore the last voice and clear my throat before approaching the microphone. I'm not here to give a speech—I'm here to sing.

The band plays, and I close my eyes, feeling the rhythm of the music before I sing.

The lyrics flow out through my lips, and the audience turns silent, star-struck before they all clap their hands; some of them even give me whistles to encourage me to sing with more feeling.

Wow, they like me that much?

I sing for full-throttle, having fun until I notice a man moving in the audience to stand closer to the front. I can't explain it, but something immediately draws my eyes to him, and my heart pounds before I even get to see his face.

I'm singing, but time stops when I see a blonde man pressing past another customer to get to the front.

He is drop-dead gorgeous with masterpiece features and ideal facial hair. It should be illegal to wander around looking like this man—I bet he could stop traffic. His hair looks like blonde waves, and I notice how he is taller than most people around him. Looking away from the way his clothes seem glued to his muscular body is impossible; it's like the guy got a second skin. He is that big. Jesus Christ. He is probably the sexiest man I've ever witnessed stepping into my bar!

I keep staring at the man while singing. He returns the favor by watching me with a beer in his hand, and my heart races, but by some miracle, I keep singing. Doesn't this man look familiar, though? That smile, I feel like I've seen it before.

The night continues with me singing songs chosen by the customers. I enjoy my time on the stage, crack a few jokes, make some people laugh, and someone even openly asks for my number, but everything fun has an ending.

After my last song, I climb off the stage and walk over to the bar, only to find the blonde stranger already waiting for me. The expensive suit he is wearing can barely contain his broad, muscular shoulders. I try to ignore him, but he hands me a charming smile, and I try my hardest not to fall for his pretty-boy eyes.

"That was an excellent performance!" The man says and offers me a glass of water. I take it, and he looks smug and satisfied.

"You didn't slip something into my drink?" I ask.

It wouldn't surprise me if he drugged me—I don't trust his pearly smile. But then again, I've always been terrified of beautiful people after Logan, and this man is the sexiest one I've ever laid my eyes on. He must be evil; all gorgeous, rich people are.

"No, I did not poison your drink." His smile grows, and butterflies swarm in my belly. I'm playing outside of my league here. "Say, do you perform at weddings?"

I glance down at his finger. There is a ring, and I immediately feel silly for already having pictured our bright future together, wedding bells, a golden retriever, and everything.

"I've never performed at a wedding before..."

"You definitely should," He-will-not-stop-smiling-at-me. Help me, someone, I'm burning! Those dazzling teeth are making me dumb. "Your performance tonight blew me away, and your voice," He shudders for effect. "Was the cherry on top of the cake!"

I smile briefly, suddenly feeling shy since he is giving me so many compliments. "T-Thank you..."

"So think about performing at my wedding, please?" The man is giving me sparkling, puppy-eyes. "My future wife would love it if you sang for her; your voice is simply that amazing. And I have money, lots of it, so I would pay you a fortune if you did this favor for me!"

I'm the type of person who has a hard time saying no, so I hand him my most gentle smile. "I will think about it,"

"Excellent!" He hands me his card, and I almost faint—this can't be happening!

The name on the card!

Logan Rhodes Williams.

It's the name of my crush, my childhood friend, and the guy who broke my heart seven years ago by saying I would never become a real woman. I've specially chosen to suppress those memories; they hurt too much, but now he is standing here in my bar and asking me to perform at his wedding—god has a sick sense of humor!