“Uhhh—”

“You will be soon if you’re not already,” the bride-to-be says.

“I don’t even like him,” I scoff.

She smiles. “You don’t need to like him to ride him; you just need to want to use him for stress relief. That’s how me and Tristan started out and now we’re getting married. I see wedding bells in your future!”

I see a whole lot of retribution and Ronan doing whatever he can to get back at me, probably by making a crap-ton of noise, but I don’t bother to tell these ladies that. They’re the end of my night, and whatever trouble they have brewing isn’t going to be mine to endure. It’ll be Ronan’s and I’m more than happy to let them wreak havoc on him.

Forty-five minutes later, my bachelorette party has defected next door and I’ve finished cleaning up. I consider stopping at The Knight Cap to see how things are going over there.

Off-key singing filters through the barrier of the wall separating our places. I decide I can drop in for five minutes to check how the girls are doing.

I reapply my lipstick, check my hair, and grab my purse. I’m almost out the door when I realize I’m still wearing my apron. I take it off—careful not to mess up my hair—and throw it in the washing machine, knowing I can toss it in the dryer in the morning when I come in to decorate the cupcakes for tomorrow. Then I lock up and head next door.

The place is packed with people, and I spot the bachelorette ladies on the stage, one of them belting out a tuneless “Wrecking Ball” by Miley Cyrus. Everyone is cheering, likely because of her backup dancers twerking their way around the stage. The ladies are significantly more intoxicated than they were when they left my place. The song finally comes to an end, which is a relief because the horrible singing gets worse the longer it goes on.

Ronan steps up and takes the microphone from the bride-to-be before she can start another song. “That was fantastic! A round of applause for Amanda. You definitely outdid yourself with that one!” The crowd bursts into applause and laughter. Thankfully the bride is way too intoxicated to know that she sounded like a dying goose on methamphetamines.

I turn to leave, satisfied that I’ve accomplished what I set out to—make Ronan’s life a little more difficult—but people have moved in behind me, so I can’t get to the door.

“Blaire!” Ronan’s deep voice echoes through the speakers and I freeze. “I see you out there. Come on up! The cupcake queen from next door has graced us with her gorgeous presence. Who wants to hear her sing?”

The crowd erupts in a cheer.

“You heard them, Blaire. They want you to sing for them. Don’t be shy!” A spotlight is suddenly on me, the glare blindingly bright. “Come on, ladies, go get Blaire and bring her up here for me.”

Of course he commissions the drunk bachelorettes to help.

I don’t blend in very well in my fifties-inspired dress—tonight it’s pink and has a diamond ring theme—so it means that every single person is now staring at me.

The bachelorette crew grabs my arms and pulls me toward the stage. Ronan is grinning like the cat who ate the canary. He did promise to get me back for the vagina cupcake. And I totally posted the video in my stories as soon as he left. I figure it’s great advertising for future bachelorette parties.

I don’t bother to fight. If Ronan thinks dragging me onstage in front of a bunch of drunk college kids is going to embarrass me, he’s got another thing coming.

When I reach the stage, he holds out his hand in faux-chivalry. I slip my palm into his, and warmth zings through my body at the contact. I climb the stairs and he tugs me against his side, smiling down at me, eyes twinkling with malicious mirth. “I’m so glad you stopped in to see what was happening here tonight, Blaire.”

I wrap my fingers around his wrist and angle the microphone down. “I couldn’t miss hearing my girls sing!”

His grin widens. “They were certainly a delight, weren’t they?” He addresses the crowd, and they all clap and whistle.

Ronan is ridiculously charismatic. It doesn’t matter that the bride and her wedding party sucked more than a Hoover on the highest setting; they love him and in turn they love the ladies’ terrible performance.

“Well, now that I have you up here, what should I do with you?” Ronan’s tongue peeks out and the right side of his mouth quirks up in a half-smirk. He tips the microphone toward me.

“What do you want to do with me?” I’d like to say my voice is purposely low and smoky, but honestly, the question and the way he’s looking at me seems almost lascivious.

“Hmmm.” He sucks his teeth. “Not so sure I should answer that honestly.”

That gets a loud cheer from the crowd.

He gives them all a look and I roll my eyes. “Aren’t I up here to sing?”

“Right. Yeah. What’s your jam? How about ‘Let’s Get It On’?”

I scoff and take the microphone from him. “Mmm, I think we can come up with something better than that.” I tap my lip. “Have you been up here yet, Ronan?”

“I’m running the show, not in it.” He laughs, but his eyes glint with a warning look.

“Why can’t you do both? Who wants to hear Ronan sing? What do you guys say, should we do a duet?”

The cheer is so loud it makes my ears ring.

“You heard them, they want us to do it together.”

“There’s only one microphone.”

I lift a shoulder in a light shrug. “We can share, can’t we?” I drop the mic and whisper. “You’re not getting out of this.”

He gives his head a slight shake, but his smile tells me he knows he’s screwed himself with this. “What’re we gonna sing?”

“Hmm.” I pretend to think about it for a few seconds. “How about ‘You’re the One that I Want’?”

Ronan laughs. “I should’ve known you’d be a Grease fan.” He motions to the deejay. “All right, you heard the lady. Let’s do it.”

What Ronan doesn’t know is that I’ve probably watched the movie a thousand times. And I’ve seen the play at least twenty times. I also have the soundtrack and I listen to it in my car all the time. I don’t even need the lyric feed. My love for Grease is a good part of the reason I wear the dresses I do.