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I leaned in to comment, and he held up his hand.
“Let me finish. Not about me, per se, but about my experience. Experiences in general in the dating world as a differently-abled guy. Loads of guys on my basketball team would be open to talking to you about their relationships, successes and failures. Most are gonna be level with you. They’ll tell you all of it. The obvious. The downright scandalous.”
I slid my hand into my pocket, gripping the shaft of my pen, my finger touching the top. Click. Click.
He continued, “You could make us more approachable, Liam. So many people are afraid of dating us, afraid of saying the wrong thing—afraid of even telling us if they like us because they just don’t know enough. Your readership is wide, man, and I think your writing will have just the right amount of punch to make an impact.”
Hunter held my attention with his level stare and a shrug. Click-click-click.
The paper was stained and dented, scrunched at one side. It looked as old and tired as the idea I was forcing onto it.
He was right. The truth didn’t taste pleasant on my tongue, but it was there nevertheless. And hadn’t I in some way wondered the same myself? Why else had I such an urge to show this to Hunter?
I’d wanted his no-bullshit analysis.
And I got it. More than that, I got a new idea. A brilliant idea, wonderful, and I really wanted to do it. But Quinn intensely disliked it and gave me the cold shoulder when I had tried to use him as an angle before. “I want to do it,” I said to Hunter. “But Quinn wouldn’t want me using you as a means.”
Hunter smiled and shrugged. “You’re not using me. And even if you were, I know what this features position means to you. I would look the other way. Quinn would too. The question is, does Quinn know why you really need this?”
The café door opened and Quinn entered, Shannon at his heels. Shannon moved stiffly to the counter, and Quinn flipped his keys over his finger as he threaded his way to our table, a dimpled grin lighting his face. “Thought I might find you two in here.”
Quinn, between Hunter and I, braced a hand on the back of my chair. His thumb casually stroked my back as he told Hunter he should drive his van around to the apartment so they could follow each other.
“Louisville, Kentucky, here we come,” Hunter murmured, glancing toward Shannon balancing two drinks. “So,” he said, “maybe we could change things up? When Shannon or you are driving, one of you could sit with me in the van, right?”
“Miss us already, do you? Or did you want to pry for information about the guy who asked her out on a date?”
“The latter for sure.”
Quinn let go of my chair and dragged another chair over from the neighboring table. He settled himself on it and leaned conspiratorially toward Hunter. A thumb jerked in my direction. “Did you manage to change his mind?”
Hunter laughed. “Better luck next time, Sullivan.”
I picked up the pages from the table and slipped them into my bag, offering my chair to Shannon. She barely looked at me as she nodded and took my place.
I settled my bag strap over my shoulder and said to Hunter, “Well, I’m not sure if I will take that angle, but it wouldn’t hurt to do some preliminary research.”
Hunter smirked. “Just do it. Quinn will get over it.”
“Get over what?” Quinn asked, looking between us.
“I’ve told him to use me as an angle,” Hunter said, puffing out his chest with a large breath.
Shannon hummed, sitting tense in the chair. Hunter glanced at her, as if expecting her to get defensive, but she said nothing.
“Angle?” Quinn’s brow furrowed.
“Yes,” I said as I squeezed out from between Quinn and Shannon. “It bothers me you’re not okay with it, but it really is a good idea, and I am going to do it.”
I clasped Quinn’s other shoulder and bent down, kissing him quickly on the lips. “I have to get everything I need for the weekend from the office. Drive safely. I’ll see you on Sunday.”
Quinn, Hunter, and Shannon blinked at me.
“Oh, and happy Thanksgiving.” I gave them a wave and left, resettling the bag strap on my shoulder.
Chapter 18
Drenched from rain, I let myself into apartment twenty-three, flicked on the light, and shucked off my jacket and shoes. With cold, stiff limbs, I dropped onto the couch, my bag wedged uncomfortably behind my back.
With a groan, I stripped out of my wet clothes and padded to the bathroom to dry my hair. The warm air didn’t help me forget the email I’d sent my father.
My Happy Thanksgiving message had come back with an auto-reply.
Thank you for your message. I am currently out of the office over the Thanksgiving weekend. I will be returning on Monday, the first of December. If you need urgent assistance, contact me at . . .
