Page 93 of The Wedding Situation Romance

I stand up, no longer caring who is watching or listening. “First of all,Reid, my name is not Quinn Bowen. It’s Quinn Delaney. And you’re right. I did lie about something. I didn’t have her name from birth. It wasn’t to keep me safe and anonymous. I took her name when she died so that it would carry on in some way. But that is information I didn’t owe you. And it’s also the only thing I lied about. I didn’t know you were on the Overholtcase. I wasn’t using you for money. I scratched your back, and you were supposed to scratch mine. I didn’t use you for my nonprofit. We made a business deal. One thatyouare refusing to withhold. I haven’t done anything wrong,” I state. And by the end of my story, as he put it, I am winded from defending myself. Not that I should have to.

But Reid just studies me with fixed eyes and a smirk.

“Why should I believe you?” he asks, and that cracks me.

I blurt out a scoff at that. “Why should you believe me? Does everything that has happened between us in the past couple of months mean nothing to you?” I ask.

“You mean the weddings?” he asks.

“I mean thedates,” I state.

“Thosedateswere, as you put it, contractual,” he says with forced nonchalance.

“Bullshit,” I snap. “I don’t buy it.”

“Well, that sounds like a you problem,” he says, getting up from the table. “Because as far as I am concerned, we are done here.”

Chapter 38

Quinn

I leavethe coffee shop without a coffee, which is saying a lot for me.

At first, I am in such a state of utter shock over everything that just happened, I literally have no idea where I am going or what I am going to do. I want to go after him, but I also feel like I should know better. That explosion was hot enough to burn, and I know better than to touch the safe fire twice. Until it cools down a little, anyway.

When I get behind the wheel of my car, I don’t know where I’m going. But my brain does. Because how could he accuse me of all of that? The idea of me using him for money, of me somehow knowing that Michael Overholt was his client and that I would try to mess with any of that is just…

“Does he even know me at all?” I ask no one in particular. The guy behind me at the stoplight honks his horn and goes around me, rolling his window down to yell as he passes.

“It’s green, lady! Get your head out of your phone!” he yells with a Brooklyn accent.

“Get your head out of your ass!” I yell back before hitting the gas.

This isn’t me. Verbally road raging at people, ugly crying while driving, teetering somewhere between heartbreak and rage. None of it is me. And you know what else isn’t me? Using someone for money. Lying to someone I care about.

Dating my father’s workplace rival.

Jesus…

That one really throws me for a loop. I mean, at this point I have so much vertigo from the intensity of the situation, I don’t know which way is up and which way is down. But finding out that my father and Reid have literally fought each other in a courtroom makes me physically nauseous.

Speaking of that.

While I had no idea where I was going when I got in my car and ripped down the congested New York street, it wasn’t until I put the car in park in front of my dad’s house that I realized this was my destination. But it makes sense for two reasons. One, I always go to my dad when I have a problem. Nearly thirty or not, he’s my dad. He’s all I’ve had. But also, finding out he is, or was, on the Overholt case is news to me. And I need to know what he knows.

“Hey sunshine, how’s things?” my father stops when he sees my face. He’s in the middle of rinsing off dishes to place in the dishwasher, and he turns off the water and dries his hands on a dish towel. “Quinny, are you okay?” he asks.

“No, Dad, I’m not,” I tell him, making no point of hiding the fact I’ve been crying or the fresh tears making their way forward from the back of my eyes.

“Well, why don’t we have a drink and talk about it?” he asks calmly. My dad is nothing if not calm. Always.

“I haven’t even had coffee yet,” I sniff, running my hand through my hair as I try to calm myself.

“Well, coffee then. I’ll put on a pot right now. And you’re in luck. I just bought that organic vanilla creamer you like,” he says.

“I don’t feel like coffee right now,” I say, and he closes the fridge.

“Alrighty then, no coffee,” he says. Then he takes my hand and pulls me into his arms. “Hug first. Always hug first. And then we talk.”