I look down further at the part that he can't see. In smaller print, closer to the bottom of the shirt, it says:
You little rebel. I like you.
"I don't know. How bad do you want to know what it says?" I’ve always loved taunting Tyson and vice-versa.
He lifts an eyebrow, briefly studying me. Then, he tilts his beer bottle and takes a drink, his eyes holding mine the entire time. "I'm good. I don't need to know."
I throw my head back and laugh at his poor attempt at indifference. He's dying to read it. "Suit yourself," I shrug.
Brittany returns with my quesadillas and two plates, and then walks off.
"You pissed her off." Grabbing one of the plates, I pile on a few triangles of the Mexican masterpiece and a dollop of sour cream. I push the second plate to Tyson and gesture for him to help himself.
"Who cares," he replies, shoving a bite of food into his mouth. "I can't stand it when women are so blatantly sexual. It's like they think that a sexy smile and large rack will get them everywhere in life. I prefer my women to be more subtle and less flashy."
I'm subtle, I think to myself.
Our conversation is light and comfortable as we finish our food and it leaves me feeling satisfied in a way I haven't felt in years. Tyson leans back in the booth, resting his hand on his stomach.
"I thought you weren't hungry," I tease.
"I shouldn't be. Avery brought in leftover pot roast and cheesecake, and I ate way too much of it," he groans.
"Who's Avery?" Reaching for my glass, I take a drink, trying to appear casual. My stomach twists. Who the fuck is Avery?
His eyes flash briefly with an unknown emotion. "She's one of the ER docs. I'm surprised you haven't met her?"
"Who knows? Maybe I have. I've met so many doctors."
"She's really nice, and maybe a few years older than us. She's smart and has been a great mentor. Most of the doctors down there are older, so it's nice to have someone around that's closer to my age. You guys would probably get along great."
Nodding my head, I smile tightly, choosing not to respond. At that moment, loud cheers ring throughout the bar and I stare intently at the action on the big-screen TV, attempting to look interested. Silence engulfs us and guilt rips through my chest. Things just got really uncomfortable and it’s totally my fault.
I finish my drink and signal our waitress for another round. Shifting in the booth, I turn toward Tyson. His eyes are trained on his beer bottle as he slowly turns it while picking off the label.
"Wanna play a game?" I ask, intent on alleviating the awkwardness I caused.
His head stays down but he raises his eyes to meet mine. Why do I find that move so damn sexy? "What do you have in mind?" he asks as Brittany replaces our empty drinks with fresh ones.
"Can we get eight shots? Four Tequila and four Southern Comfort, please?"
Tyson raises his eyebrows at my request and Brittany merely nods and walks off. "I'm not sure shots are a good idea," he says.
"Why not? Wait...I get it," I croon with mock understanding. "You've become a lightweight over the past five years, haven’t you? You're afraid I'll out-drink you." Tyson has never been one to back down from a challenge, and I'm going to take full advantage of that right now.
"Hell no, I'm not a lightweight," he scoffs. "What are the rules?" I can't help the joy that settles in my chest at the thought that maybe—just maybe—I still know more about him than anyone else, even after five years apart. I wonder how much he remembers about me?
"It's easy." Propping my elbows on the surface in front of me, I entwine my fingers and pin Tyson with a questioning glare. "You want our friendship back, right?"
His face softens and he smiles sweetly. "Right."
"Okay. We each get to ask a question. You either answer or take a shot."
"We can ask anything?" he clarifies.
"Anything." Sliding the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows, he scoots forward in his seat and rubs his hands together mischievously. My eyes drift down and lock on the roped veins that run from his hands to his elbows, and I watch with rapt attention as his muscles tick with each movement. Good God, he has sexy forearms.
I shake my head. WTF? Sexy forearms?