Page 173 of Rising Heat

Of course Bex catches on.

“Since when do you drink beer?”

“I drink beer.”

“Darcy Reed.” She points at the bottle. “Who are you?”

“It’s good beer.”

“It’s not about the beer.”

Her eyes flick to Mack for the briefest second before settling back on me again, and I can practically hear the gears turning in her head as she starts connecting dots I’d been perfectly happy leaving unconnected.

Thankfully, Bon Jovi beats her to it. The opening chords cut through the bar, and the entire place reacts at once.

“Oh no,” I say, already laughing.

Bex grabs my wrist.

“Get up!”

Five seconds later, we’re both standing on the booth seat screaming every word to Livin’ on a Prayer while the entire bar joins in around us, strangers pointing at each other across tables during the chorus, somebody near the dartboards fully committed and spectacularly off-key.

Coop pounds the table like he personally arranged this moment, and somewhere in the middle of the chorus I glance down just in time to catch Tyler and Mack both watching me.

Tyler’s smiling like he physically can’t help it. Mack’s leaned back against the booth, looking up at me with that steady, thoughtful expression of his that somehow always feels like he’s seeing a little more than I’m saying.

Beside me, Bex follows my line of sight, catches them both looking and shouts the next lyric directly into my face while pointing emphatically toward the table. I dissolve into helpless laughter halfway through the chorus, and by the time the song ends the whole bar is cheering like we just headlined TD Garden.

“Sit down before one of you breaks an ankle,” Marco says.

“Nooo,” Bex protests.

Tyler catches my wrist as I climb back into the booth, his hand lingering around mine for the briefest second before he lets go.

“You really are trouble,” he murmurs against my neck.

“And yet you keep encouraging me.”

Tyler grins.

“Oh, I’m definitely not complaining.”

“Neither am I,” Mack says, eyes never leaving the table.

Sometime over the next few minutes, Tyler’s arm finds the back of the seat behind me, his fingers absently brushing my shoulder whenever he shifts even slightly.

“You look gorgeous tonight, by the way,” he says low enough that only I can hear.

I turn to him, but before I can say a word, I feel Mack’s hand settle on my knee under the table. I try with calculated effort to keep my face neutral as his thumb drifts up my thigh, slow enough to make my pulse jump.

Oh fuck.

Across the table, Bex’s in another heated debate with Coop about something I can’t hear because Mack’s hand is making a very compelling argument for paying attention to absolutely nothing else. Marco’s scrolling through his phone beside Trick, somebody orders another round at the bar, and not a single person paying attention to me or the two men currently dismantling my nervous system under a sticky wooden table on a Thursday night.

He wouldn’t…

Mack’s hand does not receive this message. Neither does my vagina, apparently, considering how willingly I’ve just parted my knees to give him better access. He gives my thigh the faintest squeeze, like thank you for your cooperation, before his thumb starts moving again.