Charlie stops walking, jaw now dropping to the floor.
Silence.
Then her face does something unholy. She clamps a hand over her mouth. “Oh my fucking god. You crafty little bastard. I’m so proud of you I could cry.”
I keep walking like my life depends on it. “Whatever questions you’re cooking up, the answer is yes. It was great, I saw stars—possibly God—but I’m not discussing it. Please respect my privacy in this very trying, very thoroughly railed time.” I wink.
Charlie bursts out laughing.
God, I really can’t shut up.
“Alright. Dropping it,” she says through a chuckle, in the exact tone that means she absolutely wouldn’t.
I can’t even blame her. I’d do the same thing.
We round the corner toward the nurses’ station. She bumps my shoulder. “So…have you seen George lately?”
I nearly trip over absolutely nothing. “Define lately. Like, in the general sense of time?”
I fucking see all of him, all right.
“Yesterday? Last week? Whatever time. Anyway, was that his girlfriend?”
I snatch a chart from the rack like it’s a shield. “No, they didn’t see each other again. He’s been busy at the shop. Working on stuff. He’s fine, full of vitality and vigor.” Shit, I need to shut up.
She pats my arm with way too much sympathy. “Let me grab you a cold pack.”
“I don’t need—”
“For your back,” she says sweetly, already walking away. “Obviously.”
I stand there holding the chart like an idiot, face burning.
The neon sign ofThe Velvet Annexglows emerald and gold against the brick building.
The lettering hums softly above the entrance, expensive-looking even in neon, sleek lines giving it old-Hollywood drama. There’s a line outside long enough to spill halfway down the block. Men in fitted shirts and silver jewelry chat easily, leather jackets slung over shoulders, crisp button-downs open at the collar. Someone laughs loudly and brightly while his boyfriend tries, and fails, to shush him with an affectionate hand on his waist.
George kills the engine.
I stare up at the sign for another second before slowly turning toward him.
“You brought me to a gay bar.”
George unclips his seatbelt without looking at me. “Observant.”
“No, because I need time to process you voluntarily taking me somewhere fun.” I gesture dramatically through the windshield.
He grunts, his mouth twitching.
I narrow my eyes at him immediately. “Wait.”
He reaches for the door handle and pauses.
“George Torres-Macklin,” I gasp. “Is this a date?”
He finally meets my eyes properly. There’s the faintest flicker of color high on his cheekbones before his expression settles back into its usual grumpy mechanic default.
“No.”
