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"Go get some food," Brants says.
"And have fun at karaoke," Dad adds.
"I will. Love you both."
"We love you, too."
Two dinners later—hey, I was driving all day, and a grown man cannot sustain himself on car snacks and the occasional fast-food pit stop, okay?—and I'm back in my hotel room, getting changed. Folks started streaming in for karaoke just as I was finishing up my dessert. Okay, my third dessert. Because, damn, chefy knows how to bake a mean New York cheesecake. Out here, in the Australian outback. All the more impressive.
I check myself out in the full-length mirror and run a hand through my hair before sliding a gray Adidas baseball cap on. It's purelya coincidence I've chosen the same cap I wore when a certain someone tore me from my half sleep and dragged me out for a drink. It's not like I'm hoping that by wearing it I'll miraculously conjure Wilby out of thin air.
Although…it is karaoke, in his hometown, and he does seem to be under the misguided impression that he has a good voice, so…moth, flame?
Only one way to find out. I tie the laces on my sneakers and head downstairs.
I haven't even reached the section of the pub where the karaoke is taking place when a vaguely familiar song—and a very familiar voice massacring it—filters through the air.
I walk faster, making my way past tables of diners, when my brain finally deciphers the song. "Piece of Me" by Britney Spears. I smile, remembering how excited Wilby got when he declared this would be the next song on his karaoke kill list.
Except, of course, Wilby being Wilby, he's making it his own, changing up the line in the chorus to,"Oh my god, that Wilby's shameless."
He sure fucking is.
I smile, my heart beating so fast as I finally reach the area at the end of the pub with a stage…and a microphone…and one sexy, silly guy under the spotlight.
I lean against the wall at the back, taking him in. He's wearing a black T-shirt and tight, ripped jeans and pouring everything he has into the song.
There's a musical breakdown, so he stops singing and replaces it with some impromptu twerking. Hmm, it's not even half bad. If the year was 2013, and karaoke at the Scuttlebutt Hotel was the VMAs, he'd be giving Miley Cyrus a run for her money.
And then he whips his shirt off. Because of course he does. The audience goes wild with chants and whoops and a few cries of,Go, Wilby!
He returns to the mic, screams his way through the final chorus and then takes one big-ass bow. Everyone's already standing, so they start drumming their feet, the vibrations echoing throughout my entire body.
Welcome to Scuttlebutt, Col.
As he lifts from his bow, arms outstretched and soaking up the applause, he spots me. His mouth drops open, he shakes his head, then he flings himself off the stage like a rocket, weaving through the crowd.
For a moment, I lose him, and then…he's standing in front of me.
Same sandy blond hair. Same gleaming eyes. Same sexy—and shirtless—chest.
"Don't tell me you flew in all this way just to see me perform," he says, with a roguish grin. "Otherwise I would've got you front-row seats."
I laugh, reaching out to touch him, almost as if I need confirmation that he's not some figment of my imagination I made up in a haze of jet lag and insomnia, that this is really happening, that I'm back with Wilby again.
My fingers brush down the front of his sweaty torso. "Well, I couldn't find you on OnlyFans."
"I deactivated my account six months ago."
Our eyes meet. His are gleaming.
Warm hands slide around my waist, pulling me in closer. "What are you doing here, Col? For real."
"I'm here for work."
He seems confused. "But you said you worked in finance."
"I do."
