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He kissed my cheek and rearranged himself so he stared up. The sunlight blotting through the tree and into the window made shadows play across the cream ceiling.
He said quietly, “I’m sorry for our beginning, though. I should never have made assumptions about you before I knew you. The strange thing is, even when I was saying them, I still felt this thing.”
“Thing?”
“The thing that led to the pathetic crush.”
“Attraction, you mean?”
He rubbed his eyes. “Yeah. Since reading your first description of me in that damn notebook.”
“If I had it here right now, I’d jot down a few other adjectives. You’re really quite the sight.”
Quinn rolled over suddenly, fanning cool air between us. He turned back with a pen. “Go ahead.”
I shifted onto my side and took the pen, pressing the tip on his arm. In cursive, I wrote:
Disheveled. Rakish.
And then, thinking of the sex we’d just had:
Strong. Safe. Tender.
The pen slipped when Quinn spoke: “Hunter gave me more details about the idea for your article.”
I continued with Considerate.
“I think he’s right. You should do it.”
“I was going to, anyway,” I said, and after a moment added, “but it makes things . . . better that you’re okay with it.”
He stilled his hand over mine on the pen and drew it away, shifting to hold my gaze. “Remember when I came to this apartment the first time and you told me it belongs to your dad?”
“Yes.”
“You said there were no hurt feelings hidden anywhere. That it is what it is. But it’s not, is it?”
So Hunter had spilled more than details about the article. “No, it’s not.”
Quinn glanced to the dancing shadows and back. “I’m sorry, Liam.”
I rolled over him to the side of the bed and shrugged. Quinn tried to grab me, but I dodged him. It was time I get up and get on with the day, anyway. “He’ll get to know me,” I said as I slipped my robe over my shoulders. “I’ll score that position.” And then—more to myself than to Quinn—I said, “I’m not going to fail.”
The Friday following Thanksgiving weekend, Hunter rang. “Wish me luck on my date.”
I held the phone to my shoulder with my ear as I packed my laptop into my bag. “Don’t you make your own luck?”
A short silence, and then, “Make a toast with me: to the most unforgettable night.”
I scoured around and picked up a glass of tepid water I’d had at my bedside. “To the most unforgettable night.”
I swallowed the water, but it left an acrid taste in my mouth. Closing my bag, I asked, “Have you talked to Shannon yet? Quinn said he tried, but things are still awkward.”
I trudged into the living room and grabbed my keys from behind the cookbook stand on the bench. Quinn had marked an eggplant lasagna he wanted to try out on an unwilling me.
“I tried a couple of times,” Hunter said, his voice thin down the line. “Both major fails. But I’m sure things will pick up between her and Quinn soon.”
As if he heard his name, Quinn, lying on the couch talking on his cellphone, looked my way. He covered the receiver and mouthed, “Off to the office?”
“Tonight’s the night.” After a week of interviews and research, I’d drafted my article. And it was good. In need of fleshing out, and possibly rearranging in some parts, but I liked where it was going. “Scribe, here I come.”
Hunter was the first to respond, “Fuck, dude. You’ll rock this. If what I saw was anything to go by, you have this in the bag.”
Quinn hummed something into his cell and hung up. “And the party of the week? If you like, I can go somewhere and write notes for you?”
I checked my pocket for my notebook and pen. There. There. Good. “I’m pushing that to tomorrow, unless I’m feeling particularly sprightly come midnight.”
Hunter snorted in my ear. “Sprightly. Love it. Get cracking on that article, and send me and my buddies a copy when you’re done, yeah?”
He disengaged, and I slipped the phone into my bag. Quinn was there the moment it slid into the snug pocket. “No matter what happens with your report, whether or not you get features editor and what your dad does or doesn’t say, I already think you’re amazing.”
A soft, brief kiss punctuated his words. “But I know how much this means to you, so . . .” A sudden slap sizzled my ass. “Get cracking, Liam.”
The night was thick and chilled, so of course my bus came late and I climbed on with chattering teeth and my jacket done up to my chin. I could have walked to campus faster, and now that I’d had three self-defense lessons, I was confident enough for it too.
By the time I arrived, the church bells in the distance were chiming eight o’clock. Never mind. At least I’d gone through my outline on my way over and knew exactly how I’d tackle it. It shouldn’t take me longer than an hour to finish. And at Scribe—the reason I’d packed myself up to go there—I worked best. Something in the atmosphere of the place really kick-started my engine. Besides, this moment I wanted to remember for a long time, so along with the email I’d also lay a copy of the article on the chief’s desk.
