“Nice to meet you.” Bailey shook Elliot’s hand before turning and doing the same with John and Phil.
All three men were open and friendly, immediately making Bailey feel welcome. He relaxed slightly but couldn’t wipe away that niggle of being an outsider.
“How about something to drink?” Tom offered.
Phil nodded. “Sounds good.”
“Talking of sounding good, what’s that I smell?” John sniffed the air and followed his nose to the counter, lifting the lid on the slow cooker and inhaling. “Damn, Tommy, you’ve outdone yourself.”
They all started talking and laughing, passing around bottles of beer. Elliot opened a bottle of wine. They carried plates and cutlery, the huge dish of chilli, and various accompaniments to the table in a well-coordinated parade, like they’d done this thing multiple times before, each knowing what had to be done and where everything was.
They no doubt have.
Bailey pushed away the thought. Of course they had a history, just like the history he had with Ryan, only these guys had known each other longer. He had no idea why his insecurities were rearing their heads. No, that was a lie. He knew. Tom had become important to him and Bailey wanted to be part of his life.
He pulled out a chair and found himself seated next to John, who was ladling huge helpings of chilli into bowls and passing them around the table. Tom gave him a wink from where he was seated opposite before joining in a conversation with Phil and Elliot.
“Here you go.”
Bailey automatically reached for the bowl John passed over. “Thanks.”
“Anytime.”
John grinned and lifted a spoonful of the chilli to his mouth. Bailey bit the corner off a piece of bread, chewing the crust as he listened to the discussion.
“The project is going well,” Elliot said in response to a question from Tom. “Too well.”
Tom frowned. “What do you mean too well? How’s that even a thing?”
“It means it’s going so well in terms of budgetandtime that they’ve offered me a different gig. The next project is a twenty-storey apartment complex with a retail precinct underneath, the biggest I’ve worked on yet.”
“And this is a bad thing how?”
“Okay, I’ll admit the money’s good and it’s good to be recognised with a promotion. But it’s pretty high profile and it’ll be a lot of hard work. So much to go wrong.”
Tom laughed. “You live for that kind of stuff. And you’re bloody good at it.”
Elliot shrugged. “I am, aren’t I?” He blew on his knuckles and buffed them on his chest.
“Here’s to Elliot’s promotion. I’m so proud of you, mate.” Tom raised his bottle of beer.
The others lifted their drinks in a toast, offering words of congratulations. From what Bailey could gather, Elliot was a stellar project manager, a rising star in the construction field, in charge of multimillion-dollar projects.
Jesus. Bailey couldn’t even imagine having that kind of job—all that responsibility—and Elliot seemed to revel in it. And Tom was obviously impressed with Elliot’s capability too, judging from the compliments.
They continued to eat and drink. The conversation bounced around like wildfire; banter and jokes and regaling of tales of the shared past as evidenced by a story John told of when all the guys had been boys at a private school and away to school camp.
“John is one of my oldest friends. We go way back. But don’t listen to a word he says,” Tom said when the story turned to Schoolies week.
“Hey, fuck you! Not so much of the old.” Bailey could tell he was going to like John. He was a little like a jolly giant—smiling as he ribbed Tom, his tone taking the heat from the cursing. “All right, I’ll hold my tongue this time, but everything is fair game.”
“I’d love to hear how you boys celebrated the end of high school,” Bailey said, knowing full well that Schoolies would have involved lots of drinking and shenanigans—boys being boys and letting their hair down after the rigours of the Higher School Certificate exams. He looked across the table at Tom. “But maybe another time when Tom isn’t shooting daggers at us.”
John chuckled. “Good thinking.”
“What do you do, John?” Bailey asked.
“I’m a lawyer,” John said.
