With one deep breath, I strum the opening chords of Restless Road’s “Growing Old With You.” Jackson’s heavy baritone resonates through the tent and I harmonize with him as Griff swirls Kenna around the dance floor. Allowing myself to get lost in the music—the familiar feel of the strings beneath my fingers—I don’t feel nervous when my deep bass voice booms through the speakers as we finish singing the song’s bridge.
The second I strum the final chords of the song, I push aside the mic and set my guitar on the stand before making a beeline to the bar.
“Whiskey, neat, please,” I tell the bartender, who nods before looking over my shoulder. Leaning against the bar, I see he’s looking at Dakota.
“Oh, um, I’ll have a tequila sour, please,” she requests before wringing her hands together and looking up at me. “Who knew the karaoke night wasn’t a one-off?” she asks me.
I turn and face her, quirking a skeptical brow.
“Good job up there. I didn’t know you could play the guitar,” Dakota rambles.
“Thanks,” I murmur just as an elbow nudges my arm.
“Hey, Benny. Isn’t that the girl you were drooling over at Griff’s bachelor party?” Carson asks, coming up out of nowhere.
My head whips to where Carson is pointing across to the other side of the bar, and I notice a woman standing with her back to me. Her long, auburn hair flows to the middle of her back, just above the hem of her backless navy dress. I watch with rapt attention as the redhead turns around. My jaw drops as recognition sinks in.
“How is she here right now? I thought only family, close friends, and teammates were invited. Does McKenna know her? She has to, right? I mean, why else would she be here?” I rattle off. Nervously rambling like this is completely out of character for me, and Carson must notice too.
He gives me a skeptical look before shrugging his shoulder. “I don’t know. Maybe she lives on this lake, and that’s why she was at the bar that night, and now she’s . . . I don’t know, wedding crashing or something. I have a good idea—why don’t you go ask her?”
I shoot an unamused glare at Carson. “Funny.”
“Well, if you’re not going to shoot your shot, I’m going to at least shoot mine,” Carson says, turning toward Dakota with an outstretched hand. “May I have the honor of this dance, my lady?” he asks, and Dakota’s cheeks heat before she nods.
Grabbing my whiskey from the bartender, I take a drink before making my way toward my mystery woman.
I try to compose myself as I approach the redhead who has taken up residence in my head over the past month. But my mouth dries as I take in the way her backless dress showcases her creamy skin full of freckles.
Bending down, I whisper in her ear, “So are we wedding crashing now?”
Her spine stiffens before she turns, her eyes widening as she takes me in. “Benny? What are you doing here?” she asks incredulously, a dazzling smile spreading across her red lips.
“I’ve gotta admit, I never had faith that fate would intervene, yet here we are. So tell me, Little Red, are you wedding crashing now, or are you here for the bride or groom?”
“A bit of all the above, I suppose. My parents are friends of both the bride and groom’s parents, but I’m not sure I was necessarily invited. I finished my summer class early and was able to make it up here for the reception. Though it looks like I missed some of the action, I was hoping to make it in time for the first dance, but no such luck.”
“Summer class? Which college do you go to?” I ask as I bring my glass of whiskey to my lips.
“Oh, no. It’s actually for high school.”
I nearly spit out my drink. Using the sleeve of my dress shirt, I wipe my lips before sputtering, “Excuse me? I think I misheard you.”
“Yeah, no. The girl whose birthday party I was at—she was my nanny growing up.”
My eyes widen as a foreboding feeling settles in my stomach.High school?I mean, when I assumed she was only twenty-one, that made me hesitate. But high school? No, she was drinking that night. Looking down, I see a glass of champagne in her hands. She takes that moment to bring the delicate glass to her lips and winks at me over the rim.
“You’re fucking with me?” It comes out more of a question than a statement.
Her answering laughter has me narrowing my eyes at her.
“You’re such a brat,” I tell her, shaking my head at her antics.
I don’t miss the way her eyes flare when I call her that or how she bites her bottom lip.
“Make it up to me?”
“And how would I do that?” she asks, quirking her brow.
