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Wells leaned in closer, his elbow resting on the worn wooden bar, his gaze steady on mine. The dim lighting softened the sharp lines of his face, but it did nothing to dull the intensity in his eyes.

“You’re thinking real hard over there,” he murmured, his lips twitching.

I huffed out a small laugh, willing my pulse to settle. “Just enjoying the moment.”

He tipped his glass toward me before taking a sip. “Glad to hear it. Night’s not over yet, though.”

Before I could ask what he meant, it was too late. He was already standing, already making his way toward the sign-up sheet.

I watched in horror—and a little bit of amusement—as Wells scribbled something down on the sign-up sheet. He turned back to me with a smirk, all too pleased with himself.

He walked back, hands in his pockets, looking downright smug.

“Tell me you didn’t just sign me up,” I called over the music. “One time was enough.”

“I didn’t just sign you up.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Wells.”

He shrugged. “I signed us up.”

My jaw dropped. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come on, Sunshine.” He nudged my knee with his, eyes glinting with challenge. “Where’s that ‘forget about responsibility’ energy you had at dinner?”

I let out a groan, dragging my hands down my face. “You’re the worst.”

“The worst would’ve been signing you up solo again.”

“What are we even singing?” I asked, bracing myself for the answer.

A slow grin spread across his face. “A classic.”

Before I could press him for details, the karaoke host called our names. “Rose and Wells, y’all are up!”

I closed my eyes, exhaled sharply, and shook my head. “You’re really making me do this?”

He stood and held out a hand. “No one’s making you do anything.”

His tone was teasing, but there was something else there, something softer.

Maybe it was the bourbon, or maybe it was the way he was looking at me, but I found myself slipping my hand into his without another word.

Wells led me toward the small stage, his grip warm and steady around my fingers. My stomach twisted with nerves, but I wasn’t about to back down—not when he looked so damn pleased with himself.

I had done it once, I could do it again.

The bar was loud, buzzing with chatter and off-key singing, but as we stepped up to the microphones, everything else faded into background noise. I turned to Wells, eyes narrowing. “So, what’s this ‘classic’ we’re singing?”

The opening notes filled the air, and I instantly recognized it.

“Islands in the Stream?” I asked, half laughing, half horrified.

He waggled his brows. “Told you it was a classic.”

I groaned. “Wells.”

But there wasn’t time to argue because the lyrics were up, and he was already singing the first line. And, someone help me, he wasn’t bad.