13. Sam
THIRTEEN
Sam
Kip glances up from his notes. “Jesus, you look like someone ran over your puppy.”
“I feel like someone ran over me, and then backed over me. Twice. One too many glasses of wine last night. Maybe two too many.”
He grins and hands me a cup of coffee like this is a routine we’ve done before. It is. “Hangover? I thought you knew your limit.”
“Please don’t say it like that. It sounds irresponsible. Say… post-wine fatigue.”
“Ah. Arden strikes again, huh?”
“Arden,” I confirm, taking a grateful sip of my coffee.
“She still on her crusade to get you to loosen up and live a little? Isn't that what she always says?"
I nod. “Still at it. She’s dragging me to Swifty’s tonight. Dave Matthews Band cover band.”
Kip lifts both brows. “That sounds fun.”
“It will be. I'm just exhausted right now. I'm glad I have the day off tomorrow, so I can nurse my post-wine fatigue on my couch all day. ”
He leans on his elbows. “Swifty’s is fun, though. Good drinks. Decent crowd. You’ll be halfway to dancing on a table by your second vodka soda.”
“I don’t drink vodka sodas.”
“Exactly.”
I roll my eyes, but the tension behind it softens. This is why I love Kip. He never pushes, just shows up with sarcasm when I'm going dark.
He glances at me over his glasses. “Sounds like a girl’s night I’d totally crash if I didn’t have the overnight shift.”
A slow smile pulls at my lips. One man already crashing is more than enough.
“Why are you smiling like that? That’s not a ‘Kip said something funny smile. That’s a ‘something wicked this way comes’ smile.”
I try to brush it off with a shrug. “I’m just thinking about the setlist. ‘Crash Into Me’ always makes me nostalgic.”
His eyes narrow. “Oh, you’re hiding something. Come on. Spill. Who’s going to be there?”
“You're good. Arden invited someone else.”
He stares at me for half a beat. “Someone who makes you smile like that?”
I avoid his gaze, pretending to be very interested in the label on my coffee cup. “Maybe.”
“Is this the board guy?”
I blink up at him. "No. I told you there is nothing there, Kip. God."
Kip raises both hands. “I’m not an idiot, Sam. I saw the way he looked at you on that tour. And the way you avoided looking back, like your pupils might combust. I was just being a gentleman and not calling you out in front of him.”
I snort. “Such a gentleman. ”
He grins. “You’re giddy. Like full-on pre-date high school energy.”
“I’m not giddy. I told you, I'm hungover.”
“I thought we were calling it post-wine fatigue.”
"Touché."
"So, are you going to keep denying this to me?"
I glance down at my coffee, willing it to cool my entire nervous system. “I don’t know what it is.”
"I can appreciate that. At least you've admitted it's something."
“It’s not nothing, but it’s not something either. I can’t quite describe it.”
“Well, tonight should help with that. Three drinks in, dancing to ‘Satellite’ is a vibe check if I’ve ever heard one.”
I laugh, but my stomach twists. Because that’s exactly what I’m afraid of. That tonight might define whatever this thing is. Or isn't.
And I’m not sure which answer would scare me more.
Kip’s pager goes off.
He groans, glancing down. “I’ve got to run an emergent trauma consult. Kid fell off a second-story balcony. Neuro's already down there, but they want me on the surgical side.”
I wince. “Yikes. Good luck.”
He grabs a chart, half-jogs backward. “Don’t get too sober before Swifty’s! Hair of the dog.”
I’m still mid-eye roll when my phone rings.
I answer with a smirk. “What are you doing calling me, Arden? You’re supposed to be mentally pre-gaming with 2002 frat-house nostalgia.”
Her sigh crackles through the line. “Change of plans. I have to fly to Atlanta.”
I freeze. “Tomorrow? What's up?”
“PR crisis. Jules Farraday went full meltdown in a hotel lobby. Allegedly smashed her fiancé’s phone into a flower arrangement and screamed something about his crypto mistress. TMZ already has the footage. Can't wait until tomorrow. I'm so sorry.”
“Shit,” I breathe. “That’s dramatic.”
“Right? I mean, I’m impressed with the range. But now I have to go slap a bow on the disaster before it bleeds into her skincare brand.”
I glance at the time. “So no Swifty’s?”
“No Swifty’s. I’m heading to the airport now.”
I exhale. “Okay, I’ll let Cole know it's off.”
I can't help but feel a little disappointed, even with my protests to her for orchestrating this.
“Why would you cancel?”
“Because you’re not coming.”
“And you are still breathing, right? Great. Then you can still go.”
I glance around like the walls might help me come up with a good excuse. “I don’t know. It feels weird now. It was supposed to be a buffer night. Group vibe. Casual.”
“You’re still making it casual. He’s just hot. That’s not a reason to hide. Go have fun.”
I rub my forehead. “It’s not that simple.”
“Yes, it is. We talked about this. Just enjoy the night. Let it be what it is. If something happens, great. If it doesn’t, you still got live music and overpriced cocktails.”
I’m quiet, because she’s right. And because I do still want to go. Even if I won’t admit that out loud.
“He’s not going to be here long, Sam. Stop wasting precious time worrying about what-ifs. This isn't a love story, it's an extended booty call. Treat it as such.”
I roll my eyes, but my chest warms. “Fine. I’ll go. But not because it's a booty call, because it will be a fun night. And I promise to leave all of this baggage in the hospital break room.”
“That’s my girl.”
“Have fun wrangling Jules Farraday’s tantrum.”
“Oh, I will. If she’s still ranting and making a scene, I’ll send pics.”
“You’d better.”
We hang up, and I stare at the phone for a beat too long.
Arden’s gone. Poof. Off to Atlanta to wrangle a barefoot starlet having a meltdown over a brand partnership. And just like that, I’m no longer going to Swifty’s with my best friend and my maybe-something, nothing, temporary neighbor.
I press the back of my head against the wall and close my eyes for a second. The tile is cool through my scrubs. My stomach’s already tightening, but it isn’t dread, it’s something else entirely.
This isn’t a date. It’s two people enjoying some live music. One of them just happens to be a very good-looking man I slept with once.
My fingers hover over the screen for a second too long. Then I just start typing, before I overthink it again.
Hey—small change of plans. Arden had to fly to Atlanta for a last-minute client crisis.
I hesitate after sending it, but the dots appear almost immediately. He’s already reading.
Then the reply.
So it’s just you and me tonight?
Don't tell me you're trying to back out.
My pulse kicks. I shift in the hard plastic chair, cross and uncross my legs, like I can out-squirm the feeling working its way down my spine.
I should tell him we can reschedule. I should give him the out.
No, I’m still on. Unless you want to reschedule. I’d understand.
The reply comes quickly.
Not a chance. I’m looking forward to it.
God, what is wrong with me? I’m grinning. Like an actual idiot. My cheeks flush, and I have to duck my head and breathe through the warmth crawling up my neck.
I’m grateful no one walks in and catches me like this—flushed and jittery and stupidly pleased over five lines of text.
Okay. Swifty’s at 6:30. I’ll grab us a spot if I get there first.
I've already told him I'm always late. Of course I won't get there first.
Perfect. See you there.
I read that last one twice. Then again. He's looking forward to it...
My body sings like it’s been given an electric charge, and I can’t tell if I’m more terrified or thrilled.
I lock the screen, press the phone to my chest, and lean back again with a slow exhale.
This is fine. This is just a fun night between neighbors. With no supervision or buffer. I press the heels of my hands to my eyes, laughing softly to no one.
God help me.