Chapter 18 – QUINN
QUINN
On Sunday, I wake up to early-morning sunshine.
It’s barely six, and I shouldn’t be awake, but resident life means I wake early and function on too little sleep.
On a perfect morning like this, I’m not too angry about my early wakeup call.
This is full-on blue skies, golden rays, and barely any humidity.
It’s the kind of day that makes it impossible to stay in bed.
Which sucks.
I had plans.
The kind of plans that had me in my PJs with a book, a cup of coffee, and a freshly baked croissant, courtesy of my favorite celebrity chef, Roman Fritz, who knows they’re my particular weakness and makes me dough that I freeze and bake as desired.
I end up throwing on a pair of exercise shorts and a tank top and head out the door. As fun as it would be to stay lazy, instinctively, I know the run will be good for me. It’ll clear my head, something I need.
I take the path that takes me over the bridge and into Cambridge.
It loops me around Memorial Drive before I jog back toward home.
It’s one of my favorite routes with the water and the city just across the river and spread out before me.
Sweat coats my body, and my lungs have that perfect burn tickled with endorphins.
I jog up my street, which is a motherfucker of an incline and a hell of a way to end my run.
Just before I reach my door, a truck hops the curb as it tries to get around a car that’s double-parked on the narrow street.
Only it does this move without seeing me running and comes within inches of crushing me.
Someone yells to me from behind. “Quinn, watch out!”
I’m so startled by both that I jump back and flatten myself against the building, scraping my left elbow on the rough brick in the process. It stings like a bitch, but the truck would have definitely hurt worse. And because he’s a dick, he honks at me like it’s my fault he nearly killed me.
“You’re an asshole!” I flip him as he drives away. I check my elbow, and a patch of skin is gone, leaving me a dirty, bleeding mess. Ugh.
“Quinn, are you okay?” A hand lands on my face and twists it until I’m staring straight up into frantic blue eyes.
I blink, swallow, then manage a nod. “Are you stalking me again, Coach?”
Instead of laughing or smiling, he releases me and shifts his weight, and I swear to Jesus there’s a blush on his cheeks. It takes me a second to realize he’s dressed similarly to me and equally as sweaty.
“I live over there.” He points to the top of the street where another intersects it, lined with rows of townhouses. “I went out for a run, and I saw you leave your house to do the same.”
“Did you follow me?”
He glances out toward the street. “Um.” Now he laughs, but it’s nervous. “On a scale of creepy to sweet, how would you rate me if I said yes?”
“Uh.”
“In fairness to me,” he continues quickly, “I just moved here and don’t know the good routes. I figured you did, and also—and I know this will sound sexist, but whatever—I don’t love the idea of you running alone. You’re a beautiful, young woman and therefore a target.”
I snort a laugh. “So you followed me without making me aware of your presence?”
His expression dances with a mixture of humor and unease. “When you put it like that, it sounds bad. I wanted to run with you. I thought about catching up, but given everything that’s happened since Friday, I didn’t feel that was the best decision for either of us.”
He’s probably right. “I run with pepper spray. A good friend of mine was attacked several years ago by her ex while running. Since then, I always have it with me.”
“Shit. That’s awful.” Blood drips down my arm and drops onto the concrete. He grabs my wrist and twists my arm so he can see. “Damn. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were hurt, and here I am trying to convince you I’m not a stalker. Let’s get you inside.”
“I can take care of it.”
“It’s in a funky spot. Let me help. Your place or mine?”
“I love it when the creepy man who follows me gives me the option.”
His lips bounce. “Not creepy. A bit obsessed, maybe, but not creepy. Your place is closer, and I don’t know where my first aid kit is.”
“Then I guess my place it is.”
A thrill runs through me, making my skin buzz as I lead us up two more houses to mine.
“Did you know I lived here before this morning?”
“No. It’s an awful coincidence.”
