Love Song(86)

“What?” I grumble at him.

He pushes his sunglasses onto his nose. “Nothing. I just find you guys entertaining. I feel like I’m watching a talk show with two overly enthusiastic morning hosts, only they’re not annoying.”

Little Spencer gasps again. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“Ever?” his partner says dryly.

“Well, today.” He spins back to me. “You should come on the podcast!” Another gasp flies out. “You should be my cohost!”

“Uh-huh, okay.”

“I mean it,” he insists.

“I don’t think I’m interesting enough to be on a podcast.”

“You wouldn’t be talking about your own life,” Wyatt points out, and I can’t believe he’s entertaining the idea. Any venture with the Spencers feels like it would be exhausting. “You’d be discussing actual topics. You know, like hauntings and vampires or whatever the hell your thing is about.” He directs the last part at the Spencers.

“I don’t know,” I say, shrugging.

“At least agree to a guest appearance,” begs Little Spencer. “We can record an episode for the Darlie mystery. And if we have crazy chemistry, then maybe we’ll do more.”

“Sure, I’d do that,” I say, because why not. I wouldn’t mind chatting about Darlie.

But I have no intention of making it a regular occurrence, especially since the podcast has a video component. Next to Spencer’s larger-than-life personality, I’ll probably come off as the most boring, unimpressive person on the planet. Plus, the idea of being on camera and uploading it to the internet for all to see makes me break out in hives. I feel more comfortable in the background. The support staff, if you will. Not everybody needs to be the CEO.

Little Spencer breaks out in a broad smile. “Excellent! What are you two up to tonight?”

“Oh, I can’t tonight. I’m going out to get drunk.”

“No, she’s not,” Wyatt says immediately.

I ignore him. “Today’s my birthday,” I tell the Spencers. “Guess who’s twenty-one, gentlemen?”

Their faces light up.

“It’s your birthday?” Little Spencer’s outraged gaze shifts to Wyatt. “And you’re not letting her celebrate?”

“She can celebrate here,” he says firmly. “At the house. I already told her she’s more than welcome to invite whomever she wants and drink whatever she wants. In the house. Where I can keep an eye on her.”

“First of all—Daddy,” Big Spencer says in a sultry voice.

Wyatt rolls his eyes.

“Second of all,” I interrupt, “I don’t need you to keep an eye on me. But if you insist on it, you can keep an eye on me in a bar,” I finish sweetly.

“Yeah, but then that means I can’t drink. I’ll need to stay sharp to make sure you’re okay and that nobody’s taking advantage.”

“Got it. So I can’t go to a bar because you want to drink on my birthday.”

“Exactly,” Wyatt says. Then he sighs. “Okay, I just heard it out loud. Let’s go to the bar.”

And that’s how we end up at a karaoke joint in town later, watching Big Spencer and Little Spencer perform a duet of Mollie May and Stylo Lewis’s latest collaboration—with both of them singing Mollie May’s part.

“How is this song so good?” I shout over the music. The melody is so catchy that I can’t stop dancing along. I have both arms thrust in the air, one hand gripping my third fruity cocktail of the night. I’m more than a little tipsy. Veering into very drunk territory, in fact.

“My mom wrote it.” Wyatt leans in so I can hear him better. I think he’s on his way to drunk too, because his green eyes have taken on a hazy glow.

“Seriously?” I exclaim.

Then I wonder why I’m surprised. It’s Hannah frickin’ Graham. The woman is downright remarkable. She can sing circles around most people—her performance at Gigi’s wedding didn’t leave a dry eye in the house—yet she chooses to remain behind the scenes and just write banger after banger for other people. Hannah claims she doesn’t like the stress of performing, but I can only imagine the level of stardom she would’ve reached if she’d chosen to write and perform her own music.

“Your mom is incredible,” I tell Wyatt.

“I know.” He takes a quick sip of his beer, his features straining. “Goddamn it.”

“What?”

“Just realized my sister was right. I need to be nicer to Mom. I’m such a prick when it comes to this music thing. She doesn’t deserve me snapping every time she tries to help me.”

I mock gasp. “Oh my God! Wyatt! Is this growth?”

He sighs. “I think it’s growth.”

The song ends, and the Spencers amble off the stage and rejoin us. We do shots because Big Spencer orders a round for the birthday girl, and then we do more shots because Little Spencer orders a round for the birthday girl, and then more shots because Annaliese arrives and buys another round. And then Eddie decides, yes, he too must be part of the shot buying.

By the time Wyatt and I pile into an Uber and head back to the lake house, we’re both annihilated. So plastered that neither of us can see straight, speak without laughing, or sit in the back seat for more than three seconds without sucking each other’s faces off.