Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Vivi
Remember that scene in Grey’s Anatomy where Izzy and George got so stinking drunk that they did the unthinkable and George didn’t remember shit?
Well, that was what I was praying for as I snuck out of Quinton’s apartment a little after three in the morning, leaving what dignity I had left behind as I raced to my car, praying that when Quinton woke up, he didn’t remember shit.
Because if he did, I was screwed.
I still didn’t know how it happened. All I knew was that one minute we were drinking beer, laughing at something on the television, and the next, I kissed him.
Not just kissed him in the sweet, rom-com movie way.
God, no. My tongue was down his throat checking for tonsillitis.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Let me back up.
I had been sitting in my car outside Quinton’s apartment building, gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping me tethered to reality.
This was fine. This was totally fine. I was just going to my friend’s apartment.
My friend, who happened to be male. My friend, who happened to be ridiculously attractive.
My friend whom I had been spending every weekend with for the past two months.
My friend, who made me laugh harder than anyone I had ever met.
My friend who—Stop.
Stop spiraling. This is not a date. This is two friends having a beer.
That’s all.
Grabbing my purse, I got out of the car and walked to the building entrance, then pressed the buzzer for apartment 4B.
“Hey.” Quinton’s voice crackled through the intercom. “Come on up.”
The door buzzed, and I pulled it open. Climbing the stairs, each step felt heavier than the last, and by the time I reached the fourth floor, my heart was pounding.
Which was ridiculous. This was Quinton. Quinton, who I worked with.
Quinton, who I had been to baseball games with.
Quinton, who I had gone hiking with. Quinton, who—The door to 4B opened, and there he was wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt that said, “I’m not arguing; I’m just explaining why I’m right.
” He was bare foot and his hair was slightly messy, almost as if he had been running his hands through it, and that smile.
That goddamn smile that made my stomach flip.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” I managed.
“Come in.”
I stepped inside, and his apartment was exactly what I expected. Clean. Organized. Bookshelves alphabetized by author. A couch that looked comfortable. A coffee table with a pizza box and an empty beer bottle. “Sorry about the mess,” he said, closing the door behind me.
“This is a mess?” I looked around. “Quinton, I can see your floor. That’s not a mess. That’s a showroom.”
He laughed.
God, I loved that sound.
“Beer?” he asked.
“Please.”
He disappeared into the kitchen as I sat on the couch, trying not to think about the fact that I was in Quinton Wesley’s apartment. Alone. At night. After a terrible date with my boyfriend.
This was fine. Everything was fine.
He came back with two beers and handed me one as our fingers brushed, and I felt it everywhere. “So,” he said, settling onto the couch beside me. “Want to tell me about the angry emoji?”
I took a long pull from the beer. “He spent the entire dinner talking about his car.”
“His car?”
“His car. For forty-five minutes. I timed it.”
Quinton’s eyebrows shot up. “Forty-five minutes?”
“Forty-five minutes. He described the engine. The horsepower. The custom leather interior. The sound system. The—” I stopped. “I don’t even like cars.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
“You drive a twelve-year-old Honda Civic with a bumper sticker that says, ‘My other car is a broom.’”
I stared at him as he shrugged.
“I notice things.”
Something warm bloomed in my chest. “He also talked about his workout routine,” I continued. “And his meal prep. And his promotion at work. And his fantasy football league.”
“Did he ask you anything about yourself?”
“He asked if I wanted dessert.”
Quinton winced. “Ouch.”
“Yeah.”
We sat in silence for a moment, drinking our beers when Quinton said, “For what it’s worth, I would’ve asked you about yourself.”
I looked at him and noticed that he was looking at me. Really looking at me. Like I was the only thing in the room worth paying attention to. “What would you have asked?” I heard myself say.
“How your day was. What you’re reading. If you’ve tried that new hiking trail we talked about. Whether you’re still mad at Fitz for the thing with the stethoscope.”
I laughed. “I’m always mad at Fitz.”
“I know. It’s one of my favorite things about you.”
One of his favorite things about me.
I took another sip of beer, longer this time.
He did the same.
“Want to watch something?” he asked, reaching for the remote.
“Sure.”
He turned on the TV. Some cooking competition show was on. We watched in comfortable silence, drinking our beer. He made sarcastic comments about the contestants.
I laughed. He laughed.
We opened more beer.