I throw him a side-eye as I unlock my door and let us in. “Awful?”
“The worst. You live and sleep less than five houses away from me. I can see your front door when I leave mine. It’s a total coincidence, but if I wasn’t already thinking about you too much, it’ll be worse now.”
“You really need to stop saying everything you think.”
I grab my first aid kit from under the sink. Truthfully, I need a shower and can clean it out in there, but I’ll start with this since he’s here.
He takes the kit from my hand, sets it on the counter, grabs my hips, and hoists me up until I’m sitting on the stone.
“Probably,” he agrees. “Russel came to see you yesterday.”
He opens the kit, and I sit here, watching as he removes an antiseptic wipe I’m already not looking forward to and a large bandage. I scowl, every inch of me irritated by that. By all of this.
“He came to apologize four years too late.”
“Oh. That’s all he wanted?”
“More or less, I suppose. I think he wanted to clear the air and have me absolve him of his sins before he plays with my brothers. He was under the illusion that being on the team meant we’d be spending time together, and I corrected that.”
He doesn’t reply as he goes over to my sink to wash his hands.
The large muscles in his arms move, his dark tattoos glistening in relief against his red, sweaty skin.
My body prickles with heat and awareness.
I’ve pictured Rhett here in my house before today.
When we had phone sex, and I was in my bed, I pictured him with me.
I wondered if we’d have morning afters. If he’d make me breakfast and kiss me or touch me every time he walked past me while he worked.
If we were able to keep our hands to ourselves or if we’d end up fucking on the counter while our eggs or toast burned.
He dries his hands on a dish towel and comes back over to me, positioning himself between my thighs. I cock an eyebrow, and he simply smirks. That’s it. But fuck, even after a run, he still smells good, and his heat and size are making me jittery in the best possible way.
“This might burn.”
He wipes my cut with the antiseptic wipe, and yeah, it does fucking burn. I hiss in a breath.
“Oh, come on. I thought you were tough. A badass snowboarder. I bet you’ve had worse than this.”
“I have, but let me scrape off a layer of your flesh and douse it with something that contains rubbing alcohol and see how tough you are, big guy.”
A laugh bursts out. “Big guy?”
“Aren’t you?”
“Standing between your thighs, it’s impossible to be anything but. Actually I’ve pretty much been hard all morning watching you run in front of me with your tight ass, hair pulled off your neck, and sweat.”
A flush takes hold of me. The kind that makes my nipples tight and my pussy wet. “I’m sure that wasn’t the most comfortable way to run.”
“Probably worse than your cut. I’ll take care of it when I get home in my shower.
” He opens the Band-Aid and applies it to my elbow.
He’s been skirting my face, unwilling to look at me.
Silence thickens between us, edged with tension that only has one cure.
I know what’s at stake for him, and truth be told, it’d be a very bad look for me.
It’s the attraction that’s getting to me. It’s the strongest one I’ve had in a very long time. And I like it. I like the undercurrent and how my heart beats a little differently when he’s around. I like that he never fails to give me butterflies.
And with that, we shouldn’t be alone. We both know it.
More importantly, I need to safeguard myself.
Because I’ll get hurt. I already like him a lot, and I know he likes me. Fuck all, the man isn’t shy about speaking his mind.
“Where’s your medal? Can I see it? Try it on?”
I laugh. Everyone asks me that. “It’s at my parents’.”
He tilts his head. “Why is it there?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. It’s always been there. My dad has a trophy room where he keeps all of his and our trophies and awards. I was a kid when I won. I moved back to Boston, but started college immediately and was living in a dorm.”
“Bummer. There goes my dream of wearing a gold medal.” He winks at me and kisses the spot on my arm above the cut. “All better.”
“Thank you.”
I push him back, and he gets the hint and steps away until his ass and hands meet the island behind him. His gaze finally holds mine for a minute before he slowly glances around my kitchen.
