Possibly a lot, because I think this might actually be a good idea.
My gaze drifts to the stage. I can barely see Cormac, tucked in behind his bandmates as he is, but he has a far-off expression on his face, as if he’s been transported by his music.
There’s a strange wrenching sensation in my chest as I remember the way he stood up for me earlier.
It was…kind. And protective in a way I definitely didn’t expect and don’t really understand.
I figured he thought I was a harpy, the same way José apparently does. Cormac definitely used to thinkthat. We got into a squabbling match after he finished the mulled wine last Christmas, and then he had the nerve to challenge my Scrabble words.
But his eyes were so stormy and intense when he saidfuck the glass—like he took José’s insult to me personally.
It may be early June, but there’s no reason I can’t form a late-in-the-game New Year’s resolution.
I’m going to be Cormac Peebles’s friend, whether he likes it or not.
CHAPTER SEVEN
CORMAC
After our performance, we pack up our instruments. Mick and I help Travis carry his kit and the sound equipment out to his truck.
My dad’s always been a stickler about everyone cleaning up after themselves, and I’ll bet it’s giving him acid reflux to see the little messes scattered across the tasting room. At least the stage is something I can easily help get “tight and tidy,” as he’d say.
When we finish and get back to the reception, Travis takes off in search of Hannah, and Mick taps my arm as he surveys the thinning crowd. The DJ that took over after our set is playing Barry Manilow. “Want to get shit-faced? That’s the only rational response to having to listen to this crap.”
I laugh, but his expression doesn’t change. Oh, he means it. “You can leave, you know. We’re finished playing.”
He huffs. “And miss the free booze? You in?”
“No, man, I have to go talk to a lady.”
He nods, grinning at me and revealing the slight gap between his two front teeth. “Well, all right. Which one? It’s the hot bridesmaid, isn’t it?”
“Nora?” Damn. My cheeks are probably flushing, aren’t they? “No. That would probably be awkward.”
He gives me an odd look. “No, man, I’m talking about the other one. The little brunette with the nice ass. You know the one.”
“Nora has a nice ass.”
Good God, why can’t I stop talking?
He tucks his lips in and nods slowly. “Yeah. Well. I’m going to get a drink. You talk to Nora, or whoever.”
I find myself wanting to defend my fake relationship, which no one is supposed to know about other than two people who seem to have already left the wedding. So I do the smart thing for once and shut up.
“See you later,” I say with an unnecessary wave.
He’s smiling as he walks away, probably convinced there is something horribly wrong with me. That makes two of us.
“I need a drink,” I murmur under my breath.
But I did promise to go talk to a lady.
A very specific not-so-little-and-old lady.
So I wander further into the still-bustling tasting room. My eyes find Nora first, not that I’d lost her. She’s sitting at a table with her friends. She’s in the center, and they’re all gathered around her, as if she’s their nexus. Or maybe that’s just my perception—the tableisround, after all.
They were sitting there for most of the set, although at one point Nora’s friends dragged her onto the dance floor to dance the “Macarena.” They were pretty good, but no one got down like Mrs. Applebaum-Peebles.
