Page 375 of The Doctors Will See You Now

Question #12: “For Harry's birthday, what color did Hermione turn the leaves of the Weasley’s crabapple tree?”

My correct answer: Gold.

Question #19: “What does Phoebe legally change her name to?”

My second correct answer: Princess Consuela Banana Hammock.

Nick, the fucking brain surgeon, was zero help. And when I say zero help, I literally mean zero help. The man was absolutely terrible at trivia.

But, despite the fact that he’d given Fleetwood Mac’s Sex Pants a bad name, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had so much fun with someone.

Nick Raines might have sucked at trivia, but he sure as fuck had caught my attention.

The bar was dark, and the air felt thick as I shook the last of my Jack and Coke and tipped it to my lips.

Somewhere over the last five hours, Charlotte’s skin had taken on a sheen that I couldn’t stop analyzing. Was there glitter in her moisturizer that came out the longer the day went on, or did she have a natural glow? Did it taste salty like sweat, or would it be as sweet as her smell? I’d become accustomed to the fragrant lavender, sitting in the aura of it as it permeated off of her, and now that it was time to go, I wondered if I’d notice the difference as soon as it was gone.

“I guess we have to go, huh?” Charlotte mused, jerking her head toward the bartender who looked like he wanted to wait for us assholes to get the fuck out about as much as I wanted an ice pick to the brain.

I knew from experience, ice picks to the brain weren’t good.

Brain surgeon, remember?

“Looks like it. Looks like he might find a gypsy to curse us if we don’t leave soon.”

Charlotte rolled her eyes. “It’s only eleven p.m. If he’s upset about closing this late, he probably shouldn’t be in bartending.”

“It is a Wednesday. Maybe he’s got more patience on the weekends,” I excused.

“Maybe.” She shrugged and smirked as she put the rim of her wine glass to her peach-colored lips.

I couldn’t even tell you when we’d switched from beer. Frankly, we’d been so busy talking, I didn’t even know how many drinks I’d had. Good thing I wasn’t driving.

“Maybe he needs to be slapped by a dick.”

A startled bark of laughter left my lips, and I reached for her glass. “Okay, maybe you’ve had enough of these.”

“I just miss the pretty blonde,” she muttered dejectedly, and I laughed again. I didn’t know who she was talking about, but the pretty blonde I knew was still sitting in front of me making adorably tipsy threats of genital violence.

“What pretty blonde?”

“The one behind the bar. She gave me our first beers and no attitude.” She snapped her fingers and struck an imaginary line in the air. “That’s what I like in a bartender. Fast alcohol and limited lip.”

“You know he can probably hear you, right?” I tried not to smile, but I couldn’t drum up even an ounce of austerity.

“Pshh, duh,” she agreed. “What’s the point in insulting someone if they can’t hear you?”

I’d never thought of it that way, but the more I considered it, the more I reckoned she had a point. “Okay, fair enough. But we should probably go. I’m sure you have work in the morning, and I know I do.”

“You’re so responsible,” she teased. My chest tightened with the insult, but she turned it around pretty quickly. “That’s good though. I should probably be more like you.”

“I haven’t always been,” I offered. “I messed up a fuck of a lot when I was younger.”

Why the hell am I telling her this?

“Yeah?” She leaned close and put her hand to my arm. “Really?”

“Really.” A cold chill ran down my spine at how much I hated some of what I’d done. “Jesus, you’d probably lose all respect for me if you knew.”