Page 33 of Absinthe Minded

By the time the server cleared our plates, Maggie had finished her second drink. Her mood had improved. “Okay, you can say it.”

“What?” I thought I knew she’d sayI told you so, but I didn’t want to risk missing the mark and pissing her off.

“I told you so. I needed to get out of the house.”

My freaking stomach fluttered. Whether she cared to admit it or not, I knew her inside and out. I leaned across the table and cupped my ear. “What? Are you saying I was right?”

“Don’t get used to it. I’m sure it won’t happen again.”

“Come on.” I threw some cash on the table and pulled her to her feet.

“Where are we going now?”

“Already skeptical?” I made a tsking sound, set my hand on the small of her back, and led her to the bar in the next room.

“What’s that noise? It sounds like someone strangling a raccoon with a cat.”

“That would be karaoke.”

Maggie slid onto a stool.

I snaked my arm around her and ordered another round of drinks—whiskey on the rocks for her, water for me. After working in a bar for years, I knew the drill. If I didn’t make it obvious I had a date, the women would circle. I refused to risk sending her fragile self-confidence into the toilet.

She leaned close, still half shouting, “Why are we here?”

Rubbing my cheek against hers, I spoke into her ear. “To dance our cares away.”

“Dance to karaoke? No way.” She turned her attention to the half-dressed woman on the stage singing “Don’t Stop Believin.’”

“Come on, Mags. It’ll be fun.”

“You do remember that I can’t dance, don’t you?”

I laughed knowing good and well the woman had moves. “Then you leave me no choice. Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?”

I winked and walked to the edge of the stage.

The older woman queuing the next song glanced up at me and smiled.

A little flirting, name dropping, and a well-placed compliment later, she agreed to let me cut in line.

Maggie shifted her weight on the stool and chewed her lip. She seemed uneasy, but I doubted she’d run away before I finished the song.

Mic in hand, I made my way on stage. Three notes into the song, Maggie’s spine stiffened, and her gorgeous blue eyes widened. Not surprising, considering I’d chosen to sing “When I Was Your Man” by Bruno Mars. Not only was he one of her favorite artists, the lyrics expressed my feelings better than I ever could—except for the part about wishing her new guy would buy her flowers and hold her hand.Fuck that.

I loved singing in front of a crowd. I’d sung and played guitar or piano at my father’s clubs, including my bar, since high school. Getting the right pitch and rasp to pull off Bruno Mars presented a challenge. The smoky air, along with the growing tension in my chest, helped roughen my voice. Not to mention, Maggie’s flaming-red cheeks and the glisten in her eyes urged me on.

How is it possible she’s more beautiful now than when we were together?

Women swarmed the stage, but I kept my eyes on my girl. Halfway through the song, I wished I’d chosen a shorter tune. I wanted nothing more than to kiss away every tear she’d ever, or would ever, shed.

As if he had a bad timing detector, Enzo came out of the kitchen and sidled next to Maggie. The bastard took her attention off me by draping Mardi Gras beads over her head. My heart skipped a beat. If Enzo told her about my father’s mandate, I’d never get her to trust me.

Thank Christ, the song ended. I fought my way back to Maggie and took her chin between my thumb and forefinger. She met my eyes and licked her lips, sending a bolt of electricity through me. I leaned in and brushed my lips across hers before she had time to argue. She tasted like peaches and whiskey—intoxicating.

Enzo smirked and turned to speak to the woman at his right.

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