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“Where’s your toothpick?” I ask him as we walk across the parking lot.

He shrugs, salacious smile curling his lips as he opens the door. “I thought I’d keep my mouth available tonight.”

My chest tightens, eyes widen, but before I can say anything, his hand is on the small of my back, guiding me inside.

It’s crowded—way busier than the last time we were here. Music comes from big speakers, and bodies are everywhere. It’s loud and lively—a vibe. Without hesitating, his hand slips from my back to my hand, leading me across the room to the bar. Libby’s there, pouring liquor from a bottle, red lips smiling. “Pam Beesly from the Rockies!” she cries happily.

The dim lighting of the bar is a blessed thing for hiding the mortified blush that I know has swallowed my face. “Believe it or not, that’s not actually my name.” I laugh through my humility. “It’s Birdie.”

Her smile somehow widens.

“Birdie suits you,” she says, nodding toward my chest. “Nice ink.”

I don’t know why, but I look at Bo with the comment. His lips pull to one side in a half smile, and he squeezes my hand.

“So what are y’all drinking tonight? Beer, Bo?”

He nods. “You know it. Birdie? Water?” He looks at me.

I know alcohol is bad for the body—I read a study once that connected even just occasional drinking with an increased risk of cancer. I also know Bo doesn’t care whether I drink or not. I know all of these things, but for whatever reason, I answer with, “I’d like a cocktail.” Then to Libby, “Not triple sec with an olive.”

She laughs. “Okay, well Bo has already told me you don’t really drink, sowhat kind of flavor do you want? Do you like cranberry juice? Or pineapple?”

I look at him—he’s told her about me?

He nods, like he’s taken up residency in my brain. Which he has.

“Either of those are fine.”

Another smile, then she’s scooping ice and pouring vodka and cranberry juice—that’s surprisingly organic.Who knew?

“Alright ladies and gentlemen,” a theatrical voice says over the speaker. “Starting us off tonight are Meghan and Taylor, who will be singing some Cyndi Lauper.” A small pocket of applause is followed by a couple randomwooo!calls from the crowd as the music starts and the girls giggle into microphones.

My eyes widen. “Karaoke?” There’s no hiding the shock in my voice.

Bo grins, dropping my hand to take our drinks from Libby. “Isn’t it so much better than looking at lettuce?”

“Do you sing?” I ask, cringing at the terrible voices singing and cackling “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” through the speakers.

“Nope.” He chuckles, eyes crinkling as he takes a sip of his beer. “Bet I can getyouup there though.”

I pin him with a look. “Don’t even think about it.”

Lifting the straw of my drink to my lips, anxiety creeps into my shoulders. I take a sip. It’s not strong, but strong enough for me to notice the foreign warmth of the alcohol slide down my throat and into my belly with the first taste.

Bo’s hand lands on the small of my back, draining every ounce of tension out of my muscles with his touch.

We don’t sit on stools; we lean at the end of the bar where it meets the wall at the edge of the crowd. Even thoughthe air is cool outside, here with all the bodies, I’m hot. Once I finally start to sweat, I reluctantly shed my sweater. I might as well be naked in my ridiculous maybe-shirt, hugging the sweater in front of me.

Bo sees, because of course he does; it’s in his DNA to see people as much as cancer is in mine. He takes my sweater and purse—my props for hiding myself—and gives them to Libby to keep behind the bar.

I wrap my arms around myself, instantly exposed. Like I’m baring my secrets to a room filled with strangers.

He slips his hands between where my arms are pinched to my ribs, prying me away from myself. He drags his palms down my arms until his hands catch my wrists and encircle them. Leaning in, close enough his beard scratches my face and for me to hear his voice over the bad singing and shouts of the crowd. “Wildflowers don’t hide when they bloom, Birdie.”

His words echo through me like a yell in a valley, stealing my voice. My breath. My ability to do anything but stare at him and try to stay standing through the free fall that’s happening within me. Bo looks at me like I look at every colorful petal my eyes have ever seen—with an awestruck wonder.

The spell of the moment is broken by a too-loud, too-sharp note from the stage, followed by what seems to be a friend of Bo’s walking up to us. As Bo slips into a catch-up conversation, I step aside, sipping my cocktail, waiting for my heart to return to a normal rhythm in my chest.