Page 44 of Dreamscape Therapies

"That." He gestures vaguely toward the departing couple. "You know. The whole 'devoted partner who fusses over you' thing."

"Absolutely not," I snort.

"Sure." He holds up two fingers. "How about two shots of Fireball for the road, then I'll settle up?"

Eric follows me to the bar where I pour his shots, and he finishes paying right as Aksel and Hale return from the restroom.

Eric holds one of the shot glasses toward Aksel, and he just stares at it and then at Eric. "Dude. We have clients. Please tell me you're not planning to drink before your next appointment."

"Oh, shoot." Eric's face falls into exaggerated horror. "I completely forgot about work."

Hale rolls his eyes. "You remembered five minutes ago."

"I was hoping nobody would notice." He brightens suddenly. "I have an idea." He pushes both shots toward us. "How about you two take these so they don't go to waste?"

Hale's lips twitch. "I'm glad you didn't actually plan to drink before your appointment."

Eric gives him wide, innocent eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about, babes."

They leave in a flurry of laughter and fake outrage.

I watch them go before turning back to a smiling Jay.

"Your friends are interesting."

"You have no idea."

"I like them."

"Of course you do."

"They seem happy," he says with a little shrug.

There's something about the way he says it that makes me look at him. Maybe it's the softness in his voice or the way his eyes linger on the doorway after my friends leave. Or maybe I'm just looking for excuses to keep staring at him.

"It would be a shame for those to go to waste." I motion toward the two amber shots sitting on the bar.

"This feels a lot like the peer pressure they warned me about in high school,” Jay says, eyeing them suspiciously.

"I would never peer pressure you." I pick up one of the glasses and hold it toward him. "Think of it as recycling. You're saving the planet one shot at a time."

He laughs. "I’m fairly certain that that's not how recycling works."

"You don't know that."

"I have a doctorate."

"In sleeping."

"Still a doctorate,” he mutters but takes the glass.

Our fingers brush briefly, but I feel it always up my arm and into my chest. We stare at each other for half a second too long before I break eye contact and I clear my throat.

"To..." I search for something that doesn't sound ridiculous. "Sleeping?"

His smile softens. "To sleeping."

We clink glasses and toss the whiskey back.