Marcus’s smile is razor-sharp. “And some of us prefer actual principles over billable hours, Brent. Wild concept, I know.”
Claire, meanwhile, is looking at me like I’m the most interesting new toy she’s seen all year. “Marcus told me you’ve been out of town! I would have loved to hang out with you. I’ve missed you, handsome.”
I laugh, trying to deflect the full weight of her attention. “Well, I’ve been sort of out of town.”
More like George has been coming into town on me so hard and often that I’ve barely had time to remember what my own bed feels like without him wrecking it.
A silent wave of gratitude passes between me and my brother. If he hadn’t apparently convinced Claire I was spending most of my life somewhere far away, she probably would’ve spent the last week inviting me to whatever activities attractive, terrifyingly persistent women use to wear a man down. It’s not that I’ll have trouble turning it down though.
Brent, across the table, leans in the second there’s a lull.
“Lance Bradford,” he drawls, shaking his head like the sight of me amuses him. “Still in San Diego. I keep expecting to hear you’ve finally come to your senses and have come home.”
“I have,” I say pleasantly. “That’s why I’m still in San Diego.”
A couple of polite laughs ripple around the table. Somewhere between my first and second glass, I mention George’s Gran Torino restoration project. My brother starts asking questions, sounding genuinely interested.
George walks him through where the project stands, giving more detail than he usually would to someone outside the work. Marcus nods, asks the occasional question. George answers each one straight. They’re both being polite, careful with each other.
Marcus sets his fork down and picks up his wine.
“You know,” he says, swirling his glass and looking at nothing in particular, “I respect how you built your own shop. You started with a couple bays and a lift, and transformed it into a place that not only does business but also supports the neighborhood. Youinvest in helping kids learn the trade and service the people who can’t afford it. It’s noble, showing up for the community.”
George nods once. “Thanks.”
Marcus lets a beat pass, then his eyes move to me. “Lance, on the other hand, is holding back on something that could move him considerably further in his own field.” He says it lightly, the way he’d casually mention the weather. “If he ever stops sitting on it.”
I reach for the chips and say nothing.
Marcus clears his throat and leans forward. “I was at a panel yesterday on integrated governance models in major health systems. Someone mentioned the pipeline problem in clinical leadership—how the people who best understand frontline care are almost never present in the rooms where decisions get made.”
He sets his glass down and looks at me. “It made me think about North Harbor Hospital in Seattle. Lance is one of their strongest candidates for the next leadership cohort. The role will carry meaningful influence on how a health system operates from within.”
The comfortable rhythm of the conversation dies.
George shifts beside me. His eyes lock on mine while I’m busy shredding a cocktail napkin.
“You applied to work in Seattle?” His voice is calm—too calm, but I catch the flicker underneath it.
I force down the sudden dryness in my throat. “Yeah…it was a while ago. I haven’t been actively pursuing it or anything.”
There’s a beat where I can feel him putting the full picture together. I would normally like how perceptive he is. Right now, it makes the back of my neck burn.
Brent chimes in smoothly, “I heard it’s a hell of an opportunity. First year mostly residential in Seattle, then a management pathway on the clinical governance side.”
Marcus nods. “Exactly. He’s already deferred twice. The matter can’t remain pending much longer.”
“When is it?” George asks him.
“Second week of December,” Marcus supplies.
George hasn’t looked at me since the word “Seattle” left someone’s mouth. I’m painfully aware of it.
He takes a slow sip of his drink, then finally turns to me. His voice is even, almost detached. “You should go. You’d be good at it.”
That seemed to be the full extent of his feelings on the subject of me potentially moving to Seattle for three years. A few flat words delivered with the same energy he used to tell me my brake fluid was low.
Brent spreads his hands. “You were always one of the sharper guys in the room. Even back when Marcus used to drag you to these things. Always thought it was a waste, you going into… health or whatever.”
