Chapter 11
Naomi
By the third date, we could’ve fooled anyone into thinking we were madly in love. Even I was starting to believe it, and that was the problem.
He’d picked the place again—a little Italian spot with checked tablecloths and a waiter who called us both innamorati, the lovers, and clearly thought we were madly in love. Neither of us corrected him.
We’d fallen into an easy rhythm over the last few weeks. He texted at least twice a day, once to say good morning, and again to say good night. And I made a note to ask him about his day.
Tonight, we spent the first part of the date deciding what to do with his house. Then Aaron came up over the second glass of wine.
“I wish I’d known you sooner,” Quinn said. He put his hand up. “Properly, I mean. Yes, I know we met a decade ago, but I didn’t really know you.”
I set down my fork. “I wish so too. But it really wasn’t our fault. I was married, remember?”
“Aaron never did like me.” Quinn said it without heat, almost amused.
“Could never work out what I’d done to him to make him hate me so much.
We used to be closer, you know. But he always had to one-up me.
Talk over me when I spoke. Like there was a scoreboard only he could see.
” He turned his water glass. “I used to think I was imagining it. Then it kept happening. Sometimes I wonder if that’s why he snatched you up so fast—because he saw me looking. ”
That had me pausing with my glass an inch from my lips. “Saw you looking?”
“Remember that rooftop party? We spoke for thirty minutes.”
I blinked. “Yeah, I do actually. Wow, that was a long time ago. It’s the same one where I met Aaron.”
I’d kept Aaron out of our conversations on purpose these past weeks. I hadn’t wanted his ghost pulling up a third chair, hadn’t wanted to be the woman who couldn’t get through a date without mentioning her ex. And it was Quinn who mentioned him first.
And now I understood why he was willing to play this charades with me. It was mutually beneficial.
“I never knew that,” I said. “He never did like you. Used to complain about it whenever you posted something. Like you were a wannabe and didn’t deserve it.
But then he said that about a lot of people, so I didn’t really pay attention.
” And that had me frowning. “It never did rub me the right way. How only he deserved his wins, and everyone else just got lucky.” I chuckled.
“I’m glad Tia took him off my hands. You know, she had quite the crush on you. ”
Quinn huffed out a breath. “Tell me about it. She kept coming and wouldn’t take the hint, for years.”
And then we were both laughing, because that was funny, right? Okay, so maybe a little petty, but hella funny.
But as funny as it was, it reminded me that all this between me and Quinn wasn’t real, and my laughter faded.
His did too, but his smile lingered. He reached across the table, his fingers brushing against mine as he turned my hand over, palm up. His touch was light, almost hesitant, like he was testing the waters.
Something in his face went still and warm at once. He didn’t make a thing of it. He just nodded, slow, like I’d confirmed something he’d been quietly hoping for, and left his hand on mine, his thumb still tracing those maddening circles.
The waiter came back and called us innamorati again, and again, neither of us corrected him. Quinn’s foot brushed against mine under the table, a light, accidental touch that sent a jolt up my leg. I didn’t pull away.
Instead, I leaned forward, my knee pressing against his. He didn’t move, but his eyes darkened, and I knew he felt it too—the heat, the tension, the almost.
His foot slid up my calf, slow and deliberate, and I bit my lip to keep from gasping. The tablecloth hid our legs, but the contact was electric, a secret just for us.
“Naomi,” he said, his voice rough.
I met his gaze, my breath hitching. “Yeah?”
He didn’t answer. Just held my eyes, his foot still pressed against my leg, his hand still warm around mine.
The night was dark and blue around us as we stepped out onto the sidewalk. The air was cool, but I felt flushed, my skin humming with the memory of his touch.
Quinn walked close beside me, his arm brushing against mine with every step. I could feel the heat of him, the way his body seemed to pull me in, like a magnet.
“Come see the place,” he said, his voice quiet. “My penthouse, I mean. Not the shag carpet monstrosity.” He hesitated, then added, “If you want. I’ve been wanting to show you, and I keep losing my nerve, which is not a thing I do.”
“Quinn Holland loses his nerve?”
“Around you, apparently.”
I laughed, but my heart was pounding. I looked at him, and found that the deciding was already done—had maybe been done for a while. I was the one holding the wheel this time. I’d promised myself that. And I turned it exactly where I wanted it to go.
“Show me your place,” I said