I blush through the grin.
Behind me, the guys finish tuning their instruments, the hum of Chase’s electric guitar fusing with the tap of drumsticks against the snare. Tag adjusts the mic stand, giving me a quick nod, as the glow of string lights paint the polished wood in a dreamy haze.
A low strum echoes through the speakers as Declan jogs over, draping an arm around Lillian’s shoulders. “Ready to party, Mrs. Sanders?” He presses a kiss to her temple.
Her eyes shimmer as she pops her hip, hands curling around her waist. “More than ready.”
I turn back to the band, inhaling deep as Tag gives the downbeat. The night is ours. Time to shine, or drown in the mortification of my failure for decades to come.
Gulping, I retreat to the stage. “See you two on the flip side,” I say, harnessing my smile. “Enjoy the show!”
“No doubt.” Declan lifts his beer in cheers.
They sound so confident. As if they hadn’t panic-plucked five random people off the streets to play a three-hour set on the most important night of their lives, two of those people having never performed live in this capacity before. Even Tag hasn’t done anything this big, this brave.
Heart in my throat, I clomp back up to the platform in my brand-new white sneakers. The shoes were a deliberate choice—comfort over glam. The last thing I need is to trip over a pair of sky-high heels in front of a hundred wedding guests and a petite chihuahua wearing a bowtie.
The beady-eyed creature stares me down, as if waiting for my shoelaces to magically unravel and tie my ankles into a knot.
Focus, Annalise.
As I traipse across the stage and find my spot, Chase rakes his eyes over me before peering down at his guitar.
My dress is a powder-blue shift with a high neckline and a scalloped laceoverlay, straight out of the sixties. The fabric flutters as I move, airy and effortless, like something Twiggy might’ve worn in a sun-doused Polaroid.
I gulp again.
A swarm of butterflies escape their cocoons and skitter up to my throat. The crowd beneath us gathers with champagne flutes and dessert plates topped with cake and buttercream. The weather is stunning, the backdrop romantic and picturesque, and all I can do is pray that our grueling, all-night practice sessions have paid off. Luckily, the bassist and drummer—Dan and Aaron—are seasoned pros. I know they’ll steer us around the curves.
Tag leans over to whisper in my ear. “You good, sis?”
My eyes flare wide. “Don’t ask me that. You’re reminding me that I’m not even close to good.”
“Well, you look like you’re about to vomit.”
“That’s the impending catatonia.”
He sighs, his expression softening as he props his foot up on the amp. “You got this, all right? Just picture everyone naked or some shit.”
Instinctively, my gaze veers over to Chase. “Not helpful,” I croak.
Feeling my stare, Chase turns to look at me in his gunmetal-gray vest and matching slacks, the stark white of his rolled-up sleeves highlighting the lean muscle in his forearms. With his guitar slung low and a few strands of warm brown hair falling over his brow, he looks like he belongs on a stage, under the lights, the whole world as his audience.
He smiles. Soft, confident, reassuring.
Then he cups a hand over the mic speaker and tilts back. “You ready?”
Tag gives my shoulder a squeeze as I attempt to conjure words. “Ready.”
Stepping up to the microphone stand, I inhale a centering breath. I feel bare and exposed with no instrument. Just a mic clasped between my hands, slick from sweat. My eyes close as chatter from the guests fades out and music filters to my ears.
Tag gives a countdown, and the beginning chords of “September” by Earth, Wind & Fire take shape.
Dan’s bass line thrums through the humid air, a heady pulse that stabilizes my heartbeat. To my left, Chase’s fingers dance over the strings, his bodyswaying in time with the beat. He’s loose, natural, lost in the rhythm, while I’m locked in place, white-knuckling the mic stand like it might float away if I let go.
But then he looks at me again.
Just a flick of his gaze, steady and knowing, because he feels what’s churning inside me. His fingers pick a playful riff, an improvisation that isn’t in the song but fits like it was meant to be.
