“Oh, I can’t tonight. I’m going out to get drunk.”
“No, she’s not,” Wyatt says immediately.
I ignore him. “Today’s my birthday,” I tell the Spencers. “Guess who’s twenty-one, gentlemen?”
Their faces light up.
“It’s your birthday?” Little Spencer’s outraged gaze shifts to Wyatt. “And you’re not letting her celebrate?”
“She can celebrate here,” he says firmly. “At the house. I already told her she’s more than welcome to invite whomever she wants and drink whatever she wants. In the house. Where I can keep an eye on her.”
“First of all—Daddy,” Big Spencer says in a sultry voice.
Wyatt rolls his eyes.
“Second of all,” I interrupt, “I don’t need you to keep an eye onme. But if you insist on it, you can keep an eye on me in a bar,” I finish sweetly.
“Yeah, but then that meansIcan’t drink. I’ll need to stay sharp to make sure you’re okay and that nobody’s taking advantage.”
“Got it. So I can’t go to a bar becauseyouwant to drink onmybirthday.”
“Exactly,” Wyatt says. Then he sighs. “Okay, I just heard it out loud. Let’s go to the bar.”
And that’s how we end up at a karaoke joint in town later, watching Big Spencer and Little Spencer perform a duet of Mollie May and Stylo Lewis’s latest collaboration—with both of them singing Mollie May’s part.
“How is this song so good?” I shout over the music. The melody is so catchy that I can’t stop dancing along. I have both arms thrust in the air, one hand gripping my third fruity cocktail of the night. I’m more than a little tipsy. Veering into very drunk territory, in fact.
“My mom wrote it.” Wyatt leans in so I can hear him better. I think he’s on his way to drunk too, because his green eyes have taken on a hazy glow.
“Seriously?” I exclaim.
Then I wonder why I’m surprised. It’s Hannah frickin’ Graham. The woman is downright remarkable. She can sing circles around most people—her performance at Gigi’s wedding didn’t leave a dry eye in the house—yet she chooses to remain behind the scenes and just write banger after banger for other people. Hannah claims she doesn’t like the stress of performing, but I can only imagine the level of stardom she would’ve reached if she’d chosen to writeandperform her own music.
“Your mom is incredible,” I tell Wyatt.
“I know.” He takes a quick sip of his beer, his features straining.“Goddamn it.”
“What?”
“Just realized my sister was right. I need to be nicer to Mom. I’m such a prick when it comes to this music thing. She doesn’t deserve me snapping every time she tries to help me.”
I mock gasp. “Oh my God! Wyatt! Is this growth?”
He sighs. “I think it’s growth.”
The song ends, and the Spencers amble off the stage and rejoin us. We do shots because Big Spencer orders a round for the birthday girl, and then we do more shots because Little Spencer orders a round for the birthday girl, and then more shots because Annaliese arrives and buys another round. And then Eddie decides, yes, he too must be part of the shot buying.
By the time Wyatt and I pile into an Uber and head back to the lake house, we’re both annihilated. So plastered that neither of us can see straight, speak without laughing, or sit in the back seat for more than three seconds without sucking each other’s faces off.
I feel bad for the driver, or at least I would if I was capable of feeling anything other than horny, because anytime Wyatt is kissing me, I can’t concentrate on anything but the ache between my thighs.
It takes us three tries to punch in the gate code. We stagger out of the Uber a few minutes later, and then it takes us four tries to get the alarm code right. Finally, the front door swings open and we stumble inside, laughing our asses off. Which lasts about two seconds because suddenly we’re kissing again. Wyatt pushes me up against the wall, his greedy mouth latching on to my neck. My head spins as he kisses and explores my heated flesh, dragging his tongue up the side of my throat.
When he reaches my ear, he growls, “Need to fuck you.”
Somehow, we make it up to his room, which smells like freshcitrus and pine cleaner. “The house mouse was here,” I mumble between kisses. “I mean mouse. No, I meanman. The houseman was here.”
“Harry,” he mumbles back. “I mean Herny. Horny?”
