Page 18 of The First Best Man

Tucker covers the microphone with his hand to muffle his words as he hisses, “Sonny and Cher got divorced, Kate.”

I shush him, and he moves his hand so I can sing the first line. The words are sloppy and slurred, but Penny cheers and sways like she’s front row at a sold-out concert. I grin and shoot finger pistols at her, then freeze when Tucker’s deep, resonant voice rings out with his first line of the song.

“What the hell?” I mumble, looking over at him with wide eyes.

This issonot fair. How can he be so beautifulandsing like an angel?

Then it’s my turn to sing again, and by the time we hit the chorus and Tucker wraps an arm around my waist, I’ve decided we should take this show on the road. I belt out the lyrics as Tucker grins in my direction, and another loud cheer from Penny draws my gaze back to our table.

Oh, Blaine is pissed.

She’s frowning without even attempting to hide it, and the devil repossesses my body in an instant. I smile and shoot her an exaggerated wink before leaning closer to Tucker.

Childish? Sure. I’ll admit it.

But that doesn’t make it any less satisfying when Blaine visibly huffs and angles her body slightly away from the stage.

After the song, Tucker keeps his arm around me as I drunkenly navigate my way down the steps. As we approach the table, I catch Penny frowning at Tucker’s grip on me.

Oh, yeah. I shouldn’t be letting him touch me like this. I’m supposed to be keeping my distance.

Whatever. I’m drunk.

And drunk Kate does whatever the hell she wants. And what she wants is Tucker’s hands on her as much as possible.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Tucker

“Good morning,Tucker. Get in here and have a taste of my sweet buns.”

I nearly trip over the bottom step of the staircase as Miss Ginny, the owner and operator of the Errant Heart Bed & Breakfast, greets me with that not-so-sly innuendo and a sassy smirk to match it. The woman has to be eighty if she’s a day, but her bright green eyes sparkle with vibrancy and youth.

“I’d be delighted, Miss Ginny,” I say, pivoting to head toward the dining room.

The scents of freshly baked bread, cinnamon, and coffee spark my senses as I walk inside, and Miss Ginny takes the initiative to start filling a plate for me before I even slide into an empty chair.

“So, I heard about your little performance with Kate last night,” she says, attempting to keep her tone nonchalant.

But I can hear the eagerness lacing the words. The woman wants some gossip, and she wants it straight from the source.

“It was fun,” I say, keeping my words intentionally vague. “We all took our turns singing.”

“But you didn’t take the stage with that Blaine McKenney gal,” she says.

“What are you really asking, Miss Ginny?” I ask, hoping the direct approach will make her back down.

No such luck.

“A lot of people think Logan McKenney’s little sister is quite beautiful,” she says, obviously fishing for my opinion on the matter.

I take a bite of the cinnamon bun she sets before me, pretending to put some deep thought into her statement before responding. As I chew, I nod slowly.

“I suppose she is beautiful, in the classic sense,” I say finally.

“In the classic sense, eh?” she asks, taking the chair across the table from me. “Not your type, then?”

“Definitely not,” I admit, blowing the steam off my coffee before taking a sip.

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