My shoulders slump as I exit the bathroom and stand with fidgeting limbs at the foot of the bed. Valen, on the other hand, is perfectly relaxed, with his ankles crossed and one arm propped beneath his head.
“Clover.” A shiver works down my spine at his tone. “No one will force you to do anything you’re not ready for. Not even that pushy old guy next door.”
“I know.” I puff out my cheeks and exhale. “But I want to.” Mostly.
A small dimple peeks through on the side of his cheek. “That’s the spirit. You should really tone down the confidencethough. We wouldn’t want anyone thinking the great Clover Danes has an ego the size of Texas.”
“Shut up,” I chuckle before tossing a pillow at his face.
He catches it easily and appears to glide toward me. He has the grace of a panther that I’ll never possess.
“Hey.” His voice is soft now. Serious. And a breath away from my lips. “You’re the bravest person I know.”
An unladylike snort escapes, blasting his chin with hot air. “I’m literally shaking.”
He really needs to stop using cologne. It gives him an unfair advantage.
“Maybe.” He touches my chin, the barest grazing of skin that tilts my face toward his. “But it’s still true.”
So close. We are so close. His eyes are an impossible shade of light blue that looks silver in certain lights. I would count the different refractions of it if I had time. If my brain were working properly.
“Valen—”
Knock. Knock. Knock.
“We doin’ this or what? I’m not getting any younger, ya know?” Chief’s voice is gruff through the door, and Valen drops his hand from my face. Again.
“We’re coming!” I yell, too loudly. So loudly that Valen flinches back a step and I smack a hand over my mouth in shock while I mourn the loss of his proximity.
“Ready?” he asks. But I see it in his eyes. That hunger. That pining. That passion that’s woven itself through our DNA.
“Yes, I’m so ready,” I say. And I’m only lying about the karaoke this time.
The Montvale Taverndoesn’t smell too differently than the murder motel. It has a heavy scent of beer and questionable life choices.
Dark wood, half-working neon signs, pool tables in the corner with broken cues lining the wall—it’s everything I hoped a dive bar would be. And in the center of it all is a karaoke setup that appears to have survived several decades and possibly a barroom brawl…or twelve.
Currently, a very drunk man is murdering what might be country or an old-school rap song. It’s hard to tell through the yeehaw-ing and grunts.
We spot an open booth in the back while Chief orders a bucket of beer because that’s how they roll around here.
“This is a terrible idea,” I mutter.
“The fun ones usually are,” Valen says, taking my hand in his to help me into the booth.
“I can’t sing.”
He chuckles, then nods toward the stage. “Neither can that guy. You’ll fit right in.”
“Not comforting.” I cross my arms over my chest. It’s a defensive move, but I need the protection from what’s to come.
Why did I ever agree to this in the first place? My only explanation is that Valen blinds me with his…aura.
He tosses a three-ring binder onto the table. “Pick a song, Clover.”
Where the heck did he even get this thing?
I flip through the pages, but there are too many options, and my spiral starts spinning—what if I’m terrible? What if everyone stares? What if?—
