JOSH
Jules snuckout after making sure the hallway was clear and left me to my own devices.
Restless, I showered, hit the gym, showered again, and watched Fast Five in my room while the girls got ready and left for the palace. Only royal relatives were allowed to stay at the palace for the wedding, so even though the girls were Bridget’s bridesmaids, we were camped out in a five-star hotel, courtesy of the crown.
I usually had no issues entertaining myself while traveling, but the crowd of paparazzi outside the hotel deterred me from venturing out.
Unfortunately, our hotel, as luxurious as it was, lacked stimulating activities. Michelin-starred restaurants and a world-renowned spa were fine, but I needed more excitement.
Alex will be staying behind too.
Jules’s words echoed in my head. What was he doing? Eating babies and ruining lives, probably.
By the time night descended, I was bored enough to join him.
Temptation snaked around my spine, but instead of knocking on his door, I headed downstairs to the bar. It’d been closed earlier, but when I arrived, the telltale glow of lights sent relief coasting through my lungs.
I stepped inside, taking in the two-story ceiling, plush blue velvet couches, and the massive wall of glittering bottles behind the polished mahogany bar. It blew the fanciest bar in D.C. out of the water, times ten.
I slid onto a blue leather stool and waited for the bartender to finish setting up. It must’ve just opened, because we were the only people present, and the space was eerily quiet save for the soft jazz piping through invisible speakers.
Part of me craved the buzz of a crowd; another part relished the silence.
Like in most areas of my life right now, I didn’t know what the hell I wanted.
I drummed my fingers against the counter and scanned the bottle display, searching for a good drink to start the night, when a familiar voice sliced through the silence.
“This seat taken?”
The drumming stopped. Tension locked my muscles in place.
I turned to face the newcomer, already wishing I’d ordered room service instead of braving a common space when Alex was also roaming the grounds.
My former best friend stood a few feet away, dressed in the same black turtleneck and pants he wore on the plane. Fatigue lined his face, and a pinch of concern squeezed my chest.
According to Ava, his insomnia had improved over the years, but there were still times when he went days without sleeping, only to crash afterward.
I remembered several instances during undergrad when he would pass out in the middle of a conversation or study session.
Not that it was my concern anymore.
“Obviously, it isn’t.” I flicked my eyes at the empty stool next to me.
“That’s not what I meant,” Alex said coolly.
A muscle ticked in my jaw. The bastard never made things easy.
In that case, it is taken.
The words hovered on the tip of my tongue, but Jules’s voice floated through my head again.
Being angry at someone is exhausting, and it’s been almost two years. Maybe it’s time to forgive, even if you don’t forget.
Two years.
They’d stretched for an eternity and passed in the blink of an eye all at once.
In that time, Alex and I had only one moment when things between us seemed semi-normal—our ski afternoon in Vermont.
I blamed my twinge of nostalgia for what I said next. “All yours.”
A flicker of surprise crossed his face before it smoothed into its usual impassive mask.
Alex took his seat right as the bartender finished setting up and approached us. “Thanks for waiting,” he said in lightly accented English. “What can I get you?”
“I’ll have a Macallan neat.” Alex didn’t look at the menu before ordering. There was no doubt a bar as fancy as this one served Macallan.
The bartender nodded and shifted his attention to me.
“A Stella is fine, thanks.” The only Macallan I drank was from my bottle at home, though it now sat empty after I drowned my sorrows over Tanya’s death in it.
Otherwise, the whiskey was too rich for my med school loan-riddled wallet.
“Still haven’t graduated to real alcohol, huh?” Alex drawled after the bartender left to fix our drinks.
“Still haven’t developed taste, huh?” I volleyed back. “It’s okay, man. They’ll still let you into your billionaires’ club if you admit to liking beer.”
“Beer tastes like carbonated urine.” He delivered each word with his trademark icy precision, but a tinge of amusement lurked beneath the surface. “I’m also not discussing taste with someone who once dressed as a rat for Halloween.” He paused before adding, “A rat who wore a red bandanna.”