The pizza came out—cold, but still good—and we ate, grease coating our fingers as we returned to our previous argument about whether pineapple belonged on pizza.
We talked. We laughed, and by the time we finished the six-pack, I was feeling warm and loose.
The edges of my terrible evening with Colton had finally blurred.
The room had that soft, fuzzy quality that came with just enough alcohol.
Quinton stood, collecting the empty bottles, and I noticed he swayed slightly. “I think that’s the last of the beer.”
“Tragic,” I said, my words coming out just a little slower than usual.
He paused in the doorway to the kitchen, looking back at me with a grin that was just a little bit dangerous. “I have tequila.”
I should’ve said no. I should’ve said I needed to drive home. I should’ve remembered that tequila and I had a complicated history that usually ended with regrettable decisions and morning-after apologies. Instead, I said, “Bring it.”
He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a bottle of Patrón and two shot glasses, setting them on the coffee table with slightly less coordination than usual.
“Fancy,” I said.
“I save it for special occasions.”
“Is this a special occasion?”
He met my eyes as he poured. “You’re here, aren’t you?”
Oh.
Oh.
He handed me a shot. His fingers lingered on mine.
“To terrible dates,” he said, raising his glass.
“And better company,” I added.
We clinked glasses and threw them back. The tequila burned going down. Smooth but hot, settling in my chest like liquid courage.
Quinton poured another round, and I noticed his hand was less steady now.
“Are you trying to get me drunk, Dr. Wesley?”
“I’m trying to help you forget about forty-five minutes of car talk.” He grinned. “Also, I might already be a little drunk.”
“Just a little?”
“Okay, maybe more than a little.”
We took the second shot. Then a third. And somewhere between the third and fourth, something shifted.
The space between us on the couch seemed to shrink.
Or maybe I moved closer. Or maybe he did.
All I knew was that his thigh was suddenly pressed against mine, warm and solid, and I didn’t move away.
“You know what I don’t get?” I said, my tongue looser now, my filter significantly lowered.
“What?”
“How you’re single.”
He laughed, the sound a little rough. “We’ve been over this. The marriage trap.”
“No, I mean—” I turned to face him, tucking one leg under me and nearly losing my balance.
He caught my elbow, steadying me, and we both laughed.
“I mean, you’re smart. You’re funny. You actually listen when people talk.
You notice things.” I gestured at him with my shot glass, sloshing a little tequila.
“You’re basically perfect boyfriend material. ”
“Is that a compliment?”
“It’s the highest compliment.”
He poured us another round, concentrating harder than necessary. “Maybe I’m just waiting for the right person.”
“Or maybe you’re scared.”
His eyes met mine. “Maybe.”
The honesty in that single word made my breath catch.
We took the shot.
“Your turn,” I said. “What don’t you get?”
He was quiet for a moment, his fingers playing with the empty shot glass. Then he said, “Why you’re with him.”
“My boyfriend?”
“Yeah.”
I should’ve been defensive. Should’ve made excuses. Should’ve changed the subject. Instead, I said, “I don’t know anymore.” His hand found mine on the couch. Just his fingers brushing against my knuckles, but I felt it everywhere.
“You deserve better than someone who talks about his car for forty-five minutes.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” His thumb traced a slow circle on the back of my hand. “You deserve someone who wants to know everything about you. What makes you laugh? What pisses you off? What you’re thinking about at three in the morning when you can’t sleep.”
My heart was pounding. “And what do I think about at three in the morning?”
“I don’t know yet.” His voice was lower now, rougher. “But I’d like to find out.”
The air between us felt electric.
Charged.
Dangerous.
I should’ve pulled my hand away. Should’ve made a joke. Should’ve remembered that this was Quinton, my friend, my coworker, and that I had a boyfriend. Instead, I leaned closer. “What else would you want to know?”
His eyes dropped to my mouth. “Everything.”
“That’s a lot.”
“I’ve got time.”
We were so close now. Close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in his eyes. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body. Close enough that if I just leaned in a few more inches—“Viv,” he said, and my name on his lips sounded like a prayer and a warning all at once.
“Yeah?”
“I’m trying really hard to be a gentleman here.”
“What if I don’t want you to be a gentleman?”
His hand tightened on mine. “Then we’re both in trouble.”
“Maybe I like trouble.”
He laughed, but it sounded strained. “That’s the tequila talking.”
“The tequila is helping me say what I’ve been thinking for weeks.”
His eyes widened. “Weeks?”