My cheeks scorch at the innuendo, but the impish glimmer in his eyes tells me he’s not trying to be crude, so I respond with my own dose of innuendo. “Naah, I’m pro-licking. As long as I’m licking something tasty.”

Another round of hoots breaks out, but Garrett doesn’t join in. When I glance over at him, I notice that his eyes have flared with heat.

I wonder if he’s imagining my mouth on his…nope, not going there.

“Shit, someone needs to hog-tie that old dude so he stops monopolizing the jukebox,” Tucker declares when yet another Black Sabbath song blasts through the bar.

We all turn toward the culprit—a local with a bushy red beard and the meanest scowl I’ve ever seen. The moment the karaoke machine shut down for the night, Red Beard had raced to the jukebox and shoved ten bucks worth of quarters inside it, keying in a rock playlist that has so far consisted of Black Sabbath, Black Sabbath, and more Black Sabbath. Oh, and one CCR song that Simms claimed he’d lost his virginity to.

Eventually our debate turns to hockey talk, as Simms tries to convince me that the goalie is the most important player on a hockey team, while Tucker boos him the entire time. The Black Sabbath song blessedly comes to an end, replaced by Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Tuesday’s Gone,” and as the opening strains echo through the bar, I feel Garrett stiffen beside me.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Nothing.” He clears his throat, then slides out of the booth and tugs me up with him. “Dance with me.”

“To this?” I’m baffled for a moment, until I remember what a huge hard-on he has for Lynyrd Skynyrd. Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure this song was on that playlist he emailed me last week.

Tucker snickers from his side of the booth. “Since when do you dance, G?”

“Since right now,” Garrett mutters.

He leads me to the small area in front of the stage, which is completely empty because nobody else is dancing. Discomfort shifts inside me, but when Garrett holds out his hand, I hesitate for only a second before taking it. Hey, if he wants to dance, then we’ll dance. It’s the least I can do considering how amazing he’s been tonight.

You can say a lot of things about Garrett Graham, but he’s definitely a man of his word. He’s been glued to my side all night, guarding my drinks, waiting outside the bathroom for me, making sure I don’t get harassed by his friends or the locals we’ve met. He’s totally had my back, and because of him, I was able to lower my guard for the first time in a very long time.

God. I can’t believe I ever thought he wasn’t a good guy.

“You know this song is like seven minutes long, right?” I point out as we step onto the dance floor.

“I know.” His tone is casual. Unaffected. But I have the strangest feeling he’s upset about something.

Garrett doesn’t plaster his body to mine or try to grind up against me. Instead, we dance the way I’ve seen my parents do, with Garrett’s hand on my hip and his other one curled around my right hand. I rest my free hand on his shoulder, and he leans in closer and presses his cheek to mine. His stubble is a teasing scratch against my face, bringing goose bumps to my bare arms. When I take a breath, his woody aftershave fills my lungs, and a rush of giddy dizziness washes over me.

I don’t know what’s happening to me. I feel hot and achy and—it’s the alcohol, I assure myself. It has to be. Because Garrett and I agreed that we’re just friends.

“Dean’s enjoying himself,” I comment, mostly because I’m desperate for a distraction from my out-of-control hormones.

Garrett follows my gaze toward the back booth, where Dean is sandwiched between two blondes who are very eagerly nibbling on his neck. “Yeah. Guess so.”

There’s a faraway look in his gray eyes. His absent tone makes it clear he’s not interested in making conversation, so I fall silent and try hard not to let his overpowering masculinity affect me.

But every time his cheek grazes my face, the goose bumps get worse. And every time his breath puffs on my jaw, a flurry of shivers skitters through me. The heat of his body sears into me, his scent surrounds me, and I’m excruciatingly aware of his warm hand clutching mine. Before I can stop myself, I rub my thumb over the center of his palm.

Garrett’s breath hitches.

Yep, it has to be the alcohol. There’s no other explanation for the sensations coursing through my body. The ache in my breasts, the tight clenching of my thighs and the strange emptiness in my core.

When the song ends, I exhale a relieved breath and take a much-needed step back.

“Thanks for the dance,” Garrett mumbles.

I might be tipsy, but I’m not drunk, and I instantly pick up on the sadness radiating from his broad chest.

“Hey,” I say in concern. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” His throat dips as he swallows. “It’s just…that song…”

“What about it?”

“Brings back memories, that’s all.” He pauses for so long I don’t think he’s going to continue, but then he does. “It was my mom’s favorite song. They played it at her funeral.”

My breath catches in surprise. “Oh. Oh, Garrett, I’m sorry.”

He shrugs as if he has no care in the world.

“Garrett…”

“Look, it was either dance to it, or bawl my eyes out, okay? So yeah, thanks for the dance.” He sidesteps me as I reach for his arm. “I’ve gotta take a leak. Will you be okay here for a few minutes?”