11. QUINN
QUINN
With a frustrated groan, I rip another shirt off its hanger and toss it into the suitcase, the fabric landing in a heap on top of the mess that’s already in there.
My hands move fast and angrily, head pounding—not from a hangover, but because of him.
From that stupid, smug grin plastered across his face when I yielded.
I still can’t believe that I lost yesterday.
I was so confident that I was going to beat him; otherwise, I would not have agreed to the challenge in the first place.
But I should have known better than to goad Beckett Morgan, one of the best bareback riders in the country, to a mechanical bull challenge.
In my defense, he pushed me, but I should not have given in.
I was banking on the fact that he’s been out of the game for a while, so it was going to be an easy win for me, but oh how wrong I was.
I can still see that smirk carved across his face, smug and slow, when he realized that he’d won. Cocky bastard. I am a woman of my word, so of course I had to honor my end of the bargain and give him a lap dance.
At first, I was scared, but I shook it off and decided that if I was to lose, I might as well lose with grace, so I gave the show of a lifetime, urged on by the intense look he was giving me.
Even now, hours later, it’s as if the heat of his stare is stitched into my skin.
And the worst part? I liked it. How he didn’t look away, didn’t blink, didn’t give me the mercy of indifference. My body kept moving to the beat, but inside I was unraveling, thread by thread, until it escalated to something more.
Beck watched me as if he wanted to devour me whole, and I allowed him.
I slam a drawer shut hard enough to rattle the mirror on the dresser. The vibration hums through the room, matching the pulse hammering in my throat. I don’t regret having sex with him. God, no. I’d be lying to the heavens if I tried. If I start regretting that, I might as well regret breathing.
No, what eats at me is the fact that I lost. Losing to him means I lose everything. Iron Stallion isn’t just a place—it was my fight, my chance, my stubborn grip on something that was finally mine. And now I have to leave.
I shove a pair of boots into the corner of the bag harder than necessary. My jaw aches from grinding it. My palms sting where I’ve clenched my fists too tight. I hate this. I hate that he beat me fair and square. I hate that I can still feel his hands on me if I stand still too long.
The zipper jerks as I drag it closed. Lifting my suitcase, I set it down at the foot of the bed as my eyes scan the room one last time.
It’s been forty-eight hours, give or take, and I’m already leaving.
It feels akin to a dream vacation that has been cut short abruptly, leaving an empty feeling in my heart.
I’ve already come to terms with the fact that I’ve got no choice but to leave, which brings about another hurdle: informing his family. I have to let them know that I failed before I even got to start the task they so kindly bestowed upon me.
Deciding that there is no point dragging this out any longer, I roll my suitcases out of the room.
I need to face this head-on because every second I stay, I’m circling the drain of humiliation.
Beck won, I lost. Those are the facts. I can hate it all I want, but I won’t cower away like some coward.
The suitcases thud against the banister as I drag them down the stairs. It’s too loud, too obvious, but they are too heavy to carry. I manage to make it to the bottom without attracting any attention.
Cursing under my breath, I nudge them into the narrow space beneath the staircase, out of sight. Oh, how I wish my shame could be stuffed into the shadows too.
Straightening up, I smooth my palms over my jeans and force my spine tall. If I’m going down, I’m doing it with my head high.
The kitchen is abuzz with morning activity—the scrape of a chair, clink of a mug, laughter spilling through the air.
For a moment, I just stand in the doorway, letting it wrap around me.
I’m jealous. This could have been my life for the next two months; instead, I’m going back to the Atwood manor that lacks this kind of warmth.
This family isn’t mine, but God, I wanted it to be, even if for just a couple of weeks.
I square my jaw. Time to face them.
“Good morning, Miss Atwood.” Beck’s dad, Hank Morgan, greets, being the first one to spot me.
I’m finally meeting the legend himself, and it’s a great honor—too bad it’s under the worst of circumstances.
“Mr. Morgan, good morning. It’s such a pleasure to meet you,” I smile politely, walking closer to shake his hand.
It’s firm, his palm calloused and rough, those of someone who enjoys working with his hands.
Similar to his sons, he is tall, with broad shoulders, silver at the temples, but not the kind that makes you feel sorry for him.
It’s the kind that makes you want to sit up straighter.
That salt-and-pepper jawline could cut glass, and those storm-colored eyes are very compelling.
“Likewise. I’ve heard a lot about you. Please sit,” he invites, his voice sweet and gruff at the same time, comparable to honey and oak—rich, deep, and slow.
I know I shouldn’t—I’m here to say goodbye, after all—but I cannot resist the subtle command in his tone.
“All good things, I hope?” I reply as I take a seat next to him.
“Of course. Coffee?” he asks, holding up the pot.
