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

life didn’t make me the best dancer. It did give me enough musicality to hit the beats and make it work. With the tequila infusing my confidence, it made up for anything I lacked.

I didn’t drink often, but when I did, I went for the gold. That was when Naughty Nova came out, as Rae called me. I’d earned that title when we’d met in college. After a couple months of always being the designated driver for her and Vera, I cut loose and agreed to an Uber. We did shots of tequila, and I ended up dancing on a table.

And Naughty Nova was born. Or at least named. She’d always been there before, eager to break the chains I kept her in.

Lizzo ended, and Muse’s Pressure blasted from the speakers. I turned to face a smiling Rae next to a wide-eyed Austin. His eyes flicked to my phone screen and back to me, looking like a deer in headlights bracing for impact. Probably just holding his breath, waiting for Rae to drop the phone and start dancing around him. I focused my attention on her, planning to take the phone and shove it aside so she could dance with me.

I rolled my shoulders and gave the camera my most seductive look. Why not? It was getting deleted tomorrow, anyway.

“Oh, yeah. Give it to me, baby,” Rae cheered.

Another shimmy and ass shake.

Then Rae turned the phone to show me the screen, and although the music still played, a record scratched to a halt in my mind as I met the bluest eyes I never thought I’d see looking back at me ever again.

“Damn,” the man on the screen said.

And he was a man. His scruff covering his cheeks, hiding the lines I knew were there when he was clean-shaven. His arm flexed, showing off more tattoos than I remembered, when he pushed back the wavy dirty-blond locks that I knew lightened over the summer when he spent too much time at the pool.

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t help myself. He was doing an Instagram live and picking fans to go live with him. I at least had to try, and he picked me,” Rae explained, laughing. She moved to stand beside me and put us both on the screen. Her smiling face next to my shell-shocked one. “She’s like your biggest fan, and when I saw you go live, I figured, why not.” She bumped my shoulder. “Can you believe it?”

I couldn’t tell what caused the lights to spin and twist this time, the tequila or the shock. Rae said some more words, but it barely breached the rush of blood blocking out everything—pulsing like I floated in the ocean. His lips moved, but I was too focused on his tongue chasing the words, remembering all the times I’d watched it when he sang.

Another bump to the shoulder and all my sense crashed back at once.

“Nova!” Rae squealed. “It’s Parker freaking Callahan. Say something.”

Too loud, too bright, too much.

I snatched the phone and exited the app.

“Uhhh.” Rae’s jaw hung open, and I struggled to come up with a valid reason for ripping the phone from her hands.

“Umm…” I forced a laugh which was more of an expulsion of air with a squeak. “That was awkward.”

The phone vibrated in my hand, and I glanced down to see an Instagram notification.

Fuck. Shit fuck. Fuck shit fuck.

“Dude,” Rae said, unimpressed with my response.

“More shots,” I shouted. Me drinking always distracted Rae.

She shook her head and smiled. “Missed opportunity, homegirl.”

My phone vibrated again, and I shrugged. “Let me run to the restroom, and I’ll meet you there. Grab me two.” I was going to need it.

She snagged Austin and tugged him behind her. With a shaking hand, I swiped open the notification.

Parker Callahan: Give me your number.

Parker Callahan: If you don’t, I’ll figure out who your friend is and ask her. She seems eager to connect us.

Oh, shit snacks.

I imagined him figuring out who Rae was. It wouldn’t be hard. My profile was public even if I used an off name and never showed my face. She splashed her face all over her feed, and it wouldn’t take much to connect the pieces through our friendship. I imagined the conversation and cringed when Rae would eventually find out that I wasn’t just a fan of Parker Callahan from The Hidden Obsession but had been in love with him once upon a time when he’d not only been my biggest crush but my stepbrother, too.

Psithursm: I don’t want to talk.

Parker Callahan: Is she Raelynn Vos?

Parker Callahan: I only saw her in the dark, but I’m willing to guess.

Psithurism: Fine.

I sent him my number and held my breath.

Within seconds my phone vibrated with an unfamiliar number and a New York area code. Part of me half expected his name to pop up like it had all those years ago, like maybe he kept the same number.

Taking one last deep breath, I accepted the call and lifted the phone to my ear, pinching my eyes shut, bracing for impact.

But nothing could prepare me to hear him say my name again.

“Nova.”

Damn.

Just my name and all the emotions I’d fought to block out years ago flooded back, rendering it impossible to do anything but wince at the pain and smile at the memories.

Because Parker Callahan always came with both.

PARKER

“Parker.”

I never thought I’d hear that voice again. I’d let go of that dream a long time ago. But just my name, and it stirred all the old emotions that came with it.

The swell of heat. The rush of need.

The resentment.

The anger.

The hurt.

“Hey,” I finally responded, at a loss for words for the first time in my life.

“Hey.”

We both laughed at the one-word greetings.

“Were we always this awkward?” I asked.

“I was,” she admitted. “But you? Never.”

“I was with you.”

“Bullshit,” she crowed.

“Please. You came in all cool and collected, and I just jumped at the chance to pull you out of your shell so I could talk to you.”

“I think we