Everything is going as smooth as buttercream frosting until the final comedian sets up. It’s almost nine and the sound of bass and feedback filters through the wall I share with Ronan’s bar, making the floors vibrate.

As the final act begins, she’s rudely interrupted by the sudden, very loud banging of…drums? It’s followed by equally loud guitar riffs, and a growly voice belting out lyrics, which eclipse the comedian entirely for a few seconds.

It stops as abruptly as it begins and the performer makes a joke, setting off a round of nervous chuckling. Unfortunately, not thirty seconds later it happens again. “Dammit.” I drop a stack of plates into the bus bin. The clatter would be loud if the noise coming from next door didn’t drown it out, along with Karen the Comedian. She tries speaking louder, but it doesn’t help. “I’m going over there.”

Daphne, who’s been filming and taking photos, makes a face. “Maybe I should go.”

I give her the hairy eyeball. “So you can drool all over Ronan and forget to ask him to tone it the hell down?”

She arches a brow. Whatever. It’s the truth, even if me calling her out on it in a less than pleasant manner is probably unwarranted. But this is my first event, and he’s ruining it with whatever he has going on over there. People always remember what happened at the beginning or the end of an event the best. So my customers are going to remember the fun start to their evening and how it was ruined because a loud band drowned out the last damn act.

I rush over to Ronan’s bar in time for the really loud music to start. Pounding bass, drums, and excessively aggressive guitar riffs blare through the sound system. The place is packed, bodies crowding the small stage positioned to the right. No wonder it’s so loud in my café—the band is pretty much playing right against our adjoining wall. I notice that it’s the young bartender up onstage. I think his name is Larry or something. He starts scream-singing. It’s pretty unpleasant, not that I think scream-singing is ever really all that appealing.

I scan the dimly lit bar, searching for Ronan in a sea of black rim glasses-wearing twentysomethings. I finally spot him, in all his plaid glory, behind the bar, pouring pints. It takes me forever to squeeze my way through the crowd, but when I get to the bar the lineup is three deep. I try to edge my way between waiting customers, but it proves impossible.

Annoyed and frustrated, and frankly, grossed out by the number of sweaty bodies pressing up on me, I do another cursory scan of the bar and notice an opening a ways down. I settle my hands on some guy’s hips, trying to skirt around him. Unfortunately he takes it as a sign that I want to dance—or make out.

He spins around, eyes flaring as he takes me in. I’m glad I’m wearing heels because I’m not particularly tall and he certainly is. A slow smile spreads across his face. His cheeks are baby smooth, indicating he’s probably just old enough to be here legally.

“Sorry, excuse me. I’m just trying to get to the bar. I need to talk to the bartender.”

“You can talk to me while you wait if you want,” he shouts over the noise.

I’m not sure how that would even be possible because it’s too loud to hear myself think, let alone have any kind of meaningful conversation. I tap my ear to indicate that I can’t hear him.

“We don’t have to talk.” He winds an arm around my waist, catching me off guard as he pulls me closer. “I’m totally into cougars.”

“Cougar?” I slap my palms on his chest—which is ridiculously bony—and turn my head as he leans in.

“Yeah, you’re like, close to thirty, right? That’s hot.”

I am seriously going to throttle Ronan. It might not be his fault that this clueless git is suddenly mauling me, but I’m blaming him since he’s the reason I had to come here in the first place. I purposely step on his foot with my pointy heel.

He lets me go with a yelp. Such a baby. I elbow my way through the crowd, done with the excuse mes and sorrys. I decide the only way to get to Ronan is by going behind the bar, which means shoving my way all the way down the line of thrashing and waiting customers. I finally free myself from the wave of bodies—I might go out the back door and brave the stench of garbage to get back to the café in lieu of having to fight the throng a second time—and try to wave Ronan down at the end of the bar.

He glances in my direction, tips his chin up and goes back to pouring pints. Bastard. There’s no way I’m going to let Ronan ignore me. I unlatch the waist-high door and slip in behind the bar. I tread carefully across the honeycomb mat, waiting while Ronan slides two pints over the bar and rings the money through the till before I tug on his sleeve.

I feel very much like a kid seeking the attention of someone who definitely doesn’t want to give it to me.

Ronan startles at the contact and frowns when he realizes it’s me and not one of his employees. “What the hell, Blaire? You can’t be back here.”

“I need to talk to you!” I say, just as another particularly loud aggressive drum solo starts up.

He motions to his ear, signaling he can’t hear me.

I pin him with an unimpressed glare and he rolls his eyes. I grab his arm, digging my nails in and try to pull him down so I can shout directly in his ear.

He gives me a look like I’m insane. “I’m kinda busy here.” He points to the sea of bodies.

“You’re ruining my Comedy Night with this!” I gesture in the direction of the band.

He huffs and shakes his head while he tries to pry my hand free from his arm. I stumble back a step, heel caught in the honeycomb mat meant to keep the bartenders from slipping on spilled beer. “You’re gonna get hurt back here. You gotta go.” He points to the end of the bar.

“Not until we talk.”

“For fuck’s sake, Blaire. I don’t have time for this shit tonight.” He circles my waist with one arm and hauls me up against him.

I gasp and flail, forced to hug his neck as he stalks the length of the bar. I don’t want to notice how firm all of him is, or how good he smells when he’s this close. “What the hell are you doing? Put me down! You can’t manhandle me like this!”

“I can when you’re behind my bar, wearing fucking heels, and at risk of spraining your damn ankle,” he shouts, his minty breath washing over my cheek, lips brushing the shell of my ear.