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When Joaquin pitched Wednesday karaoke at The Hen House as a “team bonding experience,” I figured maybe three of us would show.

Instead, he’s somehow filled an entire table—including Buck Griffin, who looks about as thrilled to be here as somebody waiting for a root canal at the dentist.

Credit where it’s due, Estrada can sell anything.

He convinced Jeb to come by telling him it’d be a good date night, and Jeb showed up with a petite blonde named Tessa who laughs at everything he says and doesn’t seem to mind that the man has two left feet. Ricky brought his own date—a curvy brunette named Marissa that he apparently met at the gas station.

For others, like Buck, he claimed Andy would appreciate the team camaraderie.

Invoking Andy’s name is a dirty move, and Joaquin knows it. Buck would walk through fire for that man.

The Hen House is packed wall to wall, and we’ve nabbed a table by the stage.

“If a single one of you tries to get me on that stage,” the lead ranch hand warns, pointing a finger around the table, “I will make your time at Silver Creek a living nightmare.”

“No need to threaten us with a good time, Buck,” Joaquin laughs. “Maybe we’ll save you for the grand finale.”

“Estrada, I swear to god⁠—”

“Relax, old guy. Have a beer. Enjoy the music.”

Ricky snorts into his drink from the far end of the table. “Since when does Buck enjoy anything?”

The glare Buck gives him could curdle milk, and the tension crackles. Whatever’s been brewing between them over fencing disputes and clashing work styles hasn’t resolved itself, and a karaoke bar doesn’t seem like the venue for a breakthrough.

Joaquin either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. He’s already yapping about how we’ll outdo anybody at The Hen House tonight.

According to him, the ranch hands at Silver Creek will walk away tonight with the title of karaoke champ.

The front door opens and Vivica walks in, scanning the crowded bar ’til she spots our table. She’s in dark jeans and a leather jacket I haven’t seen before, and the red lipstick is back—the same crimson shade from the night we met at this very bar.

My heartbeat does double time from inside my chest.

Vivica Murphy is so damn effortlessly sexy, and she doesn’t even seem to realize it.

Her jeans are damn near painted on her body, and my mind fills with memories of groping that ass and those thighs. Her beautiful face is framed by her golden pixie cut, immediately standing out.

“About time,” Joaquin calls out. “We saved you a seat, doc!”

The only open chair is directly next to mine. Vivica clocks this and the corner of her mouth quirks.

“How convenient,” she says, sliding into the seat beside me.

“Pure coincidence,” Joaquin assures, hardly fighting off a grin.

“Leave ’em alone, Estrada,” Buck warns. “We’re here to sing, not play matchmaker.”

“Who’s playing? I’m just saying the chair was open.”

“You know Buck. He’s got to control things,” mutters Ricky under his breath.

“Don’t you two start,” Jeb says. He puts his arm around his blonde date. “I’m not letting you ruin me and Tessa’s night.”

I’m no longer paying attention to the conversation around the table.

Vivica’s settled beside me, and our elbows brush. She doesn’t move hers. Neither do I.

We sneak a glance that lasts maybe half a second but says more than either of us would cop to.