Page 13 of The Cuddle Clause

I nodded. “Oh, of course. I mean, he’s practically proposed already. He just won’t let me pick the ring.”

Lucien gave me a terrifyingly sweet smile. “Charming. I’ve decided something,” he announced, clapping his massive hands together. “You two are doing karaoke.”

I was sure I’d misheard. “I’m sorry—what?”

“Karaoke,” he repeated, teeth gleaming, eyes sparkling with unholy delight. “It’s a pack tradition. Builds trust. Builds community.”

Roman, ever the voice of reason, spoke up before I could melt into the floor. “That’s not necessary, Lucien. We’re here to socialize, not perform.”

“Oh, it’s absolutely necessary. I can tell everything I need to know about a couple based on how they karaoke together. Chemistry. Coordination. Trust.” His gaze bounced between us, like he was already dissecting our weaknesses.

I opened my mouth to protest, but someone, some traitor, appeared from the shadows near the bar and flipped a switch.

Suddenly, the far corner of the room lit up. A tiny stage came to life, bathed in purple and gold spotlights that flickered dramatically. A smoke machine hissed out a puff of sugary fog. A karaoke screen blinked on, the words SING YOUR HEART OUT scrolling by in Comic Sans.

Lucien thrust his phone into my hands. “Pick something. I want to see the magic.”

Roman shot me a look that was part warning, part plea, but there was no time to coordinate. My thumb moved on instinct, betraying me completely. I panicked and tapped Islands in the Stream.

Roman arched a brow. “Seriously?”

“It was that or Total Eclipse of the Heart. This felt… safer?”

He exhaled in resignation. “Okay. Let’s get this over with.”

We were herded onto the stage. Even through the fog, I could see Lucien’s grin.

The smoke machine gave another dramatic hiss, as if this whole setup wasn’t already humiliating enough.

The music started, and Roman looked like he wanted to murder someone—possibly Lucien, possibly me.

I grabbed the mic like it was a life preserver and prayed I wouldn’t pass out.

And then, Roman started singing.

I’d expected awkward mumbling and an off-key disaster. But no. Roman could sing. His voice was all warm confidence. He didn’t just know the tune—he owned it.

I almost missed my cue because I was busy gaping at him. I scrambled to join in, my voice shaky and too loud, earning a squawk of feedback from the ancient speakers. Roman didn’t even flinch. He glanced at me and gave me the tiniest nod of encouragement.

We tried to move with the beat, but it was a disaster. I stepped left, he stepped right, and our feet tangled together. I bumped into his shoulder, muttered an apology, then bumped him again as I tried to recover my balance. He tried to sidestep me and accidentally backed into the mic stand.

“This is going great,” I whispered through clenched teeth, trying not to laugh at how awful we were.

“I’m not the one trying to do the Riverdance,” Roman muttered, the corners of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile.

I risked a glance at the audience. Lucien was leaning forward, elbows on the table, grinning like he’d won the lottery. A few pack members, who I assumed were staff members, had their phones out and were recording. Fantastic.

And then, Roman twisted his hips, perfectly in rhythm to the music, easy and natural. It was nothing, really. Except my brain couldn’t process his hotness. Heat bloomed in my cheeks. I could feel my ears burning.

Focus, Maggie. It’s karaoke. Not a mating ritual.

I tried to recover, but my next line came out breathier than I meant it to. Roman covered the moment effortlessly, harmonizing so smoothly I nearly forgot we were making fools of ourselves.

Somewhere between the second verse and the chorus, we found our rhythm. We moved together without another awkward collision. He was warm beside me, his voice steady, his energy solid and unshakable. We started to click in a way that felt dangerously good.

My voice steadied. My heart was still pounding, but not from panic anymore. From the rush of us, together, in sync in a way we hadn’t been since this whole fake dating mess started.

Roman leaned in for the harmony, and the sound of our voices twining together made my skin tingle. His scent cut through the haze of smoke. I swallowed hard, focusing on the screen so I wouldn’t get lost in him.

We hit the chorus together, louder this time. Roman spun me gently, catching me before I could stumble. The room blurred at the edges, all smoke and neon, and I didn’t care. I laughed—a real, startled laugh—as he dipped me low enough to make my heart race.

When the final note faded, the bar erupted in applause. But no one clapped harder than Lucien, who shot to his feet and whistled through his fingers like we’d just headlined Madison Square Garden.

Roman straightened, still holding my hand, his palm warm against mine. He leaned in, his lips brushing my ear as he whispered, “Next time, I pick the song.”

Lucien clapped once. “Well! That was divine. I simply can’t wait to see you at the pack bonding brunch. Roses. String quartets. A build-your-own oatmeal bar.” He kissed my hand again, eyes glittering. “Can’t wait to see what dress you wear, sweetheart.”

