Tag looks like he’d rather ask a favor from the IRS after accidentally claiming his ex as a business expense than ask me. “Don’t get too excited. It’s a one-off thing.”
“The excitement is dizzying,” I say with a straight face. “Please elaborate.”
“My friend is getting married in two weeks, and the band he hired for the reception bailed.”
“Good thing there are about fifty DJs within a thirty-mile radius.”
“He doesn’t want that overproduced bubblegum-pop bullshit. Jesus.” He scowls. “Fuck Bruno Mars.”
My lips twitch. “Understood.”
“It’s a low-key reception. You know, that backyard, DIY type of shit. Burlap, mason jars, fairy lights. Pinterest board nonsense.”
I stare at him, waiting for the punchline.
“Anyway, he asked me if I could fill in last minute. Bands are booked up. It’s prime wedding season.”
“You seem to know an awful lot about weddings.”
A glare. “I’ve only got my acoustics. His fiancée wants a whole-ass band.”
“Okay.”
Tag glances at my guitar case, then blinks over at me. “You gonna make me say it?”
“Yes.”
“Fuck off. I’ll ask my buddy Zach.”
I sigh, placing the guitar beside me on the couch. “You can borrow my custom, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“Yeah, well, I was actually getting at something else.” He looks extra pale, like he might puke up his four pieces of bacon pizza. “Thinking you could join me. Annalise too.”
I freeze, my head snapping up. “Wait, what?”
“Never mind. Terrible idea.”
“You want me to play the wedding with you?”
Pivoting away, Tag swipes a hand through his shoulder-length hair, his posture tense. He releases a defeated breath. “It kills me to say it, but you’re a better singer. You both are. One of my coworkers is in a band—plays drums—and he offered to bring his bassist along, so I just thought…” A shrug. “It’s three thousand bucks, split five ways. Figured there are worse ways to earn a paycheck.”
“I’ll do it.”
Jabbing his tongue against his cheek, he swivels to face me. “It’s just a one-off.”
“You mentioned that.”
“I don’t want my sister getting any wild ideas. She loves to poke.”
As if summoned, Annie traipses down the staircase in a pair of cotton shorts and a heather-gray tank top, hair damp from her shower. Toaster darts straight to her, pawing at her bare legs.
“What about poking?” she asks, distracted, crouching to scratch between his ears.
My skin buzzes at the sight of her, a physical reaction. Instinctual, inherent.
Fucking catastrophic.
Wet strands of hair fall over her shoulders, curtaining her face. Remnants of her citrusy shampoo fill the room, overpowering the scent of cheap delivery pizza. I swallow, shifting in place and picking the guitar back up.
