My fists clench and I’m seeing red. Actually, I’m seeing white. The blinding white of the cameras. A heavy hand falls on my shoulder, and I turn to see a grim-faced Kevin.

“Not worth it. You!” He points to Lyle and Marcella, not caring about the cameras. “Get the fuck out of my bar and never come back.”

“Whatever,” Lyle grumbles, placing his empty glass on the bar. “This place is so cliché. It’ll be closed in a month.”

He and Marcella leave, and the cameras follow them out.

My eyes slide shut, and I slump against the bar. “Fuck.”

“Yeah. That was not ideal.”

“Is Shelby okay?”

Kevin gestures with his bearded chin to middle of the dance floor. “Considering the circumstances, I’ll forgive them this once for turning my distillery into a dance club.”

I stifle a reluctant smile at his grumbling. “Business is booming, though.”

Kevin gives a dry chuckle.

“What are the odds we’ll sell the season after tonight?”

“Perhaps the better question would be: What are the odds Nat Geo will take you back?”

I groan.

“It’s bullshit, man. I’m sorry. I know for a fact Shelby hasn’t had a drop of alcohol tonight, and you two are working your asses off on that house. You’re getting a raw deal all around. Jessup’s a petty dickhead.”

I sigh, running my hand through my hair. “Yeah. I knew he was. We both did. Did you hear what Marcella said to Shelby?”

Kevin looks uncomfortable. “Something about using Lyle to be famous and insinuating that Shelby was trying to proposition her husband. The words ‘drunken slut’ may have been used.”

A growl escapes my throat and Kevin nods. “Yeah, man. Me, too. Pretty sure we’d have to get in line behind Lorelai, though. She looked ready to yank off her stiletto and stab Marcella with it.”

All this time, being careful and trying to do the responsible thing, and look where it got us. Fuck it. I’m tired of holding back. I cross the dance floor in three strides.

“Dance with me,” I say without thinking, holding my hand out to Shelby.

“Really?” Her blue eyes go wide.

“You scared?” I challenge, pulling her flush against me. This song has a Latin backbeat, and it’s been a minute since I’ve tried to roll my hips the way they’re meant to, but muscle memory is a magical thing, and it’s not long before we’re completely aligned; forward, backward, side to side, up, down, wherever my body leads, Shelby’s follows. I take her hands and drape them over my shoulders, and she does me one better, sliding them up and clasping them around my neck, her fingers playing in my hair at the nape.