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“I know.” I chop a green onion into tiny pieces. Slice a red pepper.
“I… I have fun with you.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s easier. You don’t expect me to be smart or polite or pretty.”
My gaze shifts to her dress.
Her cheeks flush. “What?” She smooths the soft fabric. “This is just—”
“How you relax by yourself?”
“Yeah.”
I shoot her a really look.
“Sometimes.” She bites her lip. “I just…”
“You realize we were naked together?”
“Yeah, but…”
“You look fucking gorgeous, angel. I’m not complaining. Just—”
“You think I’m contributing to the problem?”
Yeah. But I need to phrase it delicately. “It’s hard, getting past the way you see yourself.”
She pushes her hair behind her ear. “That’s perceptive.”
“I do all right sometimes.”
“You do.” Her eyes meet mine. “You’re different than I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“I guess… more fun. Not that you aren’t fun. Just this is…”
“Real.”
“Yeah. I’ve never seen you be real.”
“Am I disappointing?”
“No, I like it. I like you. I um… I can put on pajamas if you want.”
“I don’t care.”
Her eyes bore into mine. Sure, you don’t.
I don’t. Not the way she means. “I want you comfortable.”
“I…” She pulls her arm over her chest. “I am. But you’re right. I don’t wear this when I’m alone.”
“What do you wear?”
“You’ll think it’s silly.”
“Is it you?”
“Yeah.”
“Then I’ll love it.”
“Okay. Stay here. I’ll try. But if you laugh, I’m changing back into the dress.”
“You could skip the clothes too.”
She shoots me a get real look and moves into the bedroom.
I get lost in the rhythm of chopping vegetables until she returns.
Fuck, that’s pure Quinn.
A flowing white nightgown straight out of an old movie.
Gorgeous. Classic. Elegant.
“It’s ridiculous, isn’t it?” The dress twirls around her as she spins.
“No. It’s perfect.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Come here.”
She does.
I wrap my arms around her. Pull her into a slow, deep kiss.
She groans against my mouth. Digs her hands into my hair. Pulls me closer.
She wants this too.
This easy intimacy.
But, fuck, I have no idea how to maintain it.
The only person I talk to is Griffin. And he’s… well, he’s insufferable.
She pulls back with a sigh. “You taste good.”
“Thanks.”
Her eyes go to the TV. “I was thinking we’d watch something. That was my plan.”
“Casablanca?”
“No. We have to work up to that. But maybe The Philadelphia Story or The Maltese Falcon or Bringing Up Baby. I mean, you really can’t go wrong with any of them.”
“You pick.”
“Okay.” She chews on her bottom lip. “I think… something light and easy. Yeah?” Need fills her hazel eyes.
I’m not sure what she’s asking.
Only that I want to give it to her.
I want more.
Period.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah.” Her eyes go to the couch. “Just thinking about Owen. He has news. But he won’t say what.”
“That’s weird.”
“Right? I’m sure it’s good. But…”
“You hate not knowing.”
She holds up her thumb and forefinger a little. “I just… I don’t know what he’s going to say.” Her eyes find mine. “About this.”
“What do you want him to say?” Is there anything to say? She won’t see her brother until she’s back in Chicago. Our arrangement ends before she gets on the plane.
Her brother never has to know.
Unless…
Fuck, I can’t contemplate that possibility. Not now.
“I don’t know,” she says. “He knows I’m seeing someone. But not who.”
Oh. That makes more sense. “You don’t have to tell him.”
“That wouldn’t bother you?”
Yeah, but I can’t tell her that. It’s not what we’re doing. “We’re casual right?”
Her eyes flare with hurt, but she shakes it off. “Yeah. Of course.”
“If you want something different—”
“Let’s watch a movie.” She sits on the couch. Picks up the remote. “And eat whatever you’re making. It already smells amazing.”
She wants more than that.
But I don’t call her on it.
It’s not like I can talk.
I slip into cooking.
She puts in The Philadelphia Story.
As promised, we eat dinner as we watch.
Then she crawls into my lap, cuddles up in my arms, and falls asleep.
And, hell, I must have it bad.
Because this is just as good as making her come.
This is better than anything.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Quinn
I wake up in my bed.
In Wes’s arms.
Whole.
That’s the only way to explain the feeling stirring in my gut.
All the sonnets I studied in British Literature finally make sense.
This is it.
The reason why people write love songs. Why they throw away their plans. And tattoo names on their skin.
I remind myself that this is our Paris.
We’ll always have the summer before med school.
As Wes fixes breakfast and tea, when I kiss him goodbye, as we text about nothing, when my mind flips to him at work—
On our next date, hiking Los Liones Canyon until we’re sweaty messes, showering together, stroking him until he comes, his hands between my legs, his name rolling off my lips—
Another week of sweet texts—
The morning of our next date—
I keep reminding myself.
Repeating my mantra.
We’ll always have the summer before med school.
Better to have loved and lost.
Better to have some than none.
Somewhere between my first cup of tea and our kiss hello, I believe it.
