Page 29 of Someone to Tempt
My voice is shaky at first, and I hear a couple of groans, but I can actually carry a tune. At least in the shower.
Suddenly, the lights and the music and the energy of the crowd grab hold of me. It’s not like I think I’m Dolly Parton—I wouldn’t be fool enough to compare myself to the queen in any way, shape, or form—but I’m going to do my best to make her proud.
When Jake comes in on the Kenny Rogers verse with a smooth baritone that shocks the hell out of me, I realize there might actually be nothing this guy can’t do well.
And I have to admit, I’m having fun.
He takes my hand again, and we sing to each other, then get the crowd in on it, encouraging them to clap and join in the chorus.
To my utter surprise, they do—not just my friends, but people I don’t even know. People who only know me as their stick-in-the-mud mayor. They’re singing and laughing, and I’m laughing with them. It doesn’t matter that my dance moves make me look like I’m having a seizure, or that I lose track of the words at one point. I’m having fun.
And when Jake spins me in his arms and sings directly to me that we rely on each other, uh-huh, I believe it.
We’re relying on each other, one lover to another.
And the shocking truth hits me with the force of a sucker punch: my ultimate version of fun might be knowing what it feels like to take Jake Byrne as a lover.
Even Dolly can’t save me now.
12
JAKE
What the hellam I still doing here?
I should be home in the apartment above my grandfather’s garage, alone and focused on both my looming book deadline and the next move to convince him I’m serious about being a responsible adult.
Even if he doesn’t pick up my movements on his camera doorbell, I have no doubt he’ll know what time I get in and guess that I was at a bar. It’s not like I have a curfew, but I do have trust to rebuild.
Instead I’m on my third pint of water and watching Iris in all her dive bar glory.
Skylark’s mayor has fully embraced her fun era. At the moment, she’s holding court near the pool tables, and I bite back a groan as she tosses her hair over one shoulder and smiles at the two guys vying for her attention.
There was a moment during our duet when she grinned at me so openly, and it was like basking in sunlight on an early spring day. Or how I used to feel catching a buzz. The lights seemed brighter, the music richer, and the whole world more vivid as my worries faded into the background.
Only I couldn’t ever stop at a buzz, and the repercussions of a blackout or fierce hangover weren’t worth that first wave of pleasure.
Right now, I’m sober, just like I’ve been for the past twelve years. While I might nurse a beer in public to avoid questions about why I’m not drinking, I’ve learned the hard way that alcohol and I do not mix.
Iris’s friends left thirty minutes ago, but she got pulled back to the stage with a group of middle-aged women who kept referring to themselves as the Bunko Babes, whatever that means. They needed backup for the Stevie Nicks song that would close out the karaoke portion of the night.
Hard to say whether it’s the music or the margaritas, but Iris managed to shrug off her usual uptight manner—the one I find ridiculously appealing. She sang, shook the tambourine someone handed her, and twirled her heart out. It’s a wonder she didn’t knock one of the other ladies off the stage. She has a sweet little singing voice, but my girl has zero coordination.
My girl? What the hell am I thinking?
I’m so lost in thought, I don’t notice Iris making her way to the exit until I see her duck out the front door.
“Hey, Byrne, you want another round?” somebody calls out.
“Nope. I’ll catch you later.” I wave and scoot past people, following the woman I’ve been trying to watch over all night into the darkness.
The quiet is almost jarring after the raucous noise of the bar, and crisp evening air stings my lungs. Iris is halfway down the street, and I jog to catch up with her. When I’m three feet away, she spins and holds up her hand. That’s when I notice the mini canister clutched in her grip.
I stop in my tracks, hands up, palms out. “Seriously? You’re going to pepper spray me?”
She seems to consider that for a moment, and I’m a little offended it takes her so long to come up with an answer.
“I’m being careful.” She tucks the Mace back in her crossbody bag. “Why are you following me?”
