Page 134 of The Flirty Vet

"I'll counter sue."

Man, these guys sound like Americans.

"You guys sound just like Americans," Wilby says, then looks over at me. "Sorry, I didn't mean anything bad by it."

I laugh. "It's all good."

My belly swoops, and I smile at the uncanny way he read my mind.

"So, come on, Langdon. Show me what you got," Wilby challenges.

"He means with clothes on," Fitz clarifies with a chuckle, then frowns as he tilts his head to Wilby. "You do mean with clothes on, right? I know Scuttlebutt is pretty progressive, but I think turning karaoke into a live sex showmiiightbe a bit much."

"I don't know." Muir takes a swig of his beer, his eyes unfocused. "I wouldn't mind seeing a live sex show."

Something unfamiliar flares in my gut—Muir had better not be thinking that about Wilby—but then I see that he's staring intensely at Fitz…and Fitz isn't breaking eye contact.

With my jealousy—or whatever emotional gremlin that was—fizzing, I decide it's about damn time I join the group banter. "Well, if you play your cards right, Muir, you might get one when you crash at Fitz's tonight."

Wilby bursts out laughing, but Muir… He goes full-on red in the face. I'm talking beetroot drenched in tomato sauce red.

"How did you know I'm crashing at Fitz's?" he finally says.

"Oh my god." Wilby rolls his eyes. "You've only told us a million times since we've been back how your girlfriends are having a girls week on the Gold Coast, so you and Fitz are going to hang out together and have PlayStation marathons…which, apparently, isn't a euphemism."

Muir looks at Fitz. "What the fuck's a euphemism?"

"Beats me. Sounds like a surgical procedure or something." Fitz narrows his eyes at Wilby, but he's drunk so his head is wobbly, and he looks more comical than serious like I think he intends. "What are you impersonating, mate?"

I'm confused. Wilby covers his mouth and whispers to me. "I think he meansinsinuating. These guys' vocab goes from bad to downright fucking shocking once they're on the turps and get pissed as farts."

"So eloquently put," I whisper back, calling on the Aussie language whispering skills I've developed over the past two months to infer that beingon the turpsmeans drinking a lot andgetting pissedmeans getting wasted.

"I'm notimpersonatinganything," Wilby replies with an innocent lilt in his voice, turning back to the guys. "Anyway, stepping away from that sideshow for a minute." He swings his gaze back to me.

"No, no. Keep going with that sideshow. I was enjoying it."

"I bet you were." He grins, tapping his fingers against my forearm. "Will you sing? For me? Please?"

I shake my head. "No fucking way."

"Okay. That's fine. I respect your choice."

NowInarrow my eyes at him. "That was too easy."

"No, no. I mean it. If you're too much of a chickenshit to belt out a tune to the fine, upstanding citizens of Scuttlebutt, I fully respect your chickenshitness. I am not one to ever deprive someone of fully leaning into their chickenshithood."

I blow out a breath. "You're baiting me."

"I am." He cracks a hopeful grin. "Is it working?"

Without waiting for me to respond, he brings his hands under his armpits and starts flapping his arms as he clucks, "Buk buk buk buk ba-gawk."

That's it. I was holding firm, but there's no way I cannotnotrespond to that.

"Fine. I'm in."

He starts laughing, thinking he's won, but, oh no, he hasn't. Not by a long shot. Because if I'm going down, I'm taking him with me.