Brazing (Forged in Fire #2) by Rachel Higginson, Lila Felix

seven. The decision whether or not to go knocked at my door.
    Karaoke to me was akin to bending over in a worn pair of jeans and having them rip open in a packed room of silent people. It ripped, it was uncomfortable and it would make me feel all—exposed.
    The real question was, was it worth it?
    Was it worth all the discomfort and sheer embarrassment to get another taste of the new Tate?
    There was another level to karaoke, other than the singing that I just couldn’t tolerate. It was on television. Willa and Cami loved those damned shows. All action, speech and breathing had to cease in the Wright household when those shows came on. There was just something about them that embarrassed me to no end.
    I just couldn’t take it.
    The same cringing sensation flowed through me when I saw someone sing in public whether they were talented or not made no difference—the whole thing was too much to handle.
    I avoided concerts, solos at church, singing and dancing on television, and all music award shows—even signing on late night shows crawled up my last nerve.
    But I would get to see Tate again.
    A beer or fourteen would help me be able to tolerate the singing.
    I could always sit in a chair with my back to the stage.
    Shit.
    Deciding that Tate was more interesting than avoiding my pet peeve, I changed into a pair of jeans and a V-necked, teal t-shirt that Cami had bought for me. The girl was quite a shopper. She still couldn’t cook for shit, but she could buy dinner like nobody’s business.
    I slipped into my best pair of snakeskin cowboy boots hoping the cowboy vibe would draw away any notion she had about getting me to sing on stage.
    Captain’s was a bar that all the students knew about. I’d heard tons of people talk about it now and again, but a regular bar was just fine for me.  I walked the couple of blocks to the place simmering with all things I hated. The front sign boasted a Captain Morgan type character with a much creepier moustache and looked more like one of the three musketeers with a zoot suit obsession than pirate. People my age filed in and out as I stood there, giving myself one last chance to step away from the disaster inside.
    A high-pitched squeal mixed with laughter caught my attention across the road and instantly my decision was made as my eyes caught up with the sound.  It was Tate. There was no missing that untamed mass of hair, catching everyone’s attention like a mass of unorderly flames. She was with another girl, a little taller than her sporting long brown hair. I hadn’t realized until that moment how much I missed that laugh of hers. If her hair didn’t already have the world on their toes, then her laugh alone would do it for sure.
    There was nothing like it.
    I couldn’t help my eye roaming to the rest of her. The skirt was another one that would easily warrant a slew of sermons on everything from humility to modesty to the sins of the eyes. My eyes were committing a laundry list of sins at that very second. I chuckled as my gaze found her shoes, expecting to find those high shoes that make the guys take bets on how fast she’s going to bust her ass wide open.
    Instead, she wore purple cowboy boots.
    Apparently that little detail wasn’t going to save me from anything.
    Damn, she looked hot in a pair of boots.
    I raised my phone and took several pictures of her. It was stalkerish, sure. But it would also make excellent blackmail material later. Preacher would just about shit his pants if he saw his prissy little granddaughter wearing a skirt fit for street business—and we weren’t talking about selling corn dogs either. If a good wind caught her, the Lord himself would shy away from that sight.
    Preacher wife would fall out with an aneurism.
    One time she sent Cami home, after she was married to Stockton, for showing too much leg in church.
    Tate was showing enough leg for three women.
    I didn’t mind one damned bit.
    They waited for the traffic to slow, several cars