CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

AMELIA

Why not, indeed?

A jittery anticipation jolts through me as I peer at Jake. A million dreams, the pilot had said when I first arrived in the city. Perhaps it’s time to make it a million and one. I chew on my lip, the notion simmering, growing, until it’s ready to spill over.

“I think I’m going to do it,” I blurt out, the words a mix of excitement and a nauseating wave of fear.

Jake’s face splits into a wide, proud smile as he pulls me in for a hug that lingers a second longer than might be deemed “friendly.” I don’t care. I’m wrapped in this bubble, thrilled he’s come as Willy Wonka, and I absolutely know he dressed for me.

When I finally pull back, his eyes are sparkling and an infectious grin. The room spins. Too much joy, too much booze? I hadn’t planned on indulging quite so much, but drinks kept coming, and, well, here we are.

“You really believe I can do this?” My voice wobbles, and I hate it.

“Of course! You’ll kick ass!” His confidence is contagious, soaking into me until there’s not a single doubt left. It’s like he’s mainlining me with liquid courage.

Before I’m able to overthink things, Jake’s booming call silences the chatter. “Listen up, everyone! Amelia’s got something big coming your way. Prepare to have your minds blown—this is a game-changer, and you’re gonna want in on it the second it drops!”

His enthusiasm turns all eyes on me, and cheers erupt. Milo bumps my fist, shouting, “Next round’s on me!” Hmm, weren’t all the rounds on him? Logan’s a touch behind, offering a supportive yet puzzled, “That’s awesome! Err…what is that?”

Right—now to explain it. I suck in a deep breath, praying they don’t think the idea’s too outlandish. “Well, I’m considering a series of walking tours. But besides visiting regular tourist spots, I’d show off sites relevant to New York’s music scene. But I might add something extra—have people actually listen to the tracks as we visit the locations, so it’s a more immersive experience.”

“Oh, that’s so cool. What’s it called?” This inquiry comes from a woman in a shimmering mermaid costume.

A name for my business—that’s going on the to-do list. “Umm?—”

“We’re beta testing a few names. See which one fits best,” Rani, ever the marketer, interjects smoothly, wrapping an arm around me. “Give us your email, and we’ll keep you in the loop for invite-only previews.”

While I type her contact info into my phone, Rani seizes the moment to turn the crowd into an impromptu focus group of NFL stars and their hanger-oners. “We need a catchy name. What do you all think of ‘Verse Ventures’?”

“Lyric Lanes!” someone shouts from the back.

Amidst the creative storm, another round of shots arrives—Firebombs this time. Connor raises his glass to my venture, and we all clink our drinks together. The fiery liquid burns a path down my throat, and I wince at the sensation.

I’m trying to keep track of it all the ideas flying about, stubbing them into my notes app. “My goodness, there’s lots to do. Set up a website, plan my routes, handle publicity…” I mutter. The details are daunting, especially drunk.

“It’s a killer idea,” Rani leans in, all business. “And I can totally hook you up with some folks who’ll help.”

“I still like Song Striders!” Hunter says, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

“Nah. It’s all about the Rhythmic Roam,” Milo counters, accompanying this with a body roll, prompting groans from the group.

Vodka tonics follow, followed by another tray of mystery shots. Each drink burns less than the last, and the sounds of laughter and music weave around me, wrapping me in a warm, pleasant haze.

When “Uptown Funk” starts up, Hunter, dapper in his Phantom of the Opera tuxedo—claims “the first dance.” He whisks me onto the floor, and we swing and twirl. His cape ripples as he dips me low, drawing hoots and applause. Then it’s Milo’s turn, leading me through a ridiculously energetic chicken dance.

By the time we return to the bar, I’m breathless. Jake’s deep in conversation with a Popeye a few feet away, though he shoots me a wink that makes me tingle. Milo whisks Rani off for a spin, leaving me to mingle with a Cleopatra and a Darth Vader. We clink drinks and chat about everything from movies to my tour, which I gab about as if the ideas are fully formed.

A sudden cheer erupts as a popular song blares through the speakers, drawing the crowd to the dance floor. My new friends scribble down their contact info before they rush off, swept up in the frenzy.

“Make sure you get in touch,” Cleo calls out.

“Did you hear that?” I watch them leave, exhilaration sparking through me. I whip around to a smiling Jake, almost wobbling in my borrowed heels. “They wanted to learn more. Do I need a newsletter?”

He angles closer. His spicy, sexy scent cutting through the stale air and liquor, and I take another discreet huff.

“Did you just sniff me?” Amusement lights his eyes.

“Maybe.” My fingers curl around the glass in front of me. Empty. And I’m parched from all the talking. I try to catch the attention of the bartender, even fluttering my lashes for effect.

