Page 73 of Quinton's Quest

“When have I ever been agoodboy?”

This time, I let a snort loose. For all his swagger, Finn was as actually a really good guy—upstanding, honest to a fault, always the first to volunteer to help.

All of which led me to believe that whatever happened earlier, it had nothing to do with my friend. “You going to be okay if I take off? Morning comes fucking early.”

“Yeah, and it sucks that it’s still dark out.”

“Right? When is winter ever going to end?”

“Late March or early April? At least we don’t live in northern BC when winter never ends.”

“Never?” I rose and stretched.

“Okay.” He grinned. “Just in time for fire season.”

“You don’t fight wildfires, right?”

He shook his head. “My expertise is urban and structural fires. I mean, I can put out a grass fire or some shit like that, but forest fires are another beast entirely. Dean’s an expert on those—if you want in-depth knowledge.” Dean who married Adam—the burn victim.

“Nah. Just curious.” I headed toward the entryway and my coat. “So you’ll call?”

“I’ll text you twice during the night and how about you call me in the morning? I don’t want to disturb your sleep.”

I pursed my lips. “That’s not what you told the doc you’d do.”

He shrugged. “You know me—dancing to my own beat.”

“And a damn fine dancer you are.”

“Too bad we never—” He made a rather rude gesture.

“Yeah. That. But—” I hesitated.

“Oh, you can’t bring up butts and not follow through with that comment.” He waggled his eyebrows.

“I’ve met someone. Man, I don’t know what he is or isn’t to me. I just—” I swallowed. “He’s more than just a friend. Which is amazing.”

“The surgeon?”

I nodded.

He shrugged. “Sometimes we can’t help who we’re attracted to. Or understand the mysterious ways of the world.”

“You’ll meet someone, you know.”

He waved me off. “I’m not looking for someone. I’m young. I’m carefree. I can get laid pretty much anytime I want.”

His words weren’t born of arrogance—he really could nab just about any guy in any gay bar between Mission City and Vancouver. Hell, he could probably land a few men in regular bars as well. His magnetism could overwhelm mere mortals—yet he never played on his good looks. He just kept smiling and doing whatever needed to be done.

“You’re a good man, Finnegan O’Sullivan.”

He groaned. “You sound like my mother.”

“She’s a wise woman.” I pulled on my coat. “Mothers who are also nurses tend to be.”

“You ever tell your mom that?”

“Not as often as I should.” And, for that, shame swamped me. “Do me a favor? Tell your mom how great she is the next time you speak to her?”