Around the table, between rounds of applause, they talked work and renovations. Nirina’s husband, Jeremiah, showed up, and more introductions were made. He was a mechanical engineer trying to get as much work off his plate as he could before he took paternity leave in a few months.

Silas bought the next round and enlisted Maggie to help him carry the drinks. At the bar, he caged her between his arms, her back to his chest. There was something so right about it she was starting to think that maybe it was a good thing she’d shaved her legs that afternoon.

“Hey, Sy,” the barback greeted them. He was a big guy with thick silver hair and glasses.

“Hey there, Roy. Heard you were working here,” Silas said.

“I miss my machines at the plant, and it sure fucked with my retirement, but this isn’t half bad. Either of you know how to make a Cosmopolitan?” he said, reading off the ticket in his hand.

“Vodka, cranberry, Cointreau, and lime,” Maggie told him.

He beamed at her. “Thanks. Old Campbell Place, right?”

“That’s me,” she said.

They were making their way back to the table when Mama B stepped back up to the mic. “Would Silas Wright please report to the stage?”

Nirina and Kayla shared an excited whoop while the rest of the crowd cheered him on. Apparently, this was a thing.

“Get on up there, big bro,” Nirina told him, slapping him on the butt when he pretended to balk.

“You sing, too?” Maggie asked him.

He flashed her a wink, gave her shoulder a squeeze, and headed in the direction of the stage.

She sat back down and watched Mama B make room for his big frame on the stage. He traded fresh beer for a guitar and slung the strap over his neck.

Maggie hoped for a Weird Al song. But the way he handled the mic was too smooth, too confident.

“You should see them at Christmas,” Michael said, leaning across Dean. “They do a duet that brings the house down.”

“Do you sing with your mom?” she asked him.

Michael grinned. “I got none of Mom’s vocal talent. But I did inherit her love of stress baking.”

“Really? I have a pretty mean apple torte,” Dean said. “Maybe we should compare notes?”

Michael’s smile widened, and he looked down at the top of the table. “Uh, that would be fun.”

The man’s shyness was adorable and so not Dean’s usual type. But the tips of his ears were a raging inferno of pink. Maybe people didn’t always know their type until they were introduced to it, she mused.

“Okay, I guess we’re doin’ this,” Silas said, leaning into the microphone and giving the strings a strum.