Page 22 of Matched

Chapter Eight

Inara

Itry not to glare at the small redhead standing on stage, but it takes a lot more strength than I expect not to shoot her the evil eye. Marge had to be the first of the group to volunteer to get on stage, and she’s launched into a rousing rendition of an old Spice Girls tune that has the entire bar on its feet, clapping their hands and singing along.

My fingers clench into small fists as my gaze falls on my darling husband.

Nine people isn’t a date. It’s a posse.

What was the sweet and attentive guy who was tiling the bathroom floor with me this afternoon thinking when he asked me out? I hoped it was a sign we might go the distance as a couple, that he was changing his stance. Instead, he invited all his friends on our date.

I huff and glance around The Rift. The place isn’t nearly as nice as Shaken & Stirred, but the sketch factor is part of its charm. It’s dark, and even though nobody smokes anymore, there’s a haze lingering in the air. The bar is long and made of reclaimed wood and old bar tin, and the booths and tables are some sort of glossy wood with postcards glazed into the tops and there’s a lot of dark leather. It’s the kind of place bachelor parties go after the strip club. Not couples who want to be alone.

Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe it’s not a couple who wants to be alone—just me.

Although, in Tony’s defense, it’s my own fault we’re here. I want to sing. I should have been honest and told him what I really wanted: some honest-to-God alone time on a date with him so we could try to get to know each other better. But I didn’t and now we’re in the one place a girl can get her Sunday night sing on while sipping alcoholic beverages from tin cans.

Craiger and his date, a skinny brunette named Alexus, who seems nice enough, but I fear has more boobs than brain mass, are all too happy to play along and are already on their third canned vodka. I’m not sure why the guy dates the women he does. Nor do I want to know what Mason’s mom must be like.

We’re sitting in a padded booth, a suspicious amount of cans littering our table in addition to the songbook and several glasses of water. The bar is packed for a Sunday night, but The Rift is one of the few bars in town with themed nights. It doesn’t have the kind of view patrons enjoy at S&S, and the food is shit, so the owners adapted in order to keep people coming back. As a result of this winning formula, the small indoor and outdoor space is teeming with karaoke enthusiasts, and the conversations around us consist largely of song suggestions and random, quiet performance critiques.

“This is the dumbest shit I’ve ever seen.”

I glance at the man beside me and wince. Jim’s miserable, but Taya is having a ball. He’s glowering. She’s giggling. Poor guy. I pat his knee and lean in so he can hear me over the sound of Marge’s soulful crooning. “Ten bucks if you can convince Bear to get on stage.”

Jim’s eyes narrow. “What song?”

“Something that’ll make him feel like a woman.”

He looks from me to Bear and back to me, his eyes bright with challenge, and nods. He pushes his big body away from our table and strides to where Bear stands at the edge of the stage, waiting for Marge to wrap up.

“What was that about?”

I settle back beside Tony and smile. “Nothing much. I just found a way to make this suck a little bit less for him.”

Tony shrugs and takes a sip of his drink. “I’m surprised he even agreed to come.”

I shake my head. “Why’d you invite them in the first place?”

He looks at me, eyes wide, but he isn’t getting out of this one. I want an answer and I’ll wait for it.

“Figured you’d be more comfortable with everyone here.” His voice is low, and if I didn’t know better, I might be convinced he’s embarrassed.

“I was kind of looking forward to it being just us.” The words slip out before I can recall them, and my cheeks flame. Damn the sun. This must be heat stroke. Or an overtired brain. Or maybe just being around Tony all day.

His eyes widen before he drops his gaze to his drink and fiddles with his glass. “Sorry.” He pauses to clear his throat. “You said you wanted to sing, so I wanted to make that happen. Figured it’d be easier on both of us with friendly faces around.”

“I understand.” Except I don’t. Not at all. Is this his kind way of giving me a warning not to get too attached? To keep things nice and easy? Or am I reading too much into his casual words?

At the end of the day, I did say I wanted to sing. And it was nice of him to accommodate my wishes. As I study him, my fingers tighten around my own glass. This is the problem, right here. Tony Martinez is turning out to be way more decent than I ever imagined was possible. This man takes out the trash so I don’t have to, mows the lawn without being asked, does laundry like a boss, and even folds and puts the clothes neatly away. And he cooks. Cleans like a neurotic housekeeper. Cuddles his friends’ children while they sleep. I didn’t give him enough credit before and now that I am, he’s growing on me.

A lot.

“What?” he asks as I continue to study him.

I shrug. “You’re not what I expected, that’s all.”

His brows lift. “Oh yeah? What were you expecting? Maybe this?” Then he pulls the most obnoxious face I’ve ever seen.

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