18. Grace
Chapter 18
Grace
I narrow my eyes at Kane, who is lounging against the bar like he has zero responsibilities in this world, except to torment me. He’s supposed to be helping me host this coed bachelor/bachelorette shindig. The nerve of this man—this smug, infuriatingly attractive man—who seems to be reveling in my misery while I try to keep an entire party from spiraling into absolute chaos.
He takes a long sip of his beer, eyes twinkling with amusement as he watches me pace in front of him. “You’re stressing out too much, sweetheart. This is a party, remember? People are supposed to have fun.”
I gape at him, incredulous. “Oh, I see,” I say, crossing my arms. “And by ‘people,’ you mean you and your friends, right? Because it’s really easy to sit back and enjoy the show when you’re not the one making sure Sunni doesn’t get banned from this bar for life.”
Kane flicks his gaze over to Sunni, who is currently perched on a chair with one foot dangerously close to the bar top, waving an empty shot glass like she’s about to make some kind of profound toast. Chance, ever the responsible firefighter, looks half-amused, half-resigned, one hand hovering near her waist like he’s expecting to have to catch her at any second.
Kane shrugs. “Looks fine to me.”
I throw my hands in the air. “Looks fine? Fine? She’s one bad decision away from licking tequila off Chance’s abs.”
Kane grins. “And?”
I gasp at him. “Oh my god, you’re useless.”
His grin widens, and I swear I can feel my blood pressure rising. “Hey, I think Chance would survive a body shot,” he says casually. “The guy’s an arson investigator. Fairly sure he’s handled worse.”
I groan and turn away, rubbing my temples. “Unbelievable.” Then, because I am running out of patience—and because I am tragically sober—I add, “This is all your fault.”
Kane raises an eyebrow, amused. “Oh? How do you figure that?”
I whirl back to him and gesture wildly around the room. “Because if you weren’t so damn distracting, I would’ve had a better grip on this night before it descended into madness.”
Kane leans in slightly, voice dropping just enough to send a shiver up my spine. “Distracting, huh?”
I roll my eyes, but my traitorous body responds to his tone anyway, my stomach fluttering in ways that have nothing to do with the baby and everything to do with Kane. His scent—woodsmoke, soap, and something undeniably him—fills my senses as he tilts his head at me, that signature, confident look on his face.
I clear my throat and cross my arms, determined not to let him derail me. “Easy for you to say,” I mutter, gesturing toward his beer. “You’re not the one stuck playing babysitter while everyone else gets drunk.”
Kane’s amusement shifts slightly, his expression softening as his gaze flicks—briefly—to my stomach. “You want me to start telling people you’re pregnant?” he asks, his voice lower now, quieter. “That would shut down the drinking real fast.”
And just like that, my whole body stills.
It’s not the words themselves—it’s how he says them. Like he’s proud of the fact he’s knocked me up. Like he wants to claim this—me, us, the baby—in front of everyone. No hesitation. No doubt. Just Kane, standing there, completely unbothered by the fact that our entire world is about to change forever.
My chest tightens, and not in a bad way. In a terrifying way. The way that makes me feel too much, makes me want things I shouldn’t.
Instead of melting into a hormonal puddle, I scowl.
“No,” I snap, before sighing heavily. “I just… I just wish I could have one damn cocktail.”
Kane, of course, being the absolute menace that he is, grins like this is the funniest thing he’s ever heard. “Ah, I see,” he says, nodding solemnly. “It’s the lack of booze that’s making you cranky.”
I glare at him. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” He reaches across the bar and grabs a glass with something electric blue in color, sliding it toward me. “Here. Have some Mommy Juice. I made it especially for you. It’s non-alcoholic.”
I glare harder. “You are so lucky you’re hot.”
He lifts his beer in salute. “I know.”
Before I can issue a proper retort, the front doors of Hooplas swing open with enough flair to rival a Broadway production, and in march the Walking Ladies—Gladys, Betty, Joan, and Florence—wearing matching tiaras and sashes that read Sexy Seniors in bold, glittery script.
Gladys, leading the charge like the general of an army made up of martini-wielding grandmothers, stops just inside, plants her hands on her hips, and declares loudly, “ We heard there’s a party, and we never miss a party!”
The entire bar turns to look at them and then cheers.
Kane mutters under his breath, “Here we go.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Oh no.
Florence, the instigator of at least half of our town’s most ridiculous antics, beelines straight for Kane. Her silver curls bounce with each determined step, and before I can intervene, she pats his cheek fondly and leans in conspiratorially.
“ We brought our own flask, dear. Don’t tell the bartender.”
Kane laughs, shaking his head. “Florence, you’re the last person who should be drinking tonight.”
Florence gasps, clutching her chest like he just personally insulted her entire bloodline. “Are you suggesting I don’t hold my liquor well, young man?”
“Yes,” I answer immediately. “Absolutely.”
Florence narrows her eyes at me. “You wound me, Grace.”
I cross my arms. “Last time you ‘held your liquor well,’ you got banned from The Silver Willow for dancing on the piano.”
Florence sniffs, adjusting her tiara. “That ban was entirely unjustified. I have excellent rhythm.”
Joan cackles, already making a beeline for the bar. “ Somebody get me a real drink. This party needs some spice.”
Parker steps forward quickly, holding up both hands like he’s about to negotiate with a wild animal. “Uh, Joan, we don’t really need you adding spice. We need less spice.”
