Grateful someone noticed.
The conversation drifts again after that — bad outfits, worse egos, and Jamie’s ongoing theory that men with scarves are always hiding something — and for a few minutes, I almost forget why they’re here.
Almost.
Chapter Nineteen
DEREK
The front dooropens without a knock.
Mark’s voice carries down the hall like this is his place. “Wow. Still dressed. I was expecting sweatpants and regret.”
Alex follows him in, already looking around. “You look like you were planning to sit here and think.”
“I was not,” I say automatically.
Mark drops onto my couch and kicks his shoes off. “That’s a lie.”
“It’s Sunday,” I say. “I worked all day.”
Alex shrugs. “So did we.”
“All week,” Mark adds. “You don’t get a medal for that.”
I glance at the clock. “You’re not talking about a quiet drink.”
Mark grins. “We’re talking about The Vault.”
“Absolutely not.”
“We’re going out,” Alex says. “To drink. To party. And we’re not taking no for an answer.”
“You hate The Vault on Sundays,” I say.
“Exactly,” Mark replies. “Which is why this is an intervention.”
I run a hand over my face, already knowing how this ends. They’re not going to stop.
“One drink,” I say.
Mark’s smile spreads. “Sure.”
The way he says it tells me everything.
The Vault on a Sunday is different.
Not quieter—looser. The people who come on this night aren’t here to be seen tomorrow. They’re here because the week already got to them.
The music is heavier. Slower. It settles into your chest instead of bouncing off it.
Alex scans the room the second we step inside. “Oh yeah. This is a bad idea.”
Mark just nods, already moving toward the bar.
The bartender spots us and lifts a finger in greeting. “Pierce.”
I don’t order. I don’t need to.
