Wyatt shrugs a bit. “Some of it’s good.”

I resist the urge to say something I’ll regret and turn on Taylor Swift’s Fearless rerelease.

Ricky pops his head over the center console. “Hey, guys … can we get something a little more … exciting? And less about fifteen-year-old girls?”

“Ugh.” I grunt, handing the phone to the back seat.

Josh takes it, our hands touching for the briefest of seconds.

“Oh, sweet, you’ve got Wallows.” Josh picks a song, and this upbeat guitar melody kicks in. The rest of the guys in the back seat cheer.

“Come on.” Wyatt reaches over to pinch my cheek. “Don’t be such a sourpuss. It’s gonna be a fun night.”

I spare him a glance. “Sourpuss?”

“People say it.”

“Whatever, grandma.” I lean against my window and count down the seconds until the night is over.

The touch of his hand feels sudden and unexpected, but when I look down at my left hand in my lap, Wyatt’s right is right there, on top of it. I move so that our fingers can intertwine. I’ve never been one for physical affection; it’s just not my thing. When Josh tried to hold my hand or kiss me in public, I always recoiled away from him.

It wasn’t Josh exactly, it was more …

More this feeling of someone touching me. It felt constrictive, and it made my skin crawl. But with Wyatt? It doesn’t feel constrictive at all. His palms are warm, some of the skin on his fingers rough.

I like holding hands with Wyatt.

Probably more than I have any right to.

Josh is out of view of the rearview mirror, but I can hear him laughing at a joke, and there’s a tapping along to the beat of the song. Maybe that doesn’t have to matter, though. Maybe what matters is that just for a few precious minutes, Wyatt and I get to pretend to be boys so madly in love with each other that we can’t go a second without touching.

*  *  *

When we get to the restaurant, we’re seated in a private room near the back.

Michael’s at the head of the table; the two guys I don’t know sit next to him, and then Wyatt next to me. Directly across from us sit Zach and Josh.

Perfect.

“I thought most bachelor parties were, like … going to bars and stuff?” Wyatt whispers to me.

“Michael always loved a good, expensive steak; give him a nice prime rib and he’s putty in your hands.”

The table fills with small talk. Michael talks about some of his clients, new people he’s signed, some award one of his singers won last month, and a full bottle of whiskey gets delivered to the table along with baskets of bread, so that pretty much shuts us out of the conversation entirely.