Cheers erupt throughout the room. The sofa cushion next to me sinks as Graeme returns and extends a wineglass toward me. When I take it, our fingers brush. Holding my breath, I slide my index finger over his thumb in a slow caress. It’s a small gesture, something no one else would notice. But it’s like I’ve snuck a sip of brandy from my dad’s liquor cabinet. It’s illicit, fiery, and delicious. Graeme’s chest visibly expands and the heat in his gaze could melt icebergs.

“Now…” Walsh continues. Graeme lets go of the glass and I take a shaky drink of wine. My head is pleasantly fuzzy, and the crisp alcohol slides down my throat like silk. “How this will work is contestants will battle in pairs—best lip-sync performance, as judged by the audience, wins. Judging criteria shall include enthusiasm, lyrical accuracy, and, if you’ve got ’em, sweet-ass dance moves.” Raising her arms above her head, she swings her hips side to side to a chorus of whoops from the crowd.

Something niggles at the corner of my brain. Walsh is certainly basking in her element as ringmaster, but there’s something… not quite right… with her. Like her energy is more manic, more frenetic than usual. Maybe it’s the gin and tonics.

Walsh spreads her arms. “Who wants to go first?”

The room quiets for a heartbeat before Nikolai leaps forward. “Me. I am first.”

I suppress a groan.

Nikolai jogs up to Walsh. After a brief murmured conversation, he turns and walks straight out of the room. I exchange a puzzled glance with Dwight.

“Buckle up, people,” says Walsh with a wry shake of her head as she taps her phone.

The opening line to Right Said Fred’s “I’m Too Sexy” blasts through the lounge. And Nikolai makes his entrance in full hip-thrusting glory.

He struts around the room, mouthing the words to the song, and runs his hands through his thinning hair. When he hops onto the dais and turns in a circle, light glitters off the metallic threads in his T-shirt. He swaggers and sways and shakes his moneymaker with enough enthusiasm to power a merry-go-round.

I want to squeeze my eyes shut but I can’t look away. My gut is somersaulting in secondhand embarrassment, but he’s not embarrassed at all. Not with the look of utter glee on his face.

Pointing his finger, he scans the crowd until he stops… on me.

Dread settles in my stomach like a stone and I barely keep myself from bolting.

Sure enough, he dance-skips over to our couch until he’s gyrating on the other side of the cocktail table. Thank God for that little round table.

Except then he props his sneakered foot on the table. And pumps his hips.

In my face.

Graeme’s face too, because he’s sitting right next to me in the direct line of fire.