“I’m sorry. Morgan as in your extremely hot, way unavailable neighbor?” Sawyer asked, his expression changing to a shit-eating grin.

“Yes.” I started my reps and hoped the conversation would end there.

“Do you even know how to actually date anymore?” Sawyer dropped down so we were at the same level.

Of course he couldn’t let it end there.

“Pretty sure it all works the same as the last time I did it,” I snapped, breathing through the reps.

“You mean back in the eighteen hundreds?” Sawyer laughed.

“Seriously, leave him alone,” Garrett told Sawyer, dropping after his last pull-up. “Jax, I like her. She might be gorgeous, but she doesn’t act like she knows it, and she ate your burnt-ass cheeseburger.”

“Thanks for your approval.” I grunted as I reached the end of the set.

“I didn’t say I didn’t like her!” Sawyer threw his hands up in the air. “I’m here for this, Montgomery. What can I do to help you? Do you need tips? Advice? Date ideas? You know that Myspace isn’t a thing anymore, right?”

I finished the last rep, then climbed from the machine and put my hand on Sawyer’s shoulder. “Sawyer, you know I love you like a brother, but you are the last person in the world I would ever ask dating advice from.”

Garrett burst into laughter as I hauled my ass to the shower. I wasn’t letting Sawyer get to me, not when I’d gotten Morgan to say yes—even if it was a friend-zone date. I’d take what I could get when it came to her.

My phone rang as I zipped up my flight suit post-shower.

“Fuck,” I muttered, but I still answered. “Do you know what time it is, Claire?”

“Ten thirty,” she snapped.

“It’s one thirty in the morning here.” I sat down on the bench in front of my locker and put on my boots.

“Well, you answered, so you must still be awake.”

“But you didn’t know that when you called—” I sat up and rubbed the skin between my eyes. “Okay, let’s start over. To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?”

“We have a giant fucking issue,” she seethed.

“Which would be?”

“Did you seriously send my daughter to her kindergarten orientation wearing a damned Easter dress and Converse?” Her voice was pitched high enough to be called a shriek.

I bit back an instinctual reply, which would have been to tell her to fuck off and hang up. She’s Finley’s mother. I repeated the thought four times before I spoke.

“Not that I know of.” I leaned down to lace my boots, holding the phone between my ear and shoulder.

“So this picture Brie sent me isn’t Finley’s orientation? I just sent it.”