Blame it on the Tequila by Fiona Cole (the reading strategies book txt) 📕

barely hold back taking a bite out of me. “I think this calls for another round.”

“Hell yeah,” I cheered.

Austin, Rae’s best guy friend, groaned from where he leaned against the cloth-covered table.

“Don’t act like you’re not wanting another one, too,” Rae reprimanded him with narrowed eyes. “Come on, we have rooms here tonight, and if you’re lucky, I’ll let you take advantage of me later.”

“You mean keep your feet warm and watch Netflix?” he deadpanned.

“Don’t act like you didn’t love binge-watching Bridgerton with me.”

“Awe,” I cooed. “You guys are such a cute couple.”

Rae playfully rolled her eyes, somehow missing Austin avoiding the topic. Hell, I was four shots of tequila and three glasses of champagne in, and I saw it.

Not that I had time to dwell on it because Rae linked her arm with Austin’s and mine and dragged us to the open bar in the corner of the wedding reception room.

“Tres Patron, por favor.”

The bartender finished drying a glass before grabbing the squat bottle of clear liquid.

We gripped our glasses and limes, holding them up to tap them together.

“To Vera finally getting over her stubborn ass and hopefully riding Nico all night long.”

I snorted. Only Rae.

I nodded my agreement and licked the salt from the rim before tossing the shot back and sucking on the lime, wincing at the burn and tang.

We set our glasses down only to ask for another.

Just then, my phone lit up, and I pushed my glass toward Rae. The hangover that would hit me hard tomorrow was already knocking on my head. Pulling up the email, I squeezed my eyes open and shut, trying to focus on the blurry words.

Nova,

One of your paintings from your Instagram post last week sold. I’ll take care of shipping and payment this week.

Also, I’ve got another interested sponsor in your Instagram account, but they’re hesitant because of the lack of personal connection. I know how we discussed your priority to keep your face out of the photos, but this is the fifth interested business this week that has expressed similar concerns. You hired me to help you manage your various business ventures. If you want to expand on the Instagram front, then I think you need to revisit your decision to continue not showing your face. I have ideas of ways to expand into new areas that match your other businesses. Think on it, and we can talk next week.

Aiken

“Ugh,” I groaned, dropping the offending device to the bar and pushing it away.

“Hey, now. We don’t make those sad noises when we look this pretty,” Rae scolded. “Tell Mama Rae what’s up.”

“It’s Aiken.”

“The advisor you hired to streamline your erratic and eclectic ventures into something resembling a business that can function on its own?”

“Yup. That guy. He’s back to pushing me to change my Instagram.”

If I was looking for sympathy, I sure as hell wouldn’t get it from Rae. “Listen, the fact that you’re even kind of able to make money from Instagram is blowing my mind. I’ve never seen anyone stumble upon becoming an influencer without trying.”

“I’m not an influencer.” I scrunched up my face at the word.

“Yes, you are,” she said without missing a beat. Before I could pick up the same argument we’d had since our junior year of college, that I wasn’t one of those girls who took perfect pictures and had obviously placed ad-like posts, she held up her hand. “Don’t start. Now, you hired Aiken for a reason. What’s that reason?” she asked like a mother asking a child to recall the rules.

“To have a van of my own, so I won’t have to get a rental every few weeks when I travel,” I answered in rote.

“And how do we do that?”

“By combining my art, travel, and writing into a single entity,” I continued the routine answer.

She beamed. “Exactly. So, suck it up, and don’t worry about it tonight. Because tonight, Naughty Nova is coming out to play. Although, I’m sure your followers would love to meet her. You’d probably get sponsored by Patron.”

She was right; I didn’t need to worry about it tonight. Pushing the phone aside, I snatched the shot glass and tossed it back, trying to block out the impending doom of tomorrow morning’s headache. Just as I set the glass down, Lizzo’s Tempo came on.

“Oh, my god. I love this song.”

“Hell yes, you do.” Rae smirked, snatching my purse, knowing damn well what was coming next. “Get it, girl.”

I swayed my way to the dance floor, the lights flashed, spotlighting my every move.

Looking around the large gilded room, I realized we were the only ones still lingering. Staff at the hotel moved from table to table collecting dishes, and yet here we were, enjoying the still dim lights and open bar.

And I planned on enjoying every second of this song.

I pushed my lips out and channeled my inner diva, shaking my ass.

After a spin, I looked up to find Rae holding my phone. The alcohol swam through my veins, the lights swirling, and my hair sticking to the damp nape of my neck.

“Don’t you dare record me, Raelynn,” I said, but it came out breathless and was only enforced with a half-ass arm lifted to block my face. It dropped quickly when I moved my hand to my rolling hips.

“I would never,” she joked, her voice heavy with the lie she didn’t bother to make me believe.

Fuck it. I weighed my options and figured the recording would be blurry at best with how much she moved around with me. I’d delete it later. There was no need to stop enjoying the music.

My limbs tingled, and I laughed as the weightless joy carried me around the floor. I stumbled but recovered quickly, placing both hands on the floor and shaking my ass like a stripper.

Rae catcalled, and I went with it, letting the thud of the bass fuel my movements. I loved music. It was built into my DNA. But having music as part of my