Karaoke Chemistry: A Witchy Small Town Romcom (Sacred River Book 2)

1. Magnolia

PULLING INTO A partially hidden space, I kill the engine and reach into the back seat for my canvas tote. It’s a familiar routine at this point, throwing on the black tee with a glitter skull over my pink tank top and wiggling into ripped black jeans. I slide off the muted cotton skirt and open my makeup kit to line my eyes in the visor mirror with a royal blue glitter eyeliner, then smudge it. After fluffing up my limp hair, I get out and step to the back of my Fiat to shove my feet into the black Doc Martens that are only worn here. I lock my car, hustle to the door, then take a deep breath. I always expect a tingle of magic to course through me before I step inside, but it never happens. And since it’s magic’s fault that I’m even in this position, you’d think it would have the decency to show up.

It doesn’t.

It never does.

Which is for the best. It’s why I’m here, after all.

Wrenching the door open, I step into the dimly-lit bar. The familiar scents of old wood and alcohol wrap around me as I head straight for Carol, weaving through the crowd of people I make a point never to speak with and past the bar. I find her bent over tonight’s list, and she straightens as I near, smiling in delight. “Seven! I didn’t think you’d make it tonight.”

I start to apologize, but Seven doesn’t say sorry. Ever. So I stand tall and shrug like it’s no big deal. “Hi, Carol. Had some things to do today. You know how it goes.”

She hands me the pen and my silver bracelets clink against each other as I write my name and song selections down. It’s been a day, so I choose Joan Jett’s “I Love Rock ’n’ Roll” and No Doubt’s “Just a Girl,” two fun songs that I can easily lose myself in and forget the rest of the world. I’m last on the list, but Carol likes me—or at least the twenties I give her every time I sing—so I know I’ll get on stage tonight.

I hand the pen back with a smile and make my way to the bar to order Seven’s usual drink: a high-end whiskey, neat, water on the side. When I’m at Al’s, I’m not Magnolia Rowan, quiet high school chemistry teacher and least interesting of the many Rowan sisters. Here, I’m Seven, bad-ass singer who doesn’t care what anyone thinks. Who can’t harm anyone with her voice. I can flirt with the bartender even though he looks like he’s barely old enough to drink, let alone serve alcohol. It’s only here that I’m a woman who takes what she wants. Who is unapologetically herself. Who has a powerhouse voice, literally and metaphorically, and isn’t afraid to use it.

In other words, the exact opposite of who I really am.

“Wondered if you’d be here tonight.” The deep velvet voice sends a shiver down my spine.

He’s here. Magnolia would never be so bold, but as Seven, I turn away from the bar and let my gaze travel from his boots up his jeans-clad legs to a trim waist, up a black Henley that hugs a thick chest and arms, on up to a jaw covered in dark gray and silver stubble, and finally up to bright blue eyes that crinkle deliciously as he smiles at me. A familiar tug of gossamer string goes taut inside my body.

“Riggs.”

He clinks his beer against my whiskey. “Seven.”

“You miss me?”

“All week,” he answers. “You?”

“Obviously.” My belly tightens. I glance away and take another sip, unable to hold his stare. There’s only so much of Seven that really works in the face of this man’s self-assured presence. I’ve seen him here almost every week for at least a year, and each time it’s the same: a little bit of flirting and nothing more. That’s how it has to be; any more than that and I put him in danger.

We turn our attention to Carol, who’s kicking the evening into gear with the opening verse of “Shake it Off.” I lean against the bar and fight the instinct to curl into myself under Riggs’s gaze as I take another sip of the whiskey, letting its burn fortify me. “What are you singing?”

He shifts beside me. “Why? You want to duet?”

I scoff. “You can’t handle me.”

“That remains to be seen,” he murmurs.

Goosebumps skitter across my skin at the thought of giving myself over to him. His broad body hovering over mine, the scrape of his stubble against my neck as he lowers himself down, the way the scruff might feel in other places. I suppress a moan and take another sip, thankful for the dim light. I need to slow down on the drink.

He leans back on his elbows and tips his chin toward the riser. “Africa.”

“That’s your song?” I raise my eyebrows. It’s a lot harder to sing than people realize. Then again, Riggs is a hell of a singer, and I shouldn’t be surprised.

He lifts his beer in confirmation before tipping it back, and I take the two-second opportunity to study him. His closely cropped hair fades into longer strands on top, the perfect length for grabbing onto. The man is the very definition of silver fox, and carries himself in such a commanding way that it’s clear he’s used to getting what he wants. Outside of this bar—outside of being Seven—I’d never have the courage to speak to him. Even still, I am every bit of the sheltered school teacher when I’m next to him. As though, despite whatever powers I may or may not possess, I’m never on solid ground when he’s this close. I’m desperate for the man to shove me against the bar and kiss me senseless, but if he so much as grazed my hip, I’d probably expire from nerves on the spot.

Carol finishes the song and calls Riggs up. He slides his gaze to me and winks. “Wish me luck.”

I suppress a smirk. “You need nothing of the sort.”

He puts his hands in his pockets as he backs up, the move serving only to highlight the broadness of his chest and arms. The man is a tank.

What I’d give to be run over by him.

“I need whatever you’ll give me,” he says, then pivots away.

My mouth dries.

He saunters to Carol and takes the mic from her hands with a smile, then turns to address the crowd of about fifty. “I’m going to need some backup from you guys on this one—are you ready?” The crowd cheers, its pleasure increasing as the first memorable notes flow out of the speakers.

I know that Riggs can’t see me from his vantage point on the tiny stage, but that knowledge doesn’t stop the way my chest constricts when he looks my way and sings. Seven would give that energy right back to him, so I polish off the whiskey and make my way to the front of the crowd just in time for the chorus. And when our eyes lock and the butterflies in my stomach erupt, I let them take flight, reveling in the escape from real life for a little while longer.