Santi passes us each a shot glass. “Salud. To a fun night and future memories.”
“And to new countries, friends, and success.” Maya clinks her glass against ours.
We knock back our shots. My eyes water as the liquid burns my throat.
Maya shoots me a shy smile as she passes me a glass of water. I never gravitated toward girls in school, not liking how catty they got about grades and gossip, but Maya acts differently. Although very new, our friendship seems off to a good start.
Our trust continues to grow through the night. After a few drinks, Maya confesses how she finds Noah hot. She whispers her declaration in my ear while Santi grabs more drinks.
Drinks keep coming, a steady buzz making me feel less self-conscious about singing in front of a crowd. I get up on the stage and sing “Don’t Stop Believin’” with Maya and Santi.
As the night progresses, I discover two types of people who do karaoke.
The first group of individuals takes their singing very seriously. They choose songs to serenade to, either of the sultry R&B variety or heart-wrenching country songs. The second type chooses to sing songs from an era of nineties boy bands. Performances include a dance number with poorly executed attempts at synchronized moves after one too many tequila shots.
I fall into the second group, becoming a combo of Baby Spice and Justin Timberlake. Maya and I let loose and dance around the stage while we sing into a shared microphone. Never will I underestimate the power of alcohol again. After tonight, I will bow down to the bottle of tequila, claiming José as my master.
And clearly, we have a mixed assortment of people tonight. When we discussed the plan earlier, Maya failed to mention how her brother invited a bunch of people to come sing and drink with us, including Jax and Liam.
Cue the DJ record scratch.
Liam Zander. Prim signature blonde hair, glacial blue eyes rivaling my art class pastels, and a brilliant smile that blinds me worse than a strobe light—a deadly temptation for my self-restraint. He has a beard he trims close to the skin, giving him a bit of an edge while framing sensual lips. His sweet looks hide how dirty and wicked he is on the inside. He’s a misleading man who suffers from a permanent allergy to relationships, graced with a reputation of being all seduction and heartbreak.
Exhibit A: Claudia McCoy
Exhibit B through Z: everyone else he’s hooked up with over the years
Nothing could’ve prepared me for how I felt seeing him at the gala the other day. One look from him had my heart racing like I had finished a 5K marathon a minute before seeing him. I don’t even run 5Ks, but the pace of my heart was alarming. That’s how much of an effect he has on me.
He flashes me a smile across the bar.
Ovaries, please settle down.
I shoot him a scowl in hopes of cloaking my true feelings, but his grin expands, undeterred by my attitude. He screams trouble in the worst kind of ways. His reputation is shit with women, and he struggles to keep his dick in check. I’d know, seeing as my Twitter feed’s filled with the latest F1 drama.
I cling to Maya’s side like a child afraid to let go. She becomes my protector without even knowing it, saving me from someone who promises nothing but trouble.
A few minutes later, Maya decides to sing a duet with her brother, abandoning me without a backward glance. Her disappearance prompts Liam to sit next to me on a leather couch better suited for Barbie’s dream house. That says something coming from me, a pixie whose feet rarely reach the floor while sitting.
Liam’s presence overwhelms me as his body takes up a majority of the seat. I scoot closer to the side, desperate for some space between us, edgy about how my body responds to his closeness.
He widens his legs, and his thigh brushes against mine. My skin heats at the contact, attraction flooding through me, his smoldering gaze intimidating me.
“I didn’t expect you to be such a screamer.” His husky voice sends goosebumps up my arms, his accent heavier from yelling over the music.
I choke on my drink. A lazy grin reaches his eyes and hints at smile lines at the corners. Look, something not perfect about him.
“Dirty little mind you have there.” His eyes flicker over my face. “The microphone really picks up on everything.” He points at the stage with his beer bottle.
I take him in. His white shirt clings to his sculpted chest, muscles pressing against the fabric, highlighting lean yet fit arms. Ones he can wrap around me.
Dammit, Sophie, resist.
“Mm, it’s hard to sing and dance at the same time. I have a new appreciation for performers. It’s a lot of work, and it makes you sweaty.” I take another sip of my drink, the refreshing liquid soothing my sore throat.