“There he is,” Sawyer says, lifting his drink in greeting. “The man who sold his soul to medicine and forgot how to have fun.”
“I have fun,” I reply flatly.
Dean snorts. “You alphabetized yourspice rack.”
“That’s satisfying,” I say. “And efficient.”
Sawyer claps a hand on my shoulder. “You need help.”
We order a round of drinks. Dean insisting on his favorite aged bourbon. The bar is familiar with its dark wood, low lighting, loud enough to feel alive without being chaotic. This has always been our place. The one we default to now that the rest of the group is busy with kids, schedules, and women who rightfully expect more than half attention.
Lincoln is home with his wife and son. Roman’s probably negotiating bedtime with one hand while answering emails with the other. Walker texted earlier, saying he was “on bath duty.”
Which leaves us. The three remaining single men.
Dean leans back, taking a long drink. “So, just us again.”
Sawyer smirks. “We should get jackets made.”
I glance at my phone without meaning to. Nothing yet. Sawyer notices immediately. He always does.
“You waiting on someone?” he asks casually.
“No.”
“Liar.”
Dean’s brow lifts. “Are you late for a reason?”
“Work,” I say.
Sawyer’s grin widens. “That’s what you’re calling her now?”
I shoot him a warning look. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“That defensive already?” Sawyer says. “Damn.”
Dean tilts his head. “Is this the nurse?”
I don’t answer right away.
Sawyer’s eyes light up. “Oh, it’s definitely the nurse.”
I sigh. “Drop it.”
“Absolutely not,” Sawyer says. “This is the most interesting thing that’s happened to you in years.”
I take a long pull from my beer. “She’s meeting us later.”
Both of them freeze.
“Us?” Dean repeats.
“Yes.”
Sawyer slowly sets his glass down. “You invited a woman to boys’ night.”
“Two women,” I correct. “She’s bringing her friend.”