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He chuckles and turns to grab our drinks, and I’m left trying to get my pulse under control.

Lynsie leans close. “He looks at you like he remembers everything.”

I steal a glance at his back. The way his shirt pulls across his shoulders. “Yeah,” I whisper. “Me too.”

Our drinks land in front of us, and Brogan leans on the bar like he’s got nowhere else to be.

“You singing tonight?” he asks.

“What?” I blink.

“Karaoke,” he says, nodding toward the setup in the corner. “Figured you and Lyns might be feeling brave.”

Lynsie downs half her spiked coffee. “If you’re singing, I’m backup dancing.”

“I’m not singing,” I protest.

Brogan smirks. “You sure? I hear your version of ‘Jolene’ is legendary.”

My face burns. “Who told you that?”

“Mom. And Virgil. And Bennett. Basically the whole town.”

Lynsie claps. “Then it’s settled. One song. For the man who just made us the best drinks in Sorrowville.”

Brogan tips an imaginary hat. “I live to serve.”

I shoot him a look, but the smile tugging at my lips betrays me. Damn it. I should be playing it cool.

Instead, I’m about to sing a tragic song in the bar he’s working at, while the memory of his mouth is still imprinted on my skin like a brand.

What could possibly go wrong?

In all honesty, I have no business being near a microphone.

None.

And yet, here I am, clutching it like it holds the answers to all my life’s questionable decisions, including the one where Ilet Brogan Foster unzip me out of my dress and blow my entire emotional equilibrium to bits.

Lynsie is already shimmying beside me. Gisele’s in the corner with her phone up. And Brogan? He’s behind the bar, elbow on the counter, chin resting on his fist like he’s about to watch me unravel in real time.

This is such a bad idea.

“Okay,” I say into the mic, my voice crackling through the old speakers. “If this goes south, I blame peer pressure.”

“Woo!” Lynsie shouts, raising her mug.

“No! No! Watch and learn, rookie!” Shep leaps up from his chair, nearly knocking over his beer, and throws his arm in the air. “Woooooo! That’s cute, Lyns, but you gotta put your back into it!”

The track kicks on.

Dolly Parton’sJolene.

A damn classic. And probably not the wisest choice when I’m one mild inconvenience away from falling in love with a man who still might see me as a glorified little sister.

I start singing. And I may or may not be looking at Lucinda whose girls are about a half inch away from spilling out of her bra.

The first note wobbles. My hands shake. But then—I see him.