James appeared at Flynn’s table and climbed up to sit on it. The warlock’s boots rested on the bench. He set a glass next to him. It was a seasonal cocktail with a shit load of tequila, one he agreed to try even after a couple of Wild Turkey shots lit a campfire in his empty stomach. “Looks fun,” he said, picking up a cornhole bag and balancing it on his palm. Could Flynn see the smile in the dark? James tossed it on the pavement next to the others. He pulled a gray beanie out of the pocket of his jacket and settled it over his hair. “You’re a wholesome guy.”