Joan waves him off with a dramatic flourish. “Hush, boy, the women are talking.”
I groan as Kane chuckles beside me, completely unbothered by the chaos unfolding in front of us.
Gladys, the self-appointed ringleader of the group, scans the bar like a general surveying a battlefield. “Where are the men?”
“What men? Everyone Hudson knows is here.” I ask, already knowing I won’t like the answer.
“The single men, dear,” Joan says, like it should be obvious. “A bachelorette party is not complete without a few handsome young men to entertain the guests.” She pulls out a handful of singles and waves them in the air. “I brought ten whole dollars to stick in someone’s G-string.”
Floor. Swallow me up now.
Betty, sipping from her flask far too casually, squints at the crowd, then nods approvingly. “ I call dibs on the tall drink of water in the corner.”
I follow her gaze and find Garret, leaning against the bar talking to Ian and Sawyer, watching this entire debacle unfold with an expression that screams regret for ever agreeing to attend.
“I think he might be too young for you,” I say.
Betty huffs, tucking her flask back into her clutch. “Nonsense. I’ve got at least twenty good years left in me.”
Kane chokes on his beer.
Gladys clasps her hands together. “Right! Now that we’re here, we need some proper bachelorette party festivities.”
Oh no.
I know that tone. That tone has preceded some of the most unhinged moments of my life.
“I really don’t think—” I start.
Too late.
Gladys claps her hands twice, and before I fully register what’s happening, she grabs my wrist and yanks me toward the center of the bar.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” she announces, her voice carrying over the noise of the party. “It is tradition that a bachelorette knows how to dance, and I, as a woman of vast experience, will ensure that our dear Grace is properly educated.”
Oh hell no .
Kane leans against the bar, grinning, looking way too entertained.
“Don’t you dare just stand there!” I hiss at him.
Kane raises his beer in salute. “This is the best night of my life.”
Gladys pulls me onto the dance floor, clapping her hands in time to the thumping bass of whatever song is playing. “Now, first things first, you have to keep eye contact. Confidence is key.”
I groan, absolutely mortified.
Kate, Brooke, Mia, Riley, Charli, Becky, and Sunni all start whooping from their seats, clearly thriving off my suffering.
“Shake those hips, dear!” Gladys encourages.
I refuse.
“No,” I say flatly. “Absolutely not.” God, I want a real drink. I need a real drink.
Gladys tsks, then turns to the rest of the crowd. “Kane, darling! Would you like to come demonstrate?”
Kane grins wider, then starts moving toward us as he swings his hips to the beat of the music.
“Oh, hell no!” I shout, throwing both hands up. “I refuse to be part of whatever striptease you’re about to attempt.”
Kane laughs, looping an arm around my waist, pulling me close to him.
“You sure about that, Gracie?” he murmurs in my ear. “Because I think you like when I dance for you.”
I do not shiver.
I absolutely do not press closer.
And I definitely do not let out a breathy little sigh that makes him chuckle.
Nope.
Not happening.
Before I can fully process what’s happening, Florence seizes control of the karaoke machine, and a familiar intro plays.
“Oh no,” Jax mutters.
“Oh yes ,” Sawyer counters, already moving toward the microphone.
Florence, bless her absolutely chaotic heart, grabs the mic and belts out the first notes of I Will Survive .
Badly.
Jax and Sawyer groan, but—because they too are agents of chaos—they grab backup mics and start harmonizing. I watch in horror as Reid and Eli join in.
The bar erupts into laughter and cheers.
“Best night ever ,” Kane mutters, his lips brushing my ear sending goosebumps down my body..
I glare at him. “You are not getting laid tonight.”
He grins. “You sure about that?”
Damn him.
Meanwhile, Joan has trapped Charli, Becky, Sunni, and Kennedy at a table, phone in hand.
“So,” she says, completely unbothered by the screaming karaoke in the background. “This Tinder thing… Is it really just for pictures of men’s… you know? Privates.”
Charli chokes on her drink.
Becky wheezes.
Sunni is laughing so hard she’s nearly in tears.
Kennedy, bless her, nods seriously. “Yeah. It’s bad.”
Joan hums, scrolling through someone’s profile. “Interesting.”
Meanwhile, at the bar, Betty has appointed herself as the ‘stripper scout’ for the evening.
“I rate him a solid eight,” she announces, pointing at Trevor, the poor, unsuspecting bartender.
Trevor blinks.
Parker and Eli watch in horror .
“What about us?” Parker demands.
Betty assesses him for a long moment, then shrugs. “Meh. You’re a five.”
Parker gapes. “I’m a doctor. Does that help my score?”
She looks him up and down again, “Okay. Five point five.”
Eli laughs until Betty turns to him.
“You’re a six at best.”
Eli’s face drops.
Kate and Hudson’s entire table erupts into laughter.
And then, just when I think the night cannot get any more ridiculous— BOOM. A small explosion rocks the bar. Confetti. Everywhere. Joan screams in laughter.
I spin toward her, hands in my hair. “What the hell?—?!”
Joan gasps for breath between cackles, pointing at the now empty confetti cannon at her feet. “I—I forgot I brought it!”
The entire bar dissolves into absolute chaos.
Florence hollers from the karaoke stage. “Best. Party. Ever ! ”
Kane pulls me against his chest, shaking his head fondly. “Admit it, Gracie,” he murmurs, lips brushing my temple. “You love the chaos.”
I groan, but maybe he’s right, and, somehow, I know this is only the beginning.