He turned on his heel, long coat fluttering behind him like a cape, and disappeared with theatrical precision.

I exhaled.

Roman sighed. “We are so screwed.”

“We are so fucking screwed.”

The sun was doing that unfair thing where it made everything look like a dream and turned trees into silhouettes and gravel into gold.

Even the alpha’s estate, ornate and intimidating and way too much, almost looked soft.

Beyond the estate, the pack lands stretched on, their borders running right up against the edge of Muir Woods.

I could see the towering redwoods in the distance, ancient and still, their tops catching the last of the light.

The air even smelled different out here—cleaner, sharper, like moss and earth and history.

Roman led the way down a winding path behind the mansion, his hands shoved into his pockets like we weren’t in the middle of a lie big enough to bury us both.

As if this was just a lazy stroll through the gardens with his girlfriend.

His mate. I mean, what would the alpha of a very large, very prominent and prestigious wolf pack do to a human girl with hermit tendencies who was lying right to his face? I didn’t want to think about it.

I trailed half a step behind, arms crossed tight against my chest, every nerve still lit from the aftermath of our award-losing performance with Lucien.

Roman had stiffened every time I so much as brushed his arm.

His shoulders had gone tense with every side hug.

The man looked like he’d rather be interrogated by feral cats than endure ten seconds of physical affection.

There was no way Lucien had bought it. Not with my robotic Barbie smile and Roman acting like touch was a weapon.

I kicked a loose stone on the path, watching it skitter into a bed of manicured lavender. “That was… awful.”

Roman slowed but didn’t stop. “You mean our Oscar-worthy romantic debut?”

I snorted. “I’ve seen high school productions with more sexual tension.”

He glanced back, one brow raised. His mouth twitched like he might smile, but he didn’t.

“We need practice.”

That got him to stop. He turned to face me, crossing his arms in a perfect imitation of mine. “Practice?”

“Yes.” I held his gaze. “If we’re going to convince your pack that I’m your doting, can’t-keep-my-hands-off-you mate, we need to actually get comfortable touching each other. Because right now, every time I graze your hand, you flinch like I’m giving you a prostate exam.”

Roman blinked. “Wow.”

“Too graphic?”

“Unexpectedly vivid.”

“Look,” I continued, trying to keep my voice steady, “if I’m going to pull this off, I need to stop feeling like I’m going to get electrocuted every time I touch you. And you need to stop acting like affection gives you hives when I initiate it.”

“I don’t flinch.”

“You do.”

He sighed. “Fine.” He nodded toward a wrought-iron bench tucked between two rose bushes that smelled way too romantic for the context. “Let’s practice.”

Wait. What?

I hadn’t expected him to actually agree. Not without at least three sarcastic remarks and a short monologue about boundaries. But he walked to the bench and sat down like this was a perfectly normal way to spend the afternoon.

My heart stumbled.

Still, I followed. Because I wasn’t about to back down after pushing the issue. I forced my legs to move, tried to channel the confident woman I’d pretended to be earlier. I sat next to him, close but not touching, then let out a slow, shaky exhale.

Roman’s knee bounced. He didn’t look at me. Then, deliberately, he placed his hand on my thigh. It wasn’t suggestive, but it was there. Solid. Warm. Unapologetic.

I mirrored the gesture. I felt the muscle jump beneath my fingers. He still didn’t look at me, just stared straight ahead like the trees were about to deliver life-altering advice.

“See?” I said, too softly. “This isn’t so bad.”

His gaze cut to mine. Sharp. Intense. “I’m not flinching now.”

“No,” I whispered. “You’re not.”

Suddenly, the air between us pulsed. His fingers shifted slightly, curling tighter. My hand did the same. The space between our bodies shrank by inches. Knees bumped, then stayed.

I looked up at him, and we locked eyes.

Whatever this was, whatever game we thought we were playing, didn’t feel fake anymore. Not in that breathless space between inches. Not when his thumb brushed along the hem of my skirt. Not when my pulse kicked like a warning I had no interest in heeding.

I could smell him—cedar, skin, something wild and electric underneath. That ozone-sharp scent right before a thunderstorm.

My gaze dropped to his mouth.

He leaned in. Just barely.

And I met him there.

The kiss was soft at first, like a question we weren’t sure how to ask.

But then his fingers slid higher up my thigh, and my mouth opened, and the kiss stopped being gentle.

It deepened. It pulled. It ached. His hand found the back of my neck and he pulled me closer like I was the only thing keeping him grounded.

My chest was too tight. My stomach flipped. My body said yes before my brain could even whisper what are you doing?

This was supposed to be pretend. Just practice. Just something to make the lie believable.

But Roman’s lips didn’t feel like fiction.

And I knew, without a single doubt, I was in trouble. Big, stupid, kiss-me-again-right-now kind of trouble.