I nod, holding an empty mug toward him. “Yes, please.”
“Thank you so much for taking on the challenge that is our beloved Beck. I know he’s not easy to deal with, so we appreciate you trying. How’s that going so far?” he inquires, passing me the cream and sugar as well.
I turn the cream down and only add a cube of sugar into my mug.
His words hit me hard when I realize that I won’t even get a moment to enjoy breakfast with them.
Noticing my hesitation, Ella reaches out and squeezes my shoulder. “Is everything okay? You look tired.”
“I couldn’t sleep,” I respond with a tight smile, keeping my voice steady. “Figured I should get the hard part over with.”
My statement earns me a couple of raised brows.
“Hard part?” Zane asks, looking concerned. “What did he do?!”
He looks ready to fight for me, even against his own brother, which is sweet but unnecessary. They are all waiting for me to say more, to explain. My throat tightens, but I swallow and press on.
“I came to tell you all something,” I begin, the words tasting like gravel. “I—“
The kitchen door swings open, heavy boots sound against the wood behind me, slow and sure. I don’t have to turn to know it’s him.
“Good morning, family.” Beck cuts in, being his usual obnoxious self.
I turn to glare at him, our eyes meeting—mine full of disdain, his quite the opposite, mischievous, which means he’s up to no good.
“Just the person we were talking about. What did you do to Quinn?” Hank bellows, his tone reverberating around the room.
Beck doesn’t even blink at his dad’s tone while I’m scared for my life.
“I didn’t do anything she didn’t want me to,” he smirks, picking up my coffee mug and taking a sip from it.
My eyes widen at his words and careless action, wondering what he’s playing at. I’m not the only confused one as the rest of the family turn to me for answers that I don’t have.
“Quinn?” Ella calls out.
I open my mouth to defend myself, but once again, Beck cuts in before I can get a word out.
“Don’t mind her,” he says, voice carrying that smug finality that makes my blood boil. “Let me borrow her for a moment.”
Before I can protest, his hand clamps around my arm, firm, unyielding. The whole kitchen is in shock as he pulls me from my seat and drags me out of the kitchen.
We pass my suitcases, still hidden beneath the stairs like some dirty secret.
“Beck—“ I hiss, but he doesn’t loosen his grip. His stride swallows mine, dragging me up the stairs before I can catch a proper breath.
He doesn’t stop until we are in my room. He slams the door shut, rattling the frame, and suddenly it’s just the two of us—me, seething, chest heaving, and him, standing too close, eyes blazing with something I don’t dare name.
I yank my arm free, heat rushing through me. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
He doesn’t flinch or back down, just stares, jaw tight.
I cross my arms, waiting for the smirks and smartass remarks. I can already hear it in my head—Beck gloating, rubbing salt into the wound.
But instead, he leans back against the door, arms folded across his chest, gaze cutting through me. Calm. Controlled.
Unable to stand the silence any longer, I cave first. “If you are here to gloat, get it over with so I can leave.”
His eyes soften, but only slightly, and I almost miss it. “I’m not here to gloat, Quinn.”
The words knock me sideways. My mouth parts, but no sound comes out.
He pushes off the door, steps closer, and lowers his voice. “I’m here because I think we should work together.”
My laugh is sharp and bitter. “Work together? You already won. Isn’t this the part where you tell me to leave and never look back?”
That damn smirk finally shows, but it’s different this time—softer, playful. “Not yet. The truth is, I want to see more of what you’ve got to offer.” His eyes dip, just for a second toward my cleavage, and my whole body burns.
I cross my arms over my chest protectively, but that only makes them pop out more, so I drop my arms back to my side, jaw clenched tight in anger. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”
He chuckles, low and deep—he’s enjoying this too much.
But then his expression shifts, steadying.
“I’m serious, Quinn. You’re good. Better than I expected.
And I can’t keep disappointing my family, so if working with you is what’s needed to make them proud and stop worrying about me, then so be it. ”
The heat in my chest changes—anger melting into something warmer, something dangerously close to hope. “Are you messing with me?”
He shakes his head, plopping himself onto my bed. “No, I’m very serious.”
I blink, trying to gather myself. “You know what giving in to me means, right?”
“I know. I’m ready,” he assures, watching me carefully, that unreadable look in his eyes that makes me nervous. But I don’t want to read too much into it—he’s already agreed, and I’m not going to waste any time.
“Don’t go anywhere. I’ll go get the itinerary,” I decree, turning on my heel.
“I’ll be here,” he smirks, waving me away.
I can’t stop myself from smiling as I run downstairs to get my suitcases, the excitement bubbling out despite everything. For the first time since I arrived, it feels less like defeat and more like possibility.