Mostly because I’m straddling George’s lap like I was born there, the steering wheel digging into my spine while his hands grip my waist. The windows are completely fogged, turning the bar outside into vague, glowing shapes I couldn’t care less about. Inside his truck, the rest of the world might as well not exist. There’s just him—too close and way too fucking distracting.
He tilts his head and kisses me, his tongue sliding against mine. I moan into his mouth and grind down on him, chasing the friction, because obviously my body has zero chill left.
My phone buzzes on the dash again. I ignore it.
George pulls back just enough to mutter against my lips, “He texted again. We should go.”
“He can wait.”
“Fuck, Lance—”
“Five more minutes.”
“You said that ten minutes ago.”
“Then I’m being consistent.” I roll my hips and watch his eyes go black. “Besides, you started this.”
His answer is to kiss me harder, one hand cupping the back of my neck, thumb pressing under my jaw to tilt my head exactly how he wants. The kiss turns sloppy, and I’m so hard it hurts. The way he’s breathing against my mouth like he’s barely holding himself together is doing dangerous things to my self-control.
His hands slide down my back and slip inside my jeans, palming my bare ass with a firm, possessive grip.
Then three sharp knocks hit the driver’s side window.
I bite George’s lip by accident. He lets out a very unsexy grunt. I flail sideways, elbow slamming into the horn for one long, humiliating beep. George’s head smacks the glass. I crash down hard on the center console with my full body weight.
“Fuck!” I exclaim.
We freeze.
Marcus is standing right outside, staring through the smeared condensation like he just walked in on us committing a very illegal act in public.
He tilts his head toward the bar, turns, and walks away without a word.
I look at George.
George is rubbing the back of his head, staring at me with an unreadable expression.
“Yep,” I say.
“Mm,” he says.
We get out of the truck and follow Marcus inside The Lantern.
It’s his last night in San Diego, so we’re doing the whole “normal farewell dinner” thing at this fancy bar and restaurant before his flight tomorrow. Marcus picked the place—an upscale spot tucked into the polished hills of Bonita. Dark wood everywhere, low warm lighting, and soft jazz playing just loud enough to feel intentionally sophisticated. Nobody here looks like they’ve come straight from a twelve-hour hospital shift or smelllike motor oil and hospital sanitizer. It’s all clean lines and people who own multiple versions of the same watch.
Marcus is already settled at a corner table, jacket draped neatly over the back of his chair, drink in hand like he’s been emotionally preparing for this reservation for hours. What I wasn’t expecting was the full reunion committee waiting with him.
“Lance!” Brent booms the second we approach, standing up like we’re long-lost brothers in a Hallmark movie. He’s still loud, obnoxious, sporting that same messy brown hair that refuses to lie flat no matter the decade and a blue shirt stretched across gym-built shoulders. He and Marcus went to prep school together before Stanford Law.
Two other guys I vaguely recognize sit with them—sharp tailored shirts and posture that screams “time is money and I’m very important.”
And then, there’s Claire.
Claire with the sharp blonde bob and that unflagging, always-on charm offensive. She used to orbit our group back in the day and never quite gave up on her long-running campaign to land her friend’s younger brother.
I always told myself it was because she was part of the group. Don’t shit where you eat. Don’t complicate things. Don’t date someone you’ll still have to see at every fucking barbecue after it inevitably goes to shit. Solid theory.
The truth was simpler: we were too much alike. She could charm a room in under five minutes, and so could I. On paper, it should’ve been easy. In reality, it just made me tired.