“This is nice,” he says quietly. “I need to update my kitchen. And two of the bathrooms.”
“Happens in these old townhouses. I renovated this place after I bought it last year.”
“Did you live with him?”
It’s so strange to me how neither of us knew about the other. How detached Russel was—or still is—from his father. I know that didn’t come from Rhett.
“No. Not really. My place was near the medical school, and he lived downtown. We never talked about living together. I was too busy with school, and he didn’t like my place. It wasn’t flashy enough for him.”
He smiles and rubs his jaw. “He said something similar to me the other night.”
My house is expensive. It’s a full townhouse in a luxurious part of Boston.
I had endorsements after I won gold that paid me a lot of money.
Plus, I have family money. Even before football, my dad had money since he was part of a world-famous boy band as a teenager and had deals from it.
His wealth only increased with his career, but that’s not how I was raised. Certainly not how my mother is.
But even though I have a trust fund and an expensive house and make a good living, even as a resident, my place isn’t ostentatious.
I don’t wear a lot of designer clothes, and most of the time, my nails are chipped if they’re painted at all.
I like heels and dresses, but I don’t look like a model, and I have no clue how to pose for photographs.
I’m a snowboarder at heart and have a bit of grunge in me that I like.
Even when I get dressed up, I still have that vibe.
Crew used to call me Sporty Spice, which I always found amusing.
Rhett is seventeen years older than me, but I feel like he’s the first man to actually get who I am and like it.
I don’t see him trying to change me the way Russel used to.
Russel would make comments that I didn’t take care of myself the way his teammates’ wives did. They also weren’t medical students.
“I should get going,” he says after a beat. “I need a shower and some coffee.”
“I’d offer you both, but that’s probably not a good idea.”
He chuckles. “Definitely not.” He pushes off the counter and stands before me.
His knuckles swipe along my cheek as his blue eyes hold mine.
I swallow a lump in my throat, my face tingling at his touch.
He’s quiet, but it doesn’t feel that way.
It feels loud, especially with my pulse banging in my ears.
His hand sweeps along my jaw, where his fingertips take over and glide down my neck.
My eyelids flutter, and my breath hitches. It’s like I’ve never been touched before with how hard my heart is beating. He traces the lines of my clavicle to the base of my throat, where my aortic arch thrums for him. I’m afraid to move. Afraid to breathe.
“Am I still the last man to touch you?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
He growls and nibbles on my neck, his hot breath making me shudder. “No one else, Quinn.”
“You can’t make me promise that, and you know it.”
“No man is safe if he comes near you.”
“Then make it so they don’t.”
He bites into me hard enough that I squirm. “Two seconds. Each and every goddamn time I’m near you, my resolve crumbles in two fucking seconds.”
This isn’t smart, and we both know it, and any second he’ll come to his senses and stop. Or perhaps I should come to mine and make him.
But I can’t.
I want it too badly.
I want his touch everywhere—on my breasts and between my legs and every place in between. His lips part and his chest moves up and down, his breathing growing heavier.
We both want this. Even if we know we shouldn’t.
He pulls back, his face in front of mine, but I can’t make myself look at him. Instead, I’m locked on his chest as his finger continues to move on my skin. I’m so turned on, and I know he can tell. I know he likes how I react to him.
This is wrong. But god, it feels so good.
His hand continues south until he runs a finger in a swooping motion along the neck of my tank top that hovers a few tiny centimeters over my sports bra. I have a peek of pressed cleavage, and his finger catches it.
My eyes close. Oh god. Keep going. Don’t stop.
“Quinn,” he rasps, and his voice gives me chills, but just as I go to sink into the heat of his body against me, it’s gone. He’s back at the island with space between us, his expression etched in pain and guilt, his fists balled up at his sides. “This can’t happen. It’s wrong.”
I swallow and nod. Even if it hurts. “I know.”
“Fuck!” he yells, and without another word, he leaves, slamming my door behind him.