She didn’t answer with her usual sass but simply sent me the time I was supposed to pick her up. Completely professional. Exactly what I wanted.

Then why did it feel like yet another defeat?

I was still pissed off at myself when Dean popped in an hour later. “You want to go have a drink?”

Anything beat sitting around trying not to think. I needed to be Rhys again. Have some damn fun for one damn night.

Twelve

Parker

The low-level chatter escalated in the Irish pub as the bar owner, who’d introduced himself as Bill, announced a ten-minute beer break. I shared a bemused look with my friends. We’d never been to a quiz where there was a beer break for the “quizmaster.”

We’d also never been to a quiz night in a bar in Chelsea, but my oldest friend, Ren, was our quiz finder and he took us wherever the questions were. Usually I didn’t care where we ended up. Moreover, the prize didn’t matter to us. We just loved hanging out, happy to be with fellow nerds, and our bimonthly quiz nights gave us that.

Tonight, the winning team got a crate of beer and a gift card to Yankee Lobster. It wasn’t a bad prize. But I couldn’t care less. What I did care about was that we were in Chelsea. Not only were we in Chelsea, we were in a bar right around the corner from Lights Out. I hadn’t told the guys about Rhys because I couldn’t tell them the truth and I couldn’t lie to them.

“You’re quiet tonight.” Ren nudged me with his elbow before sitting back against the wall. He took a swig from his beer, his eyes on me the whole time.

I tried not to squirm under his gaze. Ren and I met at college orientation and had been friends ever since. Zoe thought I was nuts for not exploring something more with Ren. He had been, and still was, one of those guys who made nerdy sexy. He was tall, lean, with a surprising amount of wiry muscle beneath his shirt, and behind his black-framed glasses was the face of a model.

No joke.

Irish American—dark hair, olive skin, angular features, and bright blue eyes— the man was beautiful. He was also devoid of cliché—a great mix of athleticism and intellectualism, a geek and a jock, friends with extroverts and introverts alike. Ren was a hockey player in high school. He was captain of the math and debate teams. Huge nerd. But he was also kind of an alpha, pain in the ass, overprotective big-brother type.

“I’m tired,” I lied.

Ren narrowed his eyes. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not lying.”

“I’ve known you for twelve years, so I know when you’re lying.”