He’s busy attending to other patrons. Now he’s drying glasses. Now he’s checking his phone. Now he is—wait, is he rearranging the little bottles of bitters? When he looks up, the dratted man glances right past me.

Meanwhile, all Jake has to do is tip his chin. Seconds later, the bartender is tripping over his feet to assist.

A stab of envy settles low in my stomach. Ugh.

He smirks. “Water, Sweets?”

“Tequila.”

“Tequila?” he repeats. Dark brows rise as if he’s skimming me for sanity. Arse.

“Yes. Tequila.” It doesn’t matter if he believes me. I am woman, and I know what I want. It’s my turn to take the world by storm. “Perhaps the type with the worms?” But the thought of a wriggly creature traipsing through my insides makes my stomach revolt. Ick. “Actually. No worms.”

Jake sighs dramatically, but his expression is all playful indulgence. “How about you let me pick something?”

I eye him warily, but as usual, he’s too tempting to refuse. “All right then, surprise me.”

In no time, a giant cauldron arrives, dominating our table, brimming with a mysterious reddish concoction and accompanied by a pile of recyclable yellow bendy straws on a cocktail napkin. I glance at it, unsure, but since tonight’s all about adventure, I stab a straw into the vibrant liquid while Jake plunges his own in with more gusto.

I gulp down a mouthful. “Whoa.” A buzz sweeps through me, my skin heating. But the drink is delicious. I go in for another taste.

“Slow down, Sweets.”

“Race you!”

Of course, that’s all it takes to fire up Jake’s competitive streak, and he gets chugging, too. I bite down on my straw, forgetting everything else as I watch the way his Adam’s apple bobs, those lips of his… Our eyes lock, and a current pulses between us, crackling through the noise and chatter of the crowded bar.

The heat’s suffocating, so off comes the bolero jacket. I lick the salt from my skin, and Jake’s gaze zeroes in on my mouth like he’s imagining filthy, filthy things that only make me burn hotter.

The music changes to something low and sultry, the kind of rhythm that makes you want to get a little reckless. My pulse syncs to the beat, and I begin to sway. “I need to dance,” I blurt, because if I don’t, I might combust.

Jake’s expression shifts to what can only be labelled dubious. Wanker.

A second later, he shrugs. “Let’s go then.”

“You’re going to tempt fate like that?” I narrow my eyes, poking at his chest. It’s hard. Very, very solid. One of my fingers finds a button on his dress shirt and circles it, going round and round.

He scoffs, and my head tilts up to meet his grinning gaze. “Sure, I can. I’ve got magic in my moves.”

“Wait, did you truly just mangle Magic Mike ?” I scowl. “Channing Tatum is a god.”

“Channing Tatum’s got nothing on me. C’mon.”

I blink, but don’t protest when he grabs my hand and leads me to the floor. He even gets the Moses treatment, the crowd parting to let us through. In seconds, we are in the midst of undulating bodies.

He is sexy and swoony and dirty and the reason self-control doesn’t stand a chance tonight. Does it need to?

He spins. Well, well, well. So the bloke’s got rhythm. But I have some fancy danc-y of my own. After all, what’s good for the gander is good for the girl.

I throw my arms up and sway, surrendering to the music, letting it take me away. I spin around. Like a loyal friend, the floor revolves in return, joining the fun.

This isn’t so hard. I smirk. Look at me, the very epitome of brave and brazen, and in the words of Jake Cunningham, “ Carpe Dieming that shit.” And you know what? I’m rather good at it, too. Are you watching, Mr. Cunningham?

I attempt a little twerk, utterly shameless and absolutely loving it. “You see?” Am I gloating?

“Oh, I see all right.” He cracks up, but his amusement is so sweetly sincere, I can’t muster up the appropriate annoyance.

Since I’ve nailed the art of the twerk, I try my hand—foot?—at a pirouette. Huh. Easy. I could do this blindfolded, on one leg, in a hurricane. To prove my point, I close my eyes mid-twirl.

Big mistake. My feet tangle, and I start to topple. But before I get too friendly with the floor, Jake’s there, swooping in and catching me. He finishes the spin without missing a beat, his hands finding their home low on my back, right above my arse, drawing me in. We’re fused together like a delicious cheese toastie, and I have no desire to be anywhere else. We slow into a gentle sway.

His hold is perfect—not too tight, not too loose. We’re totally Goldilocksing this dance.

Our gazes lock, and every nerve in my body buzzes with the need to close the gap between us.

“What are you thinking?”

“I’m not.”

I’m really not, because we’re hovering between “too much” and “not enough.” And even though I’m not sure which way we’ll fall, I can’t bring myself to care—because at this moment, we’re perfectly suspended in “just right.”