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

7. Riggs

IAM A man driven to distraction.

And frankly, it’s starting to piss me off.

I have lived for five decades. I have seen things. Done things. Said and heard things. Lived a whole, fulfilling life. Had my way with plenty of women. Plenty. And they liked it.

But none of them—none of them—have managed to bring me to my knees with one kiss and a few…sparkles. Or whatever that was. Which is another thing that confuses me and pisses me off.

My hand isn’t itching anymore, so…that’s good, I guess?

It doesn’t matter, though, because here I am, reduced to daydreams and making up reasons to walk past her classroom in the hopes that she might actually be there, despite it being mid-July and no teachers being around. Mrs. Hayes is giving me a shitload of looks and it’s obvious she thinks I’ve lost my mind, and I’m beginning to think she’s right.

I leave the school at ten, muttering an excuse about washer and dryer delivery to Mrs. Hayes as I go. The look on her face makes it clear she doesn’t believe me.

Probably because it’s a lie.

I’m crawling out of my skin with the need to see her. It’s Thursday, and I swear if I don’t see Seven—Magnolia, whatever, I don’t give a shit—at karaoke, then I will flip some damn tables.

So clearly, I need to work this energy off before tonight.

I get in my car and head to the gym to take my frustrations out on the punching bag, when a store I’ve not paid any attention to catches my eye. Rowan Apothecary Books. That’s Magnolia’s last name, and Mrs. Hayes has mentioned there are more than a few Rowan women. She also said something about needing to watch myself around them, but given her propensity toward exaggeration, I’m choosing to ignore that.

I like knowing there’s a local shop other than a drugstore to get remedies at, so I head inside. The scent of lavender is the first thing to hit my nose, followed by all manner of smells I can’t begin to place. There’s a palpable sense of calm, and it’s bright and warm even though the place is stuffed with dark wooden shelves lined with books and boxes and bottles. Einstein bulbs hang somewhat haphazardly from dark rope along the ceiling, and I gravitate to a table of soaps, picking one up to smell. It’s…odd. A dark spice mixed with something salty and briny, and as I inhale again, I’m hit with something approaching serenity, and considering I was ready to explode not five minutes ago, I decide to invest in multiple bars.

A tall, thin woman with long blonde hair appears. Her brown eyes take me in, assessing me with keen intelligence. Something about her is familiar, and I suspect she’s one of Seven’s sisters. “Can I help you?” she asks.

“Just moved, thought I’d come pay a visit,” I reply nonchalantly.

She hums and eyes the five bars of soap in my hands. “Those are one of our specialties. They give the person using them whatever they need at that moment.” She must track my confusion because she continues, “We specialize in natural remedies, and have a wide arrangement of specialty teas for just about everything. You’ll also be interested in this table.” She gestures to the one beside us. “Stress, sore muscles, that sort of thing.”

I narrow my eyes at her. How would she know that’s exactly what I’m after?

She smiles at my unasked question. “Educated guess. You’re the new principal, right?”

Ah. Small towns. I should have known that word would travel fairly quickly. “Yes. Riggs Finlay,” I answer.

“Aspen Rowan. I help run this shop with my mother Daphne.” She inclines her head toward an old-school soda fountain bar where a tiny woman flits behind it, her pixie-cut gray hair making her appear like a gracefully aged Tinkerbell. “My sister Magnolia is a teacher at your school. Though, you know that.”

The heat that warms my chest at the sound of Magnolia’s name out of her sister’s mouth is concerning. Be cool. “Yes, we’ve met. I’m hoping to see her tonight, in fact.”

“Tonight? What’s tonight?” Aspen’s dark eyes, the shape of them so similar to her sister’s that it’s unnerving, look at me curiously.

And that’s when I remember I’m not supposed to say anything about her singing. Could I be any more of an asshole right now? A nervous laugh escapes me. “School meeting. Wait, is it Tuesday or Wednesday?”

She crosses her arms. “Today is Thursday.”

I need to get out of here. Something about this woman makes me want to spill my guts to her, and that is obviously a terrible thing. “That’s right. Next week, then. Summer always messes me up.” I back away and make a show of holding up the soap. “Actually, I need to go. Great meeting you.” I pay and leave before I can make any more of a mess and head to the gym, the memory of Aspen’s knowing gaze knotting my stomach.

