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“George. Actually it’s Georgia Bowen, but no one calls her Georgia. Dude, she was a goalie at Wisconsin. Fiery red hair, hot little temper. This girl’s got an edge that gets me in all the best ways, but underneath… she’s soft.”
“They’re all fucking soft, Quinn. It’s called pussy.”
I straighten, picking up his change in tone. “What’s your problem?”
“This red-headed hockey player named George is playing you, man.”
Okay, and now I’m pissed. “The hell? You don’t even know her. Why the hell would you say that?”
“Because… I know what your bank account looks like, dipshit. You know I love you. But you aren’t exactly quality boyfriend material. Which means this chick is either seriously out of your league and just hasn’t realized it yet—I mean, does she have any idea how many bunnies you’ve stuck your dick in? Because eventually, chicks ask.”
“Or?”
“Or she’snotso very far out of your league, but she’s using you. And brother, that’s what my money’s on.”
“Then you’d lose. Because this girl isn’t playing me. She couldn’t stand me when we first met. Wouldn’t even speak to me, because—”
I don’t want to tell him anything about George, but screw it. At least this way he’ll back off. “You remember Mexico, that trip we took on break and the night I blacked out? The girl?”
“It’s her?”
“No, thank fuck. But that girl is one of her friends. George hated me on sight, man. And yeah, this chick is definitely out of my league. We both know it. But we’ve got this connection, this thing between us that—I don’t know how to describe it, except that it’s real and it’s incredible.”
He doesn’t answer right away, but then, “If that’s how it is, I’m happy for you, man.”
I’m still bristling, not liking the idea of defending George to anyone. Especially him.
I take a breath.
He doesn’t know her. That’s all. He doesn’t know her, and he thinks everyone is out for themselves because that’s who he is.
“Look, I gotta turn off the phone. Take it easy.”
“You too, bro. And sorry for doubting your shit with this girl. You’re my little brother. Guess I’m still looking out for you.”
Yeah, well I don’t need it.
Pocketing my phone, I head back to the open seat by Vassar.
Chapter 23
George
I’m bent over the computer in the shop, trying to figure out what my brother did wrong on this last order because the numbers are completely jacked. It’s been snowing since this morning, and even though that all but guarantees a slow day for the shop, I’m kind of digging the quiet and swirl of quarter-sized flakes drifting gently past the front windows. For now, anyway—it’s supposed to get pretty nasty later.
I glance at my phone, something I’ve been doing more and more lately, waiting to see what Quinn’s going to send next.
Two hours ago, he texted after their morning meeting with a video Vsev was sharing of this pug puppy pancaked over a Roomba, little legs dangling behind on the freshly cleaned floor.
This guy is ridiculous and I’m falling harder every single day.
Quinn’s brought up meeting my family a couple of times since that near miss upstairs, but I keep putting him off with one flimsy excuse after another. It’s not fair that I haven’t told him the truth yet, but every time I try, I start to panic. I’m afraid of how he’s going to react. How my family will react.
But it’s time. Past.
The bell on the door at the front of the shop rings and I look up, expecting to greet some hard-core customer in search of carbide-studded tires for the snow, but one look into the sea-green eyes in front of me has me stumbling off my stool.
“Patrick?” They still look alike, but in the nearly seven years since I last saw this man, the differences have become more pronounced. Where Quinn’s features are this gorgeous blend of strength and balance, his brother’s are just a little off. The cheekbones more angular, a leaner build on a shorter frame. His eyes washed-out versions of the real thing.
