Conner raised his glass in mock salute. “The people love it.”
Murphy grinned, shaking his head. This—this was what he loved about the team. Easy. Solid. A little alcohol, a lot of laughter, nothing complicated.
“What are you singing?” Cash asked Hillary with a smirk.
She just raised an eyebrow. “I’m not.”
“I’ll help you, how about . . .” he flipped through a suggestion book on the table.
“Oh, this will be good,” Hillary said flatly.
“What aboutStrawberry Wine? Karaoke classic.”
Hillary just glared.
“No.” Cash said, turning his head back to the book. “How aboutIt’s Raining Men? I mean, look around.”
“The answer is now and forever no,” Hillary said.
But Cash paid her no mind and continued to flip through the book. “How about you and Rookie get up there and singI Got You Babe, another karaoke classic?”
“How about you get up there and singLike a Virgin?” she shot back.
He let out a hearty approving laugh. “Not a chance. I’ll get the next round,” he said as he pushed back from the table and made his way to the bar.
The night continued on, and the banter and the booze were setting in like a warm hug.
“Next up—Hillary!”
Murphy’s head snapped toward her. She looked genuinely shocked, eyes wide.
“I didn’t—” she started, but her protest was drowned out by a wave of cheers.
Across the table, Cash slid his phone back into his pocket and flashed her a grin, utterly unapologetic. “Let’s see whatcha got.”
Hillary’s jaw dropped. “Cash?—”
But the crowd was already chanting her name, the karaoke host motioning toward the stage. Murphy caught the faintest flush rising in her cheeks, the way her fingers tightened on the stem of her glass.
Murphy’s chest tightened. She hated this kind of spotlight.
Hillary stepped onto the small stage. The woman who could command a press conference without breaking a sweat, who could cut down a pushy reporter with a single arched brow, looked like she wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole.
Her knuckles were white on the microphone, eyes flicking to the lyrics screen as though it might save her.
He knew that look. He knew she hated this. And he knew what he had to do.
Murphy tossed back the rest of his drink, slammed the glass on the table, and vaulted up onto the stage before he could second-guess himself. The crowd roared as he snagged the spare mic from the DJ, flashing Hillary a grin.
The opening chords hit. He didn’t hesitate.
“Let’s go, girls!” He gave it his best Shania Twain try, his hips already swinging with exaggerated, ridiculous confidence. The bar erupted with laughter.
Hillary’s eyes widened as he twirled dramatically, pointing at her like they were co-stars in the most absurd duet of the century. Slowly—reluctantly—she started singing along with him.
By the time they hit the chorus, Murphy was stomping across the stage like it was Madison Square Garden, hollering“Man! I feel like a woman!”while Hillary’s voice threaded in, shaky at first, then steadier. He nudged her shoulder, winked, and the room went wild.
When the last note rang out, the place exploded in cheers and applause. Murphy turned to her with a grin wide and triumphant.
