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One thing is for certain, I am going to have to get a better handle on things if we are to continue this arrangement.
I pull my jacket tighter as a gust of cold air whips by, checking the time on my phone again. What is she changing into, anyway? Could it actually be a prom dress? I should have just waited in the car like a normal person. It’s probably stupid to think this is somehow more chivalrous.
I’m just about to say fuck it when I notice the glass doors sliding open from across the parking lot, spotting a familiar tousle of sandyblond hair as Mackenzie pushes up on her toes to look for my car. She doesn’t immediately notice me even though I am fairly close by, and this means that I have a good thirty seconds or so to grapple with the odd pause she gives me with what shehaschanged into.
Her skintight black jeans hug every part of her down to the leather boots that stop just below her knees, and her equally fitted red sweater under her black peacoat clings to her in a similar fashion, one that makes it very difficult for a person to look anywhere but her. Or at least, that’s exactly the effect it’s having onmeright now.
She smiles when she finally catches sight of me, waving her hand as she starts my way. The closer she gets, the more I am able to assess the exact depth of the vee in her sweater—as well as the dangling black chain fastened around her neck that disappears down between her breasts, where I refuse to let my eyes go.
“Hey,” she says as she approaches, looking me up and down. Sheoohs over my dark jeans and my blue button-down under my jacket, even reaching out to pick at the lapel, looking impressed. “Look at you! You clean up nice, Dr. Taylor.”
I have a tight noose around my thoughts, forcing my gaze to remain safely on her face as I clear my throat. “So do you.”
“Why, thank you,” she says with a playful bat of her eyelashes. “Are you ready to go?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I mumble back, turning to open the door for her.
I don’t close it until she’s safely tucked inside, circling the car to climb into the driver’s seat. She’s just finished buckling herself in as I start to do the same, and when I’m finished I notice the gleeful smile on her face, raising my eyebrow at her in question.
“So, on a scale of one to ten,” she says, “how much are you going to hate this party?”
I hmph under my breath as I start the car, shaking my head as I put it into reverse so that I can back out of the parking lot. “Solid eleven,” I grunt.
Her giggling doesn’t end until we’ve pulled out onto the street.
?I’m not surewhat’s stranger, me in a bar or me in a bar with my coworkers. There is a brief but noticeable silence that settles among them when Mackenzie and I walk through the aged wooden door, the back corner of the bar where everyone is gathered going crickets for at least five seconds before chatter resumes. Mackenzie immediately waves to someone I don’t recognize, a pretty woman with dark hair and a bright smile who looks, well... delighted, actually.
“Mack! Over here!”
She turns to me before moving on, squeezing my hand in encouragement. “Hopelessly in love, right?”
“Right,” I answer, hyperfocused on the warmth of her fingers. “Deliriously happy.”
Mackenzie grins before she pulls me through the crowd of bar- goers toward the group near the back, and the same woman, who I assume must be a friend of hers, immediately makes a space for us at the round booth where she and a few others have taken up residence.
“Go on,” the woman urges the others sitting around the table. “Scooch over.” She gives her attention back to Mackenzie as we slide into the booth seating. “Thank God you came. Conner is here.”
Mackenzie wrinkles her nose. “Ew. Is he still trying to get your number?”
“Literally every time he calls me up to Orthopedics. Do you know how many elderly patients there are in Denver who need hip replacements? Because I fucking do.”
“Yikes.” Mackenzie’s nose is still wrinkled in distaste. It is only at this very second that I realize I am still watching her do it. Thankfully, she seems to remember me then, snapping me out of it. “Oh. Sorry. Priya, this—”
“Oh, I know who he is,” the woman, orPriya, says. “We’ve worked together a lot.”
I feel panic setting in. “We have?”
“Priya Mehta,” she laughs. “I’m the on-call anesthesiologist. I’m always the one knocking out your patients.”
“Oh.” The panic turns to slight embarrassment. “Sorry, sometimes I—”
Priya waves me off. “Honestly, it would shatter my entire illusion of you if you had recognized me.”
I have no idea what to make of that, but she’s smiling, so that has to be a good sign.
Priya points to the rest of the table, introducing them one by one. “This is Matías Hernandez”—she gestures to the broad man with tawny skin to her left—“an endocrinologist. And that’s his wife, Jamie”—the petite woman with auburn hair and freckles next to Matías gives me a small smile with a matching wave—“one of my radiology techs. Oh, and that old man over there is—”
“Paul?”
