She shrugs lightly. “I have layers.”
She's watched too much Shrek this week.
I squint at her. “You just don't want to clean the coffee shop again.”
“Correct. I’m still traumatised. Do you know how long it took me to clean that floor? You owe me.”
I laugh despite myself. She complained the whole time, even though that mess wasn't my fault.
“And,” she adds, pointing at me. “I want my bed back. You kick and refuse to cuddle me.”
“Because your hand kept drifting south.”
Quinn has wandering hands in her sleep. I woke up in the middle of the night to her holding onto my boobs for dear life.
“I can't help it. I have no control over my actions when sleeping. But I also miss your shiny jewel down there,” she goes to poke there this time, but I grab her hand.
“We need to teach you boundaries.”
Her tongue pokes out. “Pond wouldn't complain.”
I don’t doubt that for a second.
I shake my head and stand up to find my phone and some clothes. Quinn could just say hi to my brother, and he would be on his knees for her. Hopefully, he moves on soon.
She holds my phone out to me until I finally take it.
“Message him. Invite the guy to the Christmas markets and sort this shit out before I’m forced to make you commit another crime.”
“You wouldn't."
A wicked grin appears on her face. “Oh, I absolutely would.”
I huff out a breath and scroll to Elijah's name, my stomach instantly somersaulting at his name.
“What if he's working?” I ask, anxiety creeping in. “What if he can't come or just doesn't want to see me?”
Quinn gets off the bed and heads to her drawer like she's on a mission. “Something tells me that Elijah would drop whatever he's doing to see you.”
I chew my bottom lip, tapping the back of my phone nervously.
Behind me, I hear the drawer shut.
A buzzing sound.
I spin around to see her holding a black vibrator. Oh my god.
“Quinn!” I squeal, grabbing my things, including Sassy, and head to the door. She calls out that it’s been a very long week for her, too.
Chapter 37
Willow
I’m a bag of nerves right now.
The Christmas markets are packed—families wrapped in scarves, couples taking cheesy pictures, kids darting between stalls on a sugar high. The air smells unreal. Cinnamon and mulled wine. Freshly fried dough. Something savoury and cheesy drifting from one of the food trucks makes my stomach growl despite the knots.
Fairy lights are strung everywhere, crisscrossing above. Christmas songs play from hidden speakers, the old classics that everyone secretly loves. My breath fogs in front of me.
