Page 25 of Billionaire's Promise

"Hey," Arpad scowls, "that was supposed to be my dialogue."

Weston leans back. "There. All done."

I touch my forehead and pin-pricks of pain radiate out from the touch. Nothing I can’t handle.

"Once the endorphins wear off, the pain’s gonna kick in some more."

I nod.

He writes out a prescription, hands it over. "Take the antibiotics to prevent infection. Keep the wound dry."

I stare at him.

"You know the drill, of course." His gaze narrows.

I tilt my head. "I don’t know what you mean."

"Hmph." He scowls. "Wherever you’ve been, whatever you’ve been up to is not my concern…Actually, strike that." He shrugs. "It is my concern, as a friend. But as a doctor, it’s clear to me that this isn’t the first time you’ve been hurt, so, you don’t get to hide from me, pal."

I merely arch an eyebrow, wince when my hurt forehead protests.

He blows out a breath. "Have it your way, but your scars don’t lie." He points to the evidence on my shoulders and my back. "They tell me everything that you won’t," he adds.

I bark out a laugh. "I leave six boys who don’t know their heads from their arses and come back to six men who have their heads up their arses."

"Poetic." Arpad nods. "What have you been up to these last few years, anyway?"

"Hold on," Damian stalks in, "I want to listen to this as well."

"It’s not fucking story time," I growl.

"Oh, I don’t know, I could do with a bedtime story." Weston tops me off, then Arpad, before handing the bottle to Damian.

He fills up his glass. "Should we toast?"

"No," I snap.

"Yes," Arpad counters.

"Definitely." Damian raises his glass. "To old friends."

"To new memories," Weston drawls.

"You mean new mammaries, don’t you?" I mutter.

He stares at me. "Only one set of mammaries for me, ol’ sport." He winks. "And don’t talk about my wife that way."

I blink. Shit, things really have changed and I’ve missed it all. Missed my friends growing into men, missed how they’d met their women, missed how they’d become more grounded, more serious, more stable. There is a contentedness to them that… I don’t miss at all. No, of course, not.

"Right." I raise my glass in his direction. "I apologize."

"Accepted." He swigs back his drink. "Speaking of, I need to—"

The door is pushed open and Ava tumbles in. Hair flowing to her waist, flushed cheeks, bright eyes, her gaze finds mine, unerringly, connects and holds.

The breath rushes out of me. I stare back, rake my gaze from the purple tips of her hair, to the bag she has clutched to her side, to the pointed, purple tips of her boots, then back to her face. "What are you doing here?"

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