I getto the bar a full hour ahead of Carol, and that’s saying something. The bartender slides me a glass of water, knowing full well it’s too early for me to have a drink, and I tilt it back, downing half of it in one go. Magnolia has ignored every text I’ve sent since I initially reached out. She gave me one small response of Thanks when I told her I wouldn’t be here last week, but that’s it.

I’m three glasses of water and one trip to the bathroom in when Seven shows up. And dammit, she’s even more riveting than the last time I saw her. She’s in her usual black jeans and Doc Martens, along with a black, body-skimming tank top that sets off her pale skin in the dim light. Her hair hangs down her back like a silky blonde waterfall, catching the neon blues and pinks of the signs on the walls and shooting them back out.

The fact that I’m getting poetic about her hair is concerning.

The fact that I immediately understood the difference in how she dressed as Magnolia the teacher at Mrs. Hayes’ party versus Seven the singer is also a big, fat neon sign of concern. I shouldn’t notice. It shouldn’t matter.

That fact that she is a teacher and I am the principal: huge problem.

None of that matters as she turns and her eyes meet mine. Not a damn bit of it. Because my entire body lights up, buzzing in a way I have never felt and I don’t like it, but also I crave it, and if this isn’t a sign for a fucking drink then I don’t know what is. I signal the bartender for my and Seven’s drinks, gesturing to her approaching form, and he turns without a word to make them.

“I didn’t think you’d be here,” she says as she nears.

I force myself not to lick my lips like a wolf staring at his prey. “Think, or hope?”

She considers. “Both.”

We take our drinks—she with her usual whiskey neat, and me with a light beer—and sip. As Carol gets the crowd going with Lady Gaga’s “Poker Face,” I finally speak. “I need you to answer my texts.”

“I need you to pretend that kiss didn’t happen,” she retorts.

I turn to fully face her, and I swear it’s like being hit with a magnetic charge. The effort to not touch her is staggering. “Not likely,” I bite out. “In fact, ignoring that kiss is so far out of the realm of possibility that it’s laughable.”

Her eyes flash. “You have to forget it.”

I set the beer down. “There’s no way I’m forgetting it. And why should I?”

“Because—because…” she sputters. “Just because!”

“I’m going to need way more information than that, Seven.” The way her whole body seems to relax at that name coming out of my mouth hits me in the solar plexus.

Up at the front, Carol announces my name. Bonus of being here first, I suppose. Before I can think about it, I bend down and kiss Seven on the cheek, closing my eyes in welcome at the tingle of electricity that comes with it. And there’s no stopping my grin as I rise and look at her beautiful, shocked face. “This one’s for you,” I wink.

I ask Carol to switch the song I initially wrote down, and while she’s irritated at the change—Carol has a pattern and I just messed it up—even she can’t help but laugh at my choice.

Because I get up there and sing “Never Gonna Give You Up” by Rick Astley. Yep. I straight-up Rickroll Seven and the entirety of Al’s right along with her. And not to brag, but one of my many singing talents is the ability to sound a lot like the original singer. So for the next few minutes, I channel a skinny British man with a really deep voice, complete with the requisite air clutches and swoons. Seven doesn’t come up from the bar, but if I squint just right, I see the way she fights a smile.

I finish the song to applause, take a bow, and make my way back to Seven. Her eyes twinkle even as she shakes her head.

“You really just did that.”

I smile, beyond pleased with myself. “I did.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“The word you’re looking for is ‘determined,’” I correct.

She makes a noise in the back of her throat, not saying anything else. For the next half hour, we sit companionably at the bar. When Carol calls Seven up, she doesn’t even look at me as she walks to the stage. I don’t miss the exchange the women have, and know that Seven’s changed her song choice, too.

Is it wrong that I’m excited to hear what she’s going to pick?

When the opening bars start, I chuckle as the crowd whoops in delight. This woman is throwing Britney’s “Oops!… I Did It Again” at me, and I fucking love it. I don’t think twice about nearing the riser and letting her sing right at me, because she swings those hips and goes all innocent lamb while she performs, blinking those whiskey eyes at me as her blonde hair swings.

All of it—all of it, the call and response of our song choices, the fact she didn’t hesitate to pick a song she’d normally never sing, the mystery of her insistence on keeping her time here a secret—turns me all the way on. She’s irresistible, and I have to have her.

So she can think she’s in control all she wants. She’s not. It’s game on, sweetheart.