My steps quicken with anticipation, though I suppress the urge to let my mouth do anything as foolish as smile at the sight of the familiar dirty blonde head of my childhood best friend, Reed Walker, sitting at our usual table.
I note that Jace Bailey, the third in our motley crew, is nowhere in sight before I stop at the Mirror Bar, decorated with miniature Christmas trees and red velvet bows.
“Two Macallans, please, Tom.”
The bartender—dignified, as always, aside from the Santa hat sitting atop his head—nods as he grabs two tumblers. “Twelve or eighteen, Sir?”
I can't help the grin that tugs at my mouth despite my best efforts. “Feels like an eighteen sort of day.”
“I hear you.” He grunts in understanding, jerking his chin toward Reed. “I'll drop them over.”
With a small thanks, I pivot and walk toward Reed. He's still alone, and his forehead is deeply furrowed. His attention iswholly absorbed by the person on the other end of the phone that's pressed to his ear.
“I'll need you to put a rush on that FBC for Mrs. Foster, and if Ms. Winston’s blood pressure continues to climb, book an O.R. and call meimmediately.”
He hangs up the call and pinches the bridge of his nose while huffing as I slip into one of the two seats opposite him.
“Looks like today's been shitty for more than just me, Walker.”
Reed cracks open one light-blue eye, and immediately his face splits into a grin that makes my jaw tighten.
“Well, well, well. The Ghost of Christmas Grouch has arrived.” He sits up straighter, making a show of looking me up and down. “Welcome to the inaugural meeting of the Same Shit, Different Day club, Adams. Though I see you're still maintaining your usual brand of perpetual misery.”
I grunt, reaching for the tumbler Tom's just placed on the table. “Fuck off.”
“There it is,” Reed says, far too cheerfully. “Remember when you used to actually enjoy these meetups? When you'd walk in here and we'd have an actual conversation instead of you grunting like some sort of constipated caveman?”
“I said fuck off, Walker.”
Safe to say, ribbing yours truly always seems to brighten Reed’s day, so I let him have it.
We're interrupted when Jace appears, brushing snow from his shoulders. He takes one look at me and lets out a low whistle.
“Christ, Adams. Who pissed in your protein shake this morning?” He gives me the stink eye as I take a long pull from my tumbler. “Today's been a shitshow, so one of those better be for me.”
“I'm on call.” Reed pushes his whisky toward Jace as he takes the final seat at the table, his eyes still fixed on me with that irritating knowing look. “So yes. This one's for you.”
Picking up the proffered glass, Jace tips his chin in acknowledgement before taking a long sip as Reed mumbles, “I hope you damn well choke on it.”
“Speaking of choking,” Jace says as he settles back in his chair with a wicked grin, “Cole, mate, you look like you've been sucking on lemons for about five years now. What happened to the guy who used to drag us out to clubs? Who'd chat up bartenders and actually had a personality?”
“That guy realised you two were a waste of his time,” I mutter into my glass.
Reed snorts. “Oh, he speaks! I was starting to think you'd transformed into one of those guards at Buckingham Palace. Silent, stoic, and completely dead behind the eyes.”
I almost grin. “Fuck off.”
“See, this is what I mean,” Jace says, gesturing at me with his tumbler, the Macallan sloshing precariously close to the rim. “Three words or less. That's all we get now. Remember when you convinced us to go to that ridiculous themed bar in Shoreditch? The one with the ball pit? You gave a whole speech about 'reclaiming our youth' or some bollocks.”
His eyes take on an almost dreamy look. “That shit was fucking epic.”
“We were eighteen and drunk.”
“And you werefun,” Reed adds. “Now you're just...” He waves a hand vaguely in my direction. “This. Whatever this is. Grumpy Old Man: The Early Years.”
“I'm not grumpy.”
Both of them burst out laughing.
