“Folks,” says Johnny, “you’re about to be treated to a very special performance. So get cozy with the nearest sexy body and give it up for Meryton’s own sweet Sweet Jane!”

The spotlight illuminates Jane, who looks away, striking a pose of bewitching distraction. The audience responds with polite applause.

Ming squeezes my arm. “They have no idea,” she whispers.

Jane cradles the microphone in one hand, the other resting on the green egg. The clapping tapers to quiet. After a beat of silence, he begins singing.

At first, it’s just Jane’s smoky voice as the spell is cast. The effect is gradual, building as he assures bird and sun and breeze that they know how he feels. By the time he croons the first “And I’m feeling good” of the song, I have chills. The band comes in, brass-heavy and seductive, and Jane saunters into the dining room. We girls match each leisurely step with one of our own, making our way to the main floor. We rest against the slim bars of the railing, slowly melting.

Ming holds a hand to her chest in an earnest swoon, and her head falls to my left shoulder. “The basement. Is. Flooded.”

I can’t even laugh. Chin propped on the crossbar, I send a dazed look over the audience. No one is immune to Jane’s siren song. Couples clutch hands and lean against one another, expressions pleasantly glazed. The two women who asked about my corset are straight-up making out with their dates, while the bachelorette party on the risers simply stares, inactive phone screens dimming one by one.

I get to Charles. His jaw hangs open, his frame slack, as though the back of his chair is the only thing keeping him upright. The man is gobsmacked and, I suspect, a few seconds shy of drooling.

I grin. Earplugs will definitely be in order this evening.

And Darcy—

Is looking at me.

In the sway of Jane’s performance, the eye contact is electric. My lips part in a gasp, and his eyes drop to take in the movement, then lower, drifting along my form with an intention that feels like a promise. I grip the railing so hard my knuckles crack.

Jane sings the final “And I’m feeling good!” extending each word for maximum effect. As the words carry through the room, Darcy’s chest rises in a long, slow breath, the kind of intake that precedes sudden movement, and I know, as sure as I know my own name, he’s going to come to me.

This is happening . . .

Darcy’s hand pushes against his table, his chair moving as he shifts to stand. I rise from the railing—