[ It is beautiful, he agrees. Everything in this moment is; the music, swelling and growing more impetuous, Isabelle herself, pressing herself against Baby in such a sweet, almost innocent way, the smell of the tea, almost as intoxicating as he smell of Isabelle's hair, the moonlight, dancing across her features when Baby looks down at her. For a second, here, it's like they're stuck in time, and Baby takes a mental photograph of it, wanting to remember this at any moment. ]

It's just going to be jazzier. Sinatra, Ellington, Davis, Charles. I don't think the owners want me to play anything classical.

[ He's trying to pretend like he's not that worried, but it's still obvious that he is, fingers now tapping rhythms and melodies along the length of Isabelle's arm, like nervous energy. ]