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He’d tried to text Quinn, but she’d ignored it.
Nick sighed and picked up the paperback on his bedside table—but then he read the same sentence sixteen times.
All his brain wanted to think about was Adam. The lines of his body, the strength in his dancing, the way the music swept through the room and seemed to be part of the movement.
So can I get your number?
Nick hit himself in the head with the spine of his novel and blew out a long breath. These thoughts couldn’t go anywhere. Too complicated. Too dangerous. Quinn, he thought. Think about Quinn.
So he thought about Quinn.
Dancing with Adam.
The phone rang downstairs, and Nick jumped like he’d been caught doing something inappropriate.
The house phone only rang with business calls, but no one was calling about landscaping at midnight. Probably a wrong number. Nick swung his legs out of bed to go answer it before it woke up his brothers.
The phone was on its fourth ring by the time he made it into the darkened kitchen. Nick fumbled for the right button and answered out of habit: “Merrick Landscaping.”
A bare hesitation on the other end of the line. “Is this Nick?”
He froze. He recognized the voice, and it sent his heart racing. “Yeah?”
“This is Adam. Quinn’s friend. We met—”
“I know. Yeah. I mean—” He needed to get it together. His heart wouldn’t stop pounding, and Nick couldn’t figure out whether it was from panic or excitement. “I remember. How’d you get this number?”
“It was on the side of your truck.” Another pause. “Look, I’ve never made a call quite like this one . . .”
Nick held his breath and wondered how he wanted that statement to end.
“. . . but some guy named Matt just called me and said Quinn was passed out on the beach.”
Wait. “What? Quinn’s where?”
“Sandy Point. He said he picked her up outside a bar, and she—”
“Outside a bar?” Nick’s thoughts took a nosedive. He had to fight to keep his voice down. God, he should have snuck her in the house. “Is she okay? Who’s this Matt guy?”
“I don’t know. He said she’s okay, just drunk, and he didn’t want to try to put her on his motorcycle, but he didn’t want to leave her alone, and there was another guy yelling in the background—”
“His motorcycle?” What the hell had Quinn gotten herself involved in?
“I don’t know.” Adam’s voice was tense with worry. He paused. “I don’t have a car.”
Oh. So that’s why he’d called.
“I’ll go get her,” Nick said. “Thanks for letting me know.”
Another hesitation. “If she needs a place to crash, you can bring her here.”
Guilt was jabbing Nick with a pitchfork. He should have brought her here. But Adam’s voice implied that he was no stranger to Quinn’s problems at home, either. “Your folks won’t mind?”
“I have an apartment. Give me your cell. I’ll text you the address.”
When Nick hung up, Gabriel was in the kitchen doorway. He was wearing sweatpants and an old T-shirt, and his hair stuck up in tufts. “What’s going on?”
“Quinn’s drunk on the beach and needs someone to pick her up.” He glanced at the silent stairwell. “Cover for me, okay?”
