Page 116 of Don't Bang a Bandmate

37

BRONSON

One bar down and I already want to go home and sleep off the night.

Not that there’s anything wrong with Boston bars. This city has some of the best bars I’ve ever been to, and many of them are neighbors to one another.

It’s not you, Boston.

It’s me.

So as I walk from bar-to-bar with my friends, reaching the bottom of pint glass after pint glass, I do what I always do.

I keep my mouth shut.

I bob my head when prompted.

I try not to think about whatthey’redoing right now.

“What do you think they’re doing right now?” August asks as we walk toward Ryan’s House, the last bar of the night. And my personal favorite bar because of its proximity to Muffin Top, the best damn bakery I’ve ever set foot in. Unfortunately, even the promise of famous cherry-cherry cupcakes isn’t enough to make me feel better about that question.

“Probably on their way to meet us by now,” Katrina answers.

Knox scoffs. “Oh, please,” he says, amused. “They ain’t meeting us tonight. Christian’s probably got Jordan tied to a bedpost right now.”

“Knox,”Addison scolds before Katrina can. It’s obviously for my benefit, but she does a decent job of not drawing attention to that, for which I’m grateful.

“What?” Knox asks. “I’m just saying. Myers is a stud! Jordan’s a lucky gal.”

They continue on with teases and jokes. Meanwhile, I linger near the back of the group, my eyes tracing the lines on the sidewalk as we go. Addison subtly detaches from Harvey and shifts to stand by my side. I give her a silent nod and she does the same, though her eyes still bleed the same words as before.

It’s still not too late.

Tell her how you feel.

I consider it. I do.

I picture all the various ways that conversation could go right. All the incredible ways Jordan could respond in kind. But then I’ll picture the other option, the more likely reaction she’d give.

I’m sorry, Bronson, but... it’s like we always said.

We’re just friends.

But could we really bejust friendsafter all this?

Fuck, why did I even approach her in the first place, knowing how I used to feel? How could I possibly think those feelings were long dead and buried when my stomach trembled every single damn time I heard her laugh or saw her smile?

Fuck.

Our group rounds another corner and Ryan’s House comes into view down the block. We pass right on by the bar, everyone unanimously in favor of dropping into Muffin Top first to raid what’s left of the sweets and treats before it closes.

“You know,” Mac says, happily joining us for the evening’s bar crawl, “all the times I’ve driven you throughout here, and I’ve never been.”

His words are met with a series of gasps as Chrissy slips forward and curls her arm around his. “Well, let’s get you sugar-highed, honey,” she coos.

Before we even reach the front doors, my nose tingles with the scent of fresh coffee and warm pastries and, for the moment, I think of something other than Jordan.

As our group steps inside, the large, dark-haired man behind the counter looks us over.

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