Page 129 of Playing Mr. Perfect

When we get back to the festival, Surge is onstage playing “Do I Make You Wanna?” Clay walks backward, pulling me toward the area in front of the stage where people are dancing, asking me if I want to do each of the things the song calls out. But he changes the lyrics—Do you wanna stay up to watch the sunrise? Make love in the moonlight? Make out in the mornings?—and a handful of other things that he definitely makes me want to do.

We weave through the crowd, and he twirls me into his arms. He sings off-key as we dance. When they start playing “Lose Control,” Clay tugs me into his arms and says, “They’re playing our song, Reckless.”

His blue eyes hold me captive like they do so often. “You remembered?”

“Every second we’ve been together.”

I bundle that up in a ribbon and tuck it away to moon over later. Our bodies move in perfect sync, and heat builds between us as swiftly as it always does. I try not to get lost in it, loving the way he makes me feel so much.

As if he’s thinking the same thing, a wicked grin curves his lips. “Do you think everyone can tell I’m thinking about stripping off your jeans and dropping to my knees right now?”

My thoughts stumble, and I can tell by the gleam in his eyes that’s exactly what he was trying to accomplish. “What if I say yes?”

“Then I’d say we should give them a show.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

He presses his cheek to mine and says, “No, but I’ll make it up to you tonight.”

Shivers of heat move down my spine. “Is that a promise?”

“You know it is.”

The song comes to an end, and he keeps me close. I hold my breath waiting for his kiss, but as his mouth nears mine, he twirls me around. A laugh tumbles out, and he draws me into his arms again.

“God, baby. That smile gets me every time,” he says roughly, and lowers his lips to mine, kissing me breathless.

As the band plays “My Person,” we slow dance, and Clay sings every word to me, swapping some of them, like mai tai for mojito, and singing about how we never stay in bed to sip coffee, and how he likes it when I steal his hoodies. I join him, making up my own words. Singing about him making my heart race while we dance and how I want to stay in bed but not sip coffee, wink, wink. That earns a husky laugh.

“I’m crazy about you, Reckless.”

My heart feels like it’s trying to break through my chest to get to him. “I’m crazy about you, too.”

He leans down to kiss me as the song comes to an end, but stops short again, his gaze catching over my shoulder, his brows slanting. “Um, Pep. You might want to see this.”

I follow his gaze and realize we’re the only ones standing in front of the stage, and everyone else is wearing a red sweatshirt with #teamplay across the chest.

Applause and cheers ring out, and the crowd starts chanting, “Team Play. Team Play.”

I look around expecting to see a Little League team or something and lower my voice. “Maybe we should move away from the stage.” Trying to make sense of it, I look at Sable. She and her bandmates are pulling on red sweatshirts, too.

Sable steps up to the microphone, and the crowd quiets as she announces, “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Team Play!”

The crowd goes wild again. Clay and I clap, looking around and walking backward to clear the way for the team.

“That’s you, Pep!” Brindle shouts as she struts out of the crowd with Morgyn and Amber.

I freeze.

“You and Clay have your own hashtag!” Morgyn shoves sweatshirts into our hands. “Brindle thought it up!”

“Team Play!” Amber says. “P for Pepper and lay for Clay!”

The crowd bursts out in hysterics, and someone yells, “Mr. M can’t unhear that!” causing more uproarious laughter.

Clay is laughing, pulling me against his side. “Our own hashtag, baby! I love it!”

“Ohmygod. Brindle!” My cheeks burn. “You got the whole town involved in this?”