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“Seriously, the first time you kissed, you believed you were in love with this guy. No way that kiss was being judged on its own merit. I mean, think about it. Your head and your heart and your body all start working together, pulling toward this one guy in a way you’ve never felt before?”
I nod, the echo of that pull strong enough to have me wrapping my arms around my belly and folding forward.
“That’s some pretty heady stuff, George. But it’s not real.”
Peeking up at her, I ask, “What are you saying? I built what happened with Quinn up in my mind… and by the time I was willing to dip a toe back into the dating waters—” more than a year and a half later, “—I convinced myself he was more than he actually was?”
“Exactly.” She gets up and walks back to the kitchen, returning with two fresh cans. “It’s time you stop giving this guy so much power over you.”
“How do you suggest I do that?”
“Positive affirmations and a mani-pedi to start. Take your shoes off and stick your feet in the spa. Then say it after me, ‘Quinn O’Brian is not all that.’”
Chapter 7
George
Legs stretched out beneath the early October sun, I’m parked on the stoop behind The Bike Shop waiting for Vaughn and Nat to swing by and pick me up. They’re hosting a barbecue to celebrate the official season start tomorrow. This time of year, the days are still pretty warm, but it cools off quickly in the evenings so I’ve got a jean jacket in my bag.
A big black SUV turns into the alley, taking up most of the width as it edges down the cracked concrete. Not Vaughn’s car. I check my phone, but no messages from Nat.
It slows, and I squint to see who’s inside. But with the sun glinting across the windshield, it’s not until Quinn stops in front of me that I realize what’s going on.
“Don’t get excited, I’m just doing a favor for a friend,” he says, leaning toward the open passenger window, that all-charm smile getting harder and harder to ignore.
I’m about to tell him we aren’t friends when he holds up a finger. “And by friend, I mean Vassar. Nat left her phone at the shelter, so he asked me to swing by and grab you while they ran back.”
My mouth clamps closed, and he grins. “And they sayIhave an ego.”
I don’t want to do it. I try not to, but I can feel that smile fighting for freedom at the corner of my mouth.
And Quinn being Quinn, shakes his head with a quiet, “Almost.”
This guy never quits.
I hop up from my step behind the shop, and signal for him to wait where he is while I grab my stuff. It’s Sunday, so we’re closed and the boys are nowhere to be found, but still, I don’t like the idea of anyone seeing Quinn here.
If word got back to my dad… I don’t even want to think about it.
Inside, I do a last check that everything is locked up. My phone pings with a text from Nat apologizing for the change in plans and making sure I’m not currently burying a body in the stockroom.
I’m about to text back when the air changes and a warm hand grazes the small of my back. I jerk up with a gasp, gaping at Quinn as he leans past me.
“Relax,” he says with a wink. “This is all about the potato salad.”
Flicking a glance down to where his hand still lingers, warm and wide at my hip, I manage, “Is that so?”
He follows my gaze and stares like he doesn’t know how that hand got there. Which I wouldn’t believe for a second if it weren’t for the ruddy shade burning up his cheeks.
“No way. Are youblushing?” I laugh, barely keeping from reaching out to touch him.
Because I don’t want to touch him at all.
“Please,” he coughs, offended like I asked if he needed help taping his stick. “I’m not blushing. I’m a strapping, hot-as-fuck pro-hockey player. My kind doesn’t blush.”
Our eyes meet and I lift my shoulder. “But youare.”
And the thing is, it’s kind of freaking me out. Because a guy can fake a lot of things. He can lie to your face. Sound as sincere as the day is long. He can look at you like you’re his next breath when you’re nothing more than the next couple hours to kill… but the one thing he can’t fake is a blush.
