Page 6 of Just My Type
“Yes, my man is very talented in that way. And…other ways.” Jo snickers as she stands and pulls me with her.
Arm in arm, Amelia, Jo, and I leave my apartment and head downstairs for dinner with the family I wish could be mine.
CHAPTER TWO
NOAH
“Hot damn, guacamole!” I grab a taco chip from the bowl on the dining room sidebar and am one second away from dunking it into the bowl of avocado goodness when Elliot slaps my hand away.
“Are you five? Wait for everyone to get here. And when they do, use a plate.”
“But I’m starving,” I complain. “I was in surgery for, like, eight hours, and I just got home. I need to replenish all the calories I burned using my genius in the OR.”
“How much genius could you possibly need to pull some teeth?” Jordan asks, smirking at me from his perch on the couch.
“Fuck off, I was…” I pause, looking at his amused expression, and reconsider my course. A few months ago, I found out that Jordan and my younger brother Cooper had a bet going to see how many times Jordan, who is a pediatric surgeon, could piss me off by ribbing me about being an oral surgeon. I fell for it every damn time and probably made Jordan hundreds of dollars, but no more.
“You know what? No. I’m not falling for this. Not again. Never again, in fact. You’ll have to earn your money some other way. Besides, I wasn’t pulling teeth. I was doing the most complex cleft palate surgery I’ve done in my entire residency, and it was on a baby. A nine-month-old baby who will now be able to hear and eat and live an entirely normal life because I helped her. I’m sure you would know something about that. Except no, you wouldn’t, because regular pediatric surgeons don’t repair cleft palates. They call in the big guns for that. The big guns being me,” I say with a satisfied nod, crossing my arms over my chest.
The room is silent for a beat before Elliot and Jordan burst into hysterical laughter.
Fuck. I did it again.
“It’s fine, Noah,” Cooper says, chuckling and slapping me on the shoulder before taking the seat next to Jordan on the couch. I didn’t even see him walk in—I was too wrapped up in my rant. “You are who you are, and who you are is dedicated to your job.”
“And to beating me at shit,” Jordan mumbles, glancing at me, probably to see if he can get me to rant again. Asshole.
“I love my job,” I say, grabbing a beer from the ice bucket Elliot has set out in the dining room before slumping down on the other side of Cooper. Fuck, I’m tired. Twenty-four-hour shifts are a killer.
“I know,” Jordan says, taking a pull on his own beer. “You know I know that, right? I really am just fucking with you.”
“I know, dude. I seriously do. We’re cool.” I settle back into the couch and kick my feet up on the coffee table, eying Elliot to see if he knocks them down. You never do know where the lines of etiquette are in his freakishly organized, extremely clean apartment. But his back is turned, and when he walks back into the living room, he’s carrying a plate of guacamole and chips that he hands me with a smirk.
“Here. Refuel. Wouldn’t want you perishing from starvation on my living room floor.”
I take the plate, immediately eating a guacamole covered chip, and of course, it’s perfect because Elliot is the best cook of all of us. Fuck, brothers really are awesome.
“The girls coming?” Cooper asks, catching the beer Elliot tosses him.
“Yeah,” Elliot says, taking the chair next to the couch with his own beer. “Jo and Amelia went up to see if Hannah wanted to come.”
“Why did they have to see if she wanted to come? Everyone comes to Saturday dinner.” I try to keep my voice casual. But when I glance at my brothers and see all three of them giving me knowing looks, I think casual and I have barely even made a passing acquaintance.
“You know, you could just shoot your shot.” Jordan makes his way over to Elliot’s bar cart, pouring margarita ingredients into a cocktail shaker.
“It’s not exactly a secret that you have a thing for her.” Elliot stands and takes the seat Jordan vacated next to me on the couch, kicking his own feet up on the table and taking a sip of his beer.
“Have a thing for who?” I ask, eating another chip.
Cooper snickers. “Noah, I love you, but you have never been subtle a day in your life. You have a thing for Hannah Evans. You have for months. Maybe even longer than that, although I still can’t figure out how the obsession started since, before she moved to Boston, you had only spent, like, a grand total of an hour with her in your entire life.”
I practically clamp my mouth shut to keep from telling my brothers that while I may not have spent that much time with Hannah before she came to Boston, our interaction at the bar the day I met her three years ago is burned into my brain. And so is the one a few months ago when she showed up at my parents’ house with bruises on her wrists. It’s a confusing mixture of attraction and protectiveness, and I’ve never been able to shake it.
I don’t think Hannah told anyone about the day three years ago, including her sisters. Or who it was who put the bruises on her wrists months ago. She may not have told me outright it was Brett, but I could read it all over her face, even if no one else could. I may not be great at keeping secrets, but I’ll always keep hers.
“She hasn’t moved to Boston,” I say without thinking. “It’s temporary.”
I wish it wasn’t.
