Page 60 of Playboy Pitcher

“Have you ever done anything that scared you, Willow?”

I turn around to find Ben staring at me, his chin cocked and a pensive look on his face I’m not sure I like. “I moved to France.”

“Yes, I know. You keep telling me. I meant publicly, out of your comfort zone. Have you ever just closed your eyes and leaped?”

My gaze drifts back to the stage and the vacant microphone. “No.”

“Go for it.”

I whip back around, horrified at his insinuation. “Go for what?”

He leans in with a wink. “You’re kind of transparent when you’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk!”Mostly.

“Okay, you’re kind of transparent when you’re slightly un-sober.” The asshole even uses air-quotes. “I’ve watched you stare at that stage for the last hour, Puddles. So, stop thinking and just do it. Fucking leap.”

He can’t be serious. “I can’t sing. What if people laugh?”

He shrugs. “What if they do?”

“I’ll be mortified.”

“Half these people are shitfaced,” he argues. “They won’t remember walking in the door, much less your voice. Besides, will you ever see any of them again?”

I throw my hands in the air. “I’m Roger Mays’s daughter.”

Ben is unimpressed. “A fact I didn’t know until a few days ago. I doubt they know either.” He gestures toward the sea of nameless, faceless people, and as much as I hate to admit it, he’s starting to make sense. As I wrestle with my pride, he slides out of the booth and leans down so close, I can smell the mint on his breath. “While your sober side argues with your drunk side, I’m going to the bathroom. Don’t miss me too much.”

I smile. “I’ll do my best.”

Ten minutes and a lot of soul searching later, Ben comes back with a shot glass. “What’s this?” I ask.

“A Kick in The Balls.”

Nope. Hell no.I hold up my hands. “No way. My esophagus just healed from the last time, thank you. I’m good.”

A wicked grin pulls across his face. “Then consider it liquid courage.”

“What—?”

I barely get the word out when a man on stage speaks into the microphone. “Next up, we have Willow. Come on up here, Willow!”

My heart, my stomach, and every other major organ free fall to my feet. A cold sweat breaks out across my forehead, and black spots cloud my vision. However, I can still see Ben—grinning like the cat who ate the canary. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Forcing you to leap,” he shouts above the applause, not one apologetic note in his voice. The announcer calls my name again. When I don’t move, it’s quickly followed by a chant.

Started by my fucking husband.

“Wi-llow. Wi-llow. Wi-llow.”

“Shut up!” I hiss, kicking him under the table.

Unfortunately, it catches like a spark in a dry forest. Within seconds, the whole damn bar is chanting, “Wi-llow! Wi-llow! Wi-llow!”

I glare at Ben, who sits back grinning, like the shit-stirrer he is. “I will torture you for this,” I growl, standing on shaky legs. “Slowly and painfully.”

He winks. “I’d expect nothing less.”