Page 15 of Kind of a Bad Idea

I wonder why he didn’t mention that he was bartending at my brother’s shower, but there’s no time to get to the bottom of that mystery right now. I head off to find my sister, wanting to know if there’s room on the tour before I mention it to Seven—preferably in front of Bettie, who I know will offer to babysit. She’s always telling him that he works too hard and needs to make time to play while he’s still young enough to do the grueling physical things he enjoys.

I don’t think Seven is running out of time for that anytime soon—he’s in incredible shape, proven by the number of women ogling him as they flip through the karaoke app looking for songs—but I’m not above using Seven’s mom fears to my advantage.

And I’m not above packing my skimpiest bikini for the hot springs while Seven and I are off on that climbing trip.

Or maybe I’ll forget my bikini altogether and go with some lacy lingerie…

If I’m going to make one last play for Seven before he’s snatched up in the gravitational pull of Pammy’s giant boobs, I intend to make it a serious one.

Chapter 5

SEVEN

Iknow the second she steps into the bar.

Before I turn to look.

Before she’s said a word or slipped into my peripheral vision.

I don’t know how I know—her perfume isn’t strong enough to carry the distance between us—but I just know. Where Binx McGuire is concerned, I have a sixth sense, and even though she doesn’t come over to say hello, I never lose track of where she is.

First, she drops a tray of Jello shots with Starling and her friends, who welcome the delivery with a cheer and a chorus of giggles. Then, she stops to speak to Wendy Ann, who’s hiding out by the snack table. Wendy Ann glances my way for a moment, but averts her gaze a second later, and when they’re done speaking, Binx doesn’t head my way. She pulls her phone from her small purse, texts something in response to whatever message she received, and starts for the back door.

She doesn’t so much as glance my direction before stepping into the beer garden that’s always a big draw in the summer.

But it’s closed now, and Chip, the bar manager, made us promise not to let anyone take drinks outside. He’s already put away the plasticware for the season and doesn’t want to deal with broken glass on the cobbled paving stones.

Binx didn’t have a glass, but when she doesn’t come back inside for several moments, I start to wonder what she’s up to.

Then I start to worry…

Because that’s what I do when it comes to Binx, even though she’s one of the strongest, most capable people I know.

It’s another sign that I shouldn’t cancel my date with Pammy for this weekend, even if I’m pretty sure there’s no long-term potential there. But Pammy’s a nice person, easygoing and fun, and she seems cool with taking things slow. Besides, the more I invest in other relationships, the less I’ll find myself turning to Binx.

I’ve let things with us get too close, too intense…

I almost kissed her again at the wedding, and I’ve been having dreams about stripping that see-through sweater off her with my teeth ever since.

I shouldn’t go check on her. She’s fine. She’s a big girl and the beer garden is fenced in. Literally nothing could have happened to her back there. I’m being overprotective.

I make another Bette Davis, Mom’s signature drink, and grit my teeth through the first karaoke performance, a John Denver number, crooned by Binx’s father, that reminds me way too much of Binx. It’s Annie’s Song, a ballad for Denver’s wife that talks about the way she “fills up his senses, like a night in the forest.” It’s so close to what Binx does to me—especially when we’re on a climb or taking our mountain bikes out on the trails—that it hurts a little.

It also makes me scan the room again for Binx, but there’s no sign of her. She must still be outside…but why?

I know she isn’t a huge fan of karaoke, but she loves her brother and according to the monitor, Christian is due onstage in a couple more songs.

“I’m going to run to the men’s room, Mom,” I murmur after she’s pushed two Marilyn Monroes across the bar. “Can you swing it alone for a few minutes?”

“Of course, I can,” she says, with a huff. “I’m a professional, baby. Take your time and mingle a little bit after. I’ve got this, and you’ve been working way too hard.”

I give a non-committal grunt and duck under the bar at the far end. Nodding hello to Tessa, the one who called this morning, begging Mom to fill in for the bartender who bailed on the event last minute, I bypass the restrooms and head straight outside.

Moving past the whiskey barrel planters, where a few withering mums fight for survival amongst a knot of weeds, I step onto the large open patio, expecting to find Binx talking on her phone or something. But she’s nowhere to be seen. I frown and spin in a slower circle, searching the trees by the fence for signs of a feminine leg dangling from the branches, but she isn’t up a tree, either.

She’s also not behind the wood panel concealing the dumpsters or in the smoking area. The last part, I’m glad about—I’ve been giving her shit for smoking clove cigarettes for months, even though she only has one or two a week—but still…

Where the hell is she?

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