Page 53 of All Signs Point to Malibu

But the music sucks so I cover my ears. “This is just noise.”

If my plan is to ruin the romantic vibe at the engagement party, this might be a good way to do it.

No. I have to let this relationship implode without looking like I’m intentionally sabotaging it.

Subtle tactics. Under the radar.

I take the phone back and scroll through another playlist. I settle on a 2000s boy band remix and instantly the sound of my teen years fills the backyard.

“Absolutely not,” Warren says, but the next second, he’s on his feet, doing the routine from the video. Hand on his hip, he body rolls, then spins and drops to one knee on the pool deck, spins around, then jumps back to his feet.

I’m in utter shock, impressed that he 1) knows the moves, 2) remembers them after all this time and 3) isn’t afraid to arm me with this knowledge for future blackmail purposes.

In fact...

I grab my phone and start to record as he continues the routine and even starts to sing along. He knows the lyrics. And his voice is not half bad. His speaking voice—a deep alto—has me surprised he can pull off the tone of this prepubescent boy band.

I laugh from behind the phone camera, but then he walks toward me and gently pushes the phone down, so I put it on the table. He reaches for my hands, but I shove them under my legs on the chair, already slick with sweat.

Undeterred, he bends and grips my hips instead, pulling me up off the chair and onto my feet. As I stand, my body is only an inch from his and there’s a sizzling fraction of a second before he takes a step back and nods for me to join him.

“Come on, you know you know these moves.”

I do, in fact, know these moves. I performed this dance with a group of friends in the junior year talent show. We came in third place. But dancing in front of Warren...

What the hell?

He’s making a fool out of himself, I may as well.

I fall into rhythm beside him and we continue to execute the entire routine flawlessly. My singing is better than his, obvs, but I can’t claim victor on the moves.

Then as he reaches for his T-shirt and pulls it off, as the lead singer does in the music video, I nearly stumble and break my face. His arm flies out to prevent my fall, then he’s all up on me, sweat glistening on his tanned, muscular chest and his come hither hands as his hips lead the way, inching closer to mine. His eyes burn into mine in a tantalizingly sexy, flirty way as he sings lyrics that used to set my teenage hormones aflutter.

Now other parts of me are fluttering.

Holy sweet fuck.

Warren Mitchell missed his calling as a member of a boy band.

I stop dancing and move away quickly, before my actions are out of my control.

He laughs as he rejoins me at the table but leaves the shirt off, draping it over the back of the chair.

I eye his muscular body and suddenly, working on this playlist together feels like the worst idea I’ve ever had. I can barely think straight with him sitting across from me, and allowing this attraction to Warren to grow stronger or turn into something else is a really terrible idea.

We need to get through this and he needs to leave ASAP.

“I have an idea. If we keep playing the songs and disagreeing, we’ll be here all day. Why don’t you make a list of songs and I’ll make a list of songs. We each have three veto’s and then the mixed list will be set along with whatever else the DJ plays?”

He shrugs. “Not a bad idea, Hailst...” He stops short of saying the nickname.

And shockingly, I’m a bit disappointed.

Which is ridiculous. Must be the testosterone oozing from him having some sort of ill effects on my brain, messing with my own body chemistry.

I tear a page out of the notebook and hand it to him with a pen. We both get to writing.

Only suddenly my mind is blank. Or shooting off in a million different directions. I can’t think of a single goddamn song to write down—the boy band song permanently lodged in my mind.

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