Dean grabs the microphone off the stand and drops to the ground. Pretending the mic is a power drill, he slides up and down on his knees as he drives imaginary screws into the stage floor. He’s been killing it this whole performance, but after that move, consider me murdered.

Letting out a shameless whimper, I slide down in my chair. A woman nearby uses the bar’s laminated cocktail menu to fan my face.

I’m calling it right now—time of death: 9:42 p.m.

As I wait for the coroner’s office to process my body, Dean jumps off the stage and his adoring fans circle him, their earsplitting cheers filling the room. After soaking up his well-earned adoration and slipping his shirt back on, he jogs up to the table and drops into the chair Nia abandoned a few minutes ago. “Was it too much?” He bares his teeth sheepishly as he waits for me to answer.

“No, it was just right, Goldilocks. I mean, what the hell got into you?”

“Four tequila shots and that Rusty Nail from earlier got into me. That’s a lot of hard liquor for this little ol’ body.”

“And yet you were able to maintain your coordination. How lucky for us all.”

Smiling, he reaches around me and swipes a napkin off the table, then pats his forehead dry. “Seriously, though, what did you think?”

“Honestly? I was distracted by the lyrics. Like, who the hell has a pony these days? Not only is it crass to boast that you have a pony, but also it’s unfair to indiscriminately offer it up for a joyride.” I let out a deep sigh. “Who’s protecting the ponies here?”

Dean throws his head back and bites down on a laugh.

The long column of his neck is so lickable. Gah. It’s time to get out of here; if I stay any longer, I’m going to end up asking him for a ride on his pony, and I truly doubt I’d ever want to get off. “I think I’m going to check in with Brandon. His shift ends soon. He said he would walk home with me.”

Dean sits up and his expression cools. “Of course. Sure. I need to use the restroom anyway.” Then he slowly rises from the chair. “I’ll see you at the party tomorrow.”

I give him a goofy-ass salute. “I’ll be there.”

“Good,” he says, nodding once.

As I watch Dean leave the karaoke room, I sway to the music, pretending I’m completely unaffected by him even though that couldn’t be further from the truth. From here on out, I should be addressed as Solange of House Pereira, the Worst of Her Name, Queen of the Liars, Breaker of Vows, and Mother of Bad Ideas. I’m trying to resist my attraction for him, though. God, I’m really, really trying.