“Good. The thigh stitches are out, and we’re just making sure the cut doesn’t reopen. He’s mostly impatient about the hand.” I don’t mention how he made it worse by punching my drunk, homophobic attacker during my first ever disastrous attempt at a date with a man.
I settle into the armchair across from them, taking in the space. There are new photos on the walls from the wedding, including one of all of us on the Azure Tides beach that makes me smile despite myself. “How was the honeymoon?”
Becca lights up, and I know I’ve just opened the floodgates. “Bali was incredible. The beaches are unreal, and everything smells like salt and flowers. We stayed in this villa tucked into the jungle, and Trevor almost fell off the balcony trying to get a sunrise photo.”
“I didn’t almost fall. I was perfectly safe balancing on my sturdy foot,” Trevor says, laughing.
“You climbed onto a chair to get a better angle. You’re lucky you made it to breakfast.”
I’m still laughing at the mental image when George walks in, and my brain locks onto him all at once.
He’s wearing that black henley that fits him like it was poured on. The fabric stretches tight across his broad chest, hugging theheavy muscle of his pecs and the sharp cut of his shoulders. I’ve never paid attention to how a shirt can cling to a man’s chest before, but right now I can’t stop noticing it. His hair is pushed back, a little messier than usual, and he’s carrying that relaxed weekend energy with shoulders loose and jaw relaxed.
Fuck. He looks good.
I’d spent the entire drive here trying not to stare at him. He’d insisted on driving even with the splinted hand, muttering something about “not letting a little tape stop me from driving my own damn truck.” I’d argued for about thirty seconds before giving up, because arguing with George when he’s made up his mind is like arguing with a brick wall.
“George!” Becca jumps up to hug him, careful of his splinted hand. “How’s the patient?”
“Surviving Lance’s medical tyranny,” he says, accepting a beer from Trevor with his good hand.
“I’m not a tyrant.” I take a sip of my beer, watching him settle onto the other end of the couch. “A tyrant wouldn’t bring you coffee every dressing change.”
“A tyrant would definitely use coffee as a manipulation tactic,” George counters, and Trevor snorts.
“You two bicker like an old married couple,” Becca observes, heading back toward the kitchen. “Kim, come meet Lance and George!”
A woman steps out of the kitchen holding a glass of red wine. She’s striking, with long, dark red hair cascading in loose waves over her shoulders, warm brown skin, and a smile that lights up her whole face. She wears jeans and a simple black top, effortless yet somehow perfectly put together.
Becca appears right behind her, one hand landing lightly on the woman’s shoulder as she steers her forward.
Right. There it is.
It’s so familiar I almost don’t notice it at first. This almost always happens. Good-looking new girl, single, and somehow she ends up right in front of me within minutes. No one really decides on this, but it’s understood. Lance will take it from here. Lance will flirt, keep things light, make her feel welcome. Lance will do his thing.
The old version of me would’ve been halfway through charming her already. Now, I just stand there, hesitating a little.
“You must be the notorious Lance.” She extends her hand. Her grip is firm when I shake it. “Becca’s told me a lot about you.”
“All good things, I hope.” The line comes out on autopilot, the smile following right after it, like muscle memory.
“She said you’re trouble.” Kim grins as she settles into the other armchair. “But the fun kind.”
“She’s not wrong. But I’m also extremely helpful, moderately funny, and an excellent charades partner if you’re looking for one.”
“Is that an offer?”
“Absolutely. We’re redefining what it means to have fun at game nights.”
I glance at George. It’s brief, not even a full look but more like a quick check to see if he’s reading into this the same way I am. It’s as if I can explain something without saying a word, that this isn’t what it used to be, and that I’m not stepping into it the same way.
He’s leaned back on the couch, beer in hand, watching it all with that calm, observant expression. When our eyes meet, he lifts the bottle slightly in acknowledgment.
There’s no judgment or interruption. He just lets it play out.
For some reason, I want to drop into his lap and stay there instead.
Kim leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “So, Becca tells me you’re a nurse? That must be intense.”
