As the sun dipped, and the sky turned to dark velvet, one of Misty’s servers pulled out a guitar. The woman was young, early twenties I guessed, and her long hair was parted in the middle of her scalp. She looked like Joni Mitchell but sang a John Denver tune. “Almost heaven…”

Charlie, who’d starred in our high school musicals, joined her. By the chorus, we all sang. Even Merit, and I registered surprise that she knew the words to a popular song.

As the last “country roads” faded into the twilight, the singer grinned at us, then launched into “Love Will Keep Us Together.”

Perry pulled Liz from her seat at the picnic table, and the two danced.

There were so many fireflies, it seemed as if the night sky twinkled around us. Above us, away from the city lights, the stars were near blinding.

Anarchy’s breath brushed against my ear. “Dance?”

“I’d love to.” I stood and melted into his strong arms.

Overcome by romance, or gin, everyone quickly abandoned the picnic table.

A few couples faded into the darkness.

Anarchy and I danced. When the young woman finished with Captain and Tennille, she went back to John Denver, and we swayed to “Annie’s Song.”

Lost in the night’s magic, I whispered, “Maybe I was wrong.”

Anarchy pulled me closer. “About?”

“This weekend being a disaster.”

Again, his breath touched my ear. “From where I’m standing, it looks amazing.”

My heart fluttered, and I tilted my head to steal a kiss. My lips parted, and I gazed into Anarchy’s perfect coffee-brown eyes. He gazed back. Enchantment sparkled around us. Electricity arced between us, and warm honey replaced the blood in my veins. This—dancing with Anarchy—was perfection.

“Tired?” he asked.

“Not remotely.”

His eyes sparkled. “That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t turn in.”

My heart and stomach competed in a fluttering competition. “Sounds like a good—”

A scream pierced the night.

Anarchy pulled me closer and stiffened. His head swiveled, looking for danger, ready to protect me.

A woman streaked past us. Buffy screamed again. “Snake!”

I leapt from Anarchy’s arms and flew to the picnic table without actually touching the ground. My boot-clad feet knocked over a mason jar filled with flowers and my heel ground into a dirty plate, but I couldn’t bring myself to care.

The singer gaped at me—at us. Buffy was on the table with me.

Anarchy’s brow wrinkled with concern. “Ellison?”

“You heard her. Snake.” I scanned the ground. Was that long line a shadow or a serpent? The muscles in my back and neck were so tight, my ribs hurt.

My husband blinked at me, and I got the impression he was trying to hide a grin. “You’re safe on the table?”