Chapter 2
TWO
Janie
Twenty minutes later, we’re walking into Boots and Buckles, and I immediately remember why I have a problem with this place.
The smell of barbecue and fried food makes me ravenous, but my heavens, the noise.
It’s worse than a screaming kindergarten classroom.
And that’s saying a lot, since I work in one.
Is this what grown-ups do when they get off work? Go to a crowded honky-tonk and listen to someone butcher “Friends in Low Places”?
I search for an opening in the farthest corner from the stage, where I hope my eardrums will stop bleeding.
“There’s a free table,” I say, pointing out one in the back.
“Wait.” Madi’s gaze lands somewhere close to the front. “I see an open table near the stage.”
A guy turns around from the dance floor and dips his head toward us, giving us a Joey Tribiani “how you doin’” look.
Gabriella beams back at him. “Yes, let’s definitely move to the front.”
“Oh, no,” I say, stopping in my tracks. “We are not doing this.”
“Doing what?” Madi asks.
“That,” I say, motioning to a group of girls at another table who are eyeing the men on the dance floor. “The pointing and whispering and ‘accidentally’ bumping into guys.”
“Would we do that?” Gabriella asks with an innocent smile that tells me she most definitely would.
“Okay, have fun, then. I’m leaving,” I say, turning toward the door. The last thing I want to be tonight is someone’s third wheel.
“Wait, no,” Madi begs me. “You can’t go yet. We rode together.”
Oh yeah. They’re my ride, and this isn’t exactly a metropolitan area with transportation options.
I could walk, but it would be a three-mile trek in boots made for cuteness, not comfort.
Knowing my luck, I’d get picked up by Mrs. Hagerson from the school board, who would have many questions about why I’m hitchhiking home.
I reluctantly follow Gabriella toward the table in the front, right next to the karaoke stage.
The song finishes—thank goodness—and a few people clap out of sympathy.
I lean across the table and whisper, “No offense, but I could do better than that guy.”
“Maybe you should, then,” Gabriella says.
I shake my head. “I haven’t sung in months.”
“Come on,” Gabi says, elbowing me. “You used to love karaoke. And you just said you could do better.”
“Yeah, but I don’t see the point of proving it.”
“Okay, then,” she says, leaning on the table. “I’ll make you a deal. Sing one song, and you get to say when we leave.”
I stare at her for a moment, considering this option. We could get a quick dinner, then take off as soon as we’re done. No harm done.
“Only one?” I ask.
Madi nods. “It’ll be just like old times. You were always the best singer of all of us. Might as well show Sully’s Beach who’s still the reigning queen of karaoke.”
“Alright,” I say, her words just the push I need.
With a newfound confidence, I push my chair back and head to the karaoke sign-up, where I flip through the songbook.
I need something that screams I’m not your type to any guy who might be thinking about approaching me.
You know, the perfect anthem for a woman who’s still reeling from heartbreak.
I scribble down my selection and hand it to the DJ, who glances at it and raises an eyebrow. “Bold choice,” he says with a nod. “You’re up next.”
I make my way back toward the front when the DJ’s voice booms over the speakers. “Next up, we’ve got ‘Before He Cheats.’”
My stomach flips nervously as I try to remind myself that it’s only one song—and half of the crowd isn’t even paying attention. Most of the women are focused on a group of men who just came in and took over the table in the corner away from the stage.
The opening notes start, and I grab the microphone, nervous energy humming under my skin.
As I open my mouth, the mic lets out a horrible screech that makes people throw their hands over their ears in pain.
Then the track skips before cutting out entirely, leaving me standing there in total silence.
The packed room is staring at me, and my face flames like I just bit into a ghost pepper.
This is worse than the time I accidentally had the back of my skirt tucked into the waistband of my underwear in front of the entire kindergarten class.
And God bless them, kindergartners think nothing of showing their panties in public.
But adults? They forget nothing.
Just then, a movement in the back catches my eye.
A man rises from his table—making every woman in the room take notice—including me.
He’s tall, easily six foot four, with a build that suggests serious time at the gym: broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, wearing a black tee that fits like the shirt company used him as the model.
Dark hair falls across his forehead as he walks toward the stage with a serious expression.
And now I know why everyone’s staring.
