“Flattery will not save you from spinning that propeller on stage.”
“I’m embracing the propeller,” he says solemnly, reaching up to spin it dramatically. “It’s very aerodynamic. Excellent for karaoke.”
“You’re an idiot,” I laugh.
“Your idiot,” he replies softly.
The words land warm and heavy in my chest. My laughter fades as I look at him—ridiculous wig, a flamingo floaty around his waist, Crocs, and all. Underneath the chaos is a steady, quiet, devastating Milo. The man who makes me laugh until my cheeks hurt and kisses me like the world might end tomorrow.
I swallow hard. “We should take a picture before we leave. Three more squares after this one.”
He nods. “Excellent plan.”
I prop my phone on the kitchen table, set the timer, then run back to him. His arm slides around my shoulder like it belongs there. I wrap mine around his waist. We strike the most unhinged poses we can—me flashing peace signs, him spinning the propeller dramatically.
The camera snaps seconds later.
We don’t move for another five.
When I finally reach for my phone, we look ridiculously happy. I quickly send the picture to Aria, tuck my phone into my bag, and glance up at Milo.
My heart does cartwheels it has no business doing when I realize he’s already looking down at me.
“Ready to go massacre some karaoke and traumatize everyone?” I ask.
He adjusts the green wig with mock seriousness. “Born ready.”
I reach for his hand, and his fingers instantly lace through mine. I squeeze once. He squeezes back. Then I tug him toward the door, laughing into the warm tropical night, heading straight into whatever beautiful chaos awaits us next.
Because tonight we’re checking off the last squares on the bingo card.
And maybe—just maybe—I’m checking off a few squares in my heart I didn’t even know were there.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Sienna
The karaoke baris alive in that perfect, hazy way that only happens after a few drinks and several hours of gloriously bad singing.
Purple and blue strobe lights pulse along the walls, fairy lights twinkle overhead like drunk stars, and the circular stage is bathed in a single warm spotlight that somehow makes whoever’s holding the mic look momentarily brave—or tragically delusional.
Right now, a middle-aged man is passionately butchering “Livin’ on a Prayer,” while half the bar screams the “whoa-oh-oh” chorus back at him with zero shame. The energy is chaotic, exactly the kind of unhinged chaos I thrive on.
Milo’s thigh presses firmly against mine under the table, his arm draped casually along the back of the booth. His fingers occasionally brush the bare skin of my shoulder in absent circles that make my pulse skip every time.
We’ve been here for a few hours now and have had enough cocktails that everything feels soft and warm at the edges.
The current singer finishes to scattered applause and a few merciful boos. The host—a man in a sparkly vest who’s clearlyhaving the time of his life—jumps back on stage and reads the next name.
My eyes drift to Milo as he watches the next singer stumble through the opening of “Sweet Caroline,” his lips curled in that almost-smile that sends my stomach into somersaults. He catches me staring and slowly turns his head, eyes locking onto mine. Heat blooms low in my belly.
He leans in, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “You’re staring.”
“You’re worth staring at,” I whisper back, my voice breathier than I intended.
His low chuckle vibrates against my cheek. “Dangerous thing to say in a room full of witnesses, Sienna.”
“Don’t you know by now?” I smirk, tilting my head so our noses nearly brush. “I live dangerously.”