Because up close, he’s lethal. Sharp cheekbones, a square jaw shadowed with just enough stubble, and eyes so dark they make me forget my own name. His face clearly belongs on a red carpet with a movie star, and I haven’t even seen him smile yet.
As all women know, a smile is a man’s most devastating quality. Though something tells me this one doesn’t smile often, which might be the only thing saving me right now.
Because if he does, I’m in so much trouble.
For a moment, I think he’s going to fix my mic, but instead, he grabs the second microphone. That’s when I notice his hands—enormous palms that look like they could span half a woman’s back.
“Wait, what are you doing?” I stammer.
“Technical difficulties are just fate’s way of making sure I didn’t miss this.” Despite that serious expression, there’s a glint in his dark eyes that tells me he’s absolutely messing with me. “What do you say we give them a proper show?”
Is he actually…enjoying this?
My heart does this ridiculous flutter thing—a feeling I haven’t had in years. Because this stranger just threw himself into my disaster to save me from it, and I have no idea whether to run or melt into a puddle.
He gives me a look that says just trust me, and then, to my complete shock, he starts the opening line of the song a cappella, with the worst country twang I’ve ever heard.
And he’s really terrible—like, comically awful. I start to sidestep toward the stage exit, but he stops, mid-verse, and catches my eye.
“Come on,” he says into the mic, then holds out his hand toward me like we’re old duet partners. “You can’t leave me alone to butcher this classic all by myself.”
The crowd starts cheering and clapping, a few people from his table shouting, “Save him!”
I shake my head, but I’m smiling a little. This is insane. I don’t sing duets with strangers. I don’t sing duets with anyone.
“I can’t promise to hit the right notes,” he says with an unassuming shrug. “I’m just the awful backup singer. The Sonny to your Cher. The Jay-Z to your Beyonce.”
The crowd is eating this up, and I realize he’s not just saving me—he’s entertaining them. This is someone who knows how to work an audience.
As genuinely horrible as he is, no one seems to mind it, because he’s actually fifty shades of charming. Almost reminiscent of Hugh Grant singing in Love Actually. That’s when I realize why. There’s nothing more endearing than a man who’s willing to save someone’s dignity while sacrificing his own.
“One verse,” I tell him, holding up my finger as I move to center stage. “That’s it.”
“Got it,” he says. “Though I make no promises about the audience asking for an encore.”
Suddenly we’re standing together, close enough that I can smell the scent of his cologne, woodsy and warm with a hint of spice.
“Ready?” he asks, and when I nod, he starts singing again—still awful, but now it’s our awful.
And somehow, I relax and take over the song, while he pulls back to let me shine. And that’s when the magic happens.
Remarkably, the crowd goes wild. Not because we’re good—we’re definitely not—but because there’s something about us together.
Instead of singing one verse, I stick it out through the whole song.
When we finish, he takes an exaggerated bow, pulling me down with him, and the whole place erupts in cheers and applause.
“See?” he says, his lips hinting at a smile. “Much better with backup.”
“You’re absolutely terrible,” I say around a laugh.
“But charmingly terrible, right?” he deadpans. “That’s my specialty.”
And I’m completely caught off guard by his self-deprecation.
A group of guys in the back are hollering for more, and for a moment, I feel oddly flattered by his attention.
I escape offstage, grateful to be out of the spotlight. But when I glance back, I realize he’s followed me instead of returning to his table.
I turn to face him. “Thank you for the rescue. But I have to ask—how does a guy like you know every word to ‘Before He Cheats’?”
“Good thing I’ve had a lot of practice singing that song in the shower,” he says with a hint of a smirk, then shoves one hand in his pocket. “I’m Rourke Riley, by the way.”
He smiles, waiting for me to introduce myself, while my heart does this weird, unfamiliar thing in my chest—it skips a beat.
“Rourke,” I say, trying his name out. “Well, it’s good to meet you.” I start backing toward my table because I honestly don’t know what to make of his attention—or the way my heart is still beating wildly.
“Wait,” he says, following me.
I stop and tilt my head, unsure what else he could possibly want. Isn’t the performance over?
He glances nervously at the floor before meeting my gaze. “Can I at least find out who I sang with tonight?”
I stare at him for a moment. This feels strangely like putting myself out there, and that’s exactly what I’m not ready for yet—even if it is with a guy who saved me from total humiliation. “What if I told you I don’t give out my name to strangers?”