Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Quinton
I was whistling.
Actually whistling. Like some kind of Disney prince who accidentally tripped over true love’s kiss and found it also cured his chronic commitment issues.
The tune was unrecognizable—somewhere between “Don’t Stop Believin’” and the theme from The Office—but I couldn’t stop.
My feet felt lighter. The sun looked brighter.
Even the New Haven traffic, which normally siphoned the will to live from lesser mortals, couldn’t touch my inexplicably stellar mood.
I pushed through the clinic doors at 9:47 AM, still whistling, and walked right into what sounded like the opening bell of a verbal cage match.
“—absolutely not ordering you another box of those ridiculous business cards,” Winnie snapped from behind the reception desk, arms crossed, glare set to maximum incinerate.
She looked at Fitz with the kind of murderous intent usually reserved for war criminals and people who didn’t use turn signals.
Fitz, naturally, looked delighted by her rage. Winnie and Fitz had been at this for years—her exasperation was practically a clinic tradition. Their bickering was as much a part of the morning routine as bad coffee and lost charts.
“They’re not ridiculous,” he said, leaning against the desk with that infuriating British charm that worked on approximately 87% of the female population. “They’re memorable.”
“They say ‘Dr. Fitzpatrick Lovejoy: OBGYN and Part-Time Magician.’”
“I do card tricks!”
“You do bar tricks. There’s a difference.”
“The women love it.”
“The women tolerate it because you’re their doctor and they’re contractually obligated to be polite.”
I should’ve kept walking. Should’ve just beelined for my office, grabbed my tablet, and started my day like a responsible medical professional. Instead, I stood there, watching them spar, trying not to think about the fact that approximately six hours ago, I’d had Vivian Darcy naked in my bed.
Multiple times. In multiple positions. With multiple—Stop.
Focus.
Winnie was now holding what appeared to be a stapler, her grip suggesting she was tempted to staple his mouth shut.
“I’m not ordering them,” she said flatly. “End of discussion.”
“But—”
“End. Of. Discussion.”
That was when Fitz spotted me. His entire face lit up like I was his salvation, his escape route, his get-out-of-Winnie’s-wrath-free card.
“Quinton!” he called out, abandoning Winnie mid-argument and bounding toward me with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for lottery winners and people who just discovered their ex got fat.
“Mate, you look positively radiant this morning. Did you get laid?”
I choked on air.
“What? No. I—what?”
“You’re whistling,” Fitz said, circling me like a shark who had just detected blood in the water. “You never whistle. And you’re smiling. Actually smiling. Not that sardonic half-smirk thing you do when you’re internally mocking someone. A real, genuine, ‘I-just-had-fantastic-sex’ smile.”
“I’m not—I don’t—”
“Oh my God, you did get laid.”
“Fitz.”
“Who was she? Wait, don’t tell me. Let me guess.” He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Blonde? No, brunette. Definitely brunette. You have a type. Probably works in healthcare too. Maybe a pharmaceutical rep? They’re always—”
“I didn’t get laid,” I lied, and wow, I was a terrible liar. Even I didn’t believe me.
Fitz’s grin widened. “You absolutely did. This is amazing. The great Quinton Wesley, sworn enemy of romantic entanglement, finally broke his celibacy streak.”
“I’m not celibate. I’m selective.”
“You haven’t dated anyone in two years.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“You’ve been scared.”
“I’ve been strategic.”
“You’ve been a coward.”
I was about to tell him exactly where he could shove his psychological analysis when he suddenly grabbed my arm and pulled me closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
“Speaking of romantic conquests,” he said, “I have to tell you about last night.”
Oh God. Here we go.
“Fitz, I really don’t need to hear about—”
“Her name was Destonie,” he continued, completely ignoring me. “With an ie, not a y. Very important distinction. She was very specific about the spelling.”
“I’m sure she was.”
“Met her at that new wine bar on Chapel Street. Absolutely stunning. Legs for days. Works in marketing for some tech startup. Very into hot yoga and true crime podcasts.”
“Sounds like every woman in New Haven.”
“She was special, Quinton. We had this incredible connection. We talked for hours about—well, I don’t actually remember what we talked about, but I’m sure it was profound. And then—” He paused dramatically. “We went back to her place.”
“Congratulations on your continued ability to sleep with strangers.”
“It was magical.”
“I’m sure it was.”
“There was this thing she did with her tongue—”
“Nope. No. We’re not doing this.”
“—where she would—”
“Fitz, I swear to God.”
“—and then I woke up this morning, and she made me breakfast. Breakfast, Quinton. Pancakes. With fresh berries. Do you know how rare that is?”
“Revolutionary.”
“I think I might see her again.”
I stared at him. “You say that every time.”
“This time is different.”
“You said that about the last three.”
“Those were practice rounds. Destonie—with an ie—is the real deal.”
“You don’t even know her last name, do you?”
He paused. “That’s not the point.”
“That’s exactly the point.”
“The point is that I had a fantastic evening with a beautiful woman who appreciated my charm and wit and—” He stopped, narrowing his eyes at me. “Wait. Why are we talking about me? We should be talking about you. Who’s the mystery woman?”
“There is no mystery woman.”
“Liar.”
“I’m not—”
“You’re whistling, Quinton. Whistling. You’re basically a walking rom-com montage right now. Just admit it. You got laid. You had a fantastic night. You’re in an inexplicably good mood despite the fact that it’s Wednesday morning and you work with Julien.”
He wasn’t wrong.
I was in an inexplicably good mood. Despite the fact that I had woken up at 3:17 AM to an empty bed and a cold apartment and the devastating realization that Vivian had snuck out without so much as a goodbye.
Despite the fact that I had spent the next three hours staring at my ceiling, replaying every moment of the previous evening, trying to figure out what the hell had just happened and whether I’d completely destroyed our friendship.
Despite the fact that I currently had a semi hard cock that refused to go away because every time I thought about the way she looked at me, the way she tasted, the way she said my name when she—Stop. Focus.
I needed to find Vivian. I needed to talk to her. I needed to know why she left. And I needed to do all of that without Fitz noticing that I was internally spiraling. “I’m just in a good mood,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Is that a crime?”
“It’s suspicious.”
“I had a good night. That’s all.”
“Doing what?”
“Things.”
“What kind of things?”
“Personal things.”
“Oh my God, you definitely got laid.”
“Fitz.”
“Was it someone from the clinic?” His eyes widened. “Oh my God, was it Winnie?”
“What? No!”
“Because if it was Winnie, I need to know. I’ve been working on that for months and if you just swooped in and—”
“It wasn’t Winnie.”
“Then who?”
“Nobody.”
“Liar.”
I opened my mouth to respond, then stopped. Because walking through the clinic doors, looking slightly disheveled and avoiding eye contact with literally everyone, was Vivian.
My brain short-circuited. She was wearing scrubs. The dark green ones that somehow made her eyes look even more incredible, and her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail. She had her bag slung over one shoulder and a to-go coffee cup in her hand, and she looked tired.
And beautiful.
And like she was actively trying to pretend I didn’t exist.
Our eyes met for exactly half a second before she looked away, her cheeks flushing pink, and headed straight for the nurses’ station without so much as a hello.
What the hell?
“Quinton?” Fitz was staring at me. “You okay? You look like you just saw a ghost.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re staring at Vivian.”
“I’m not—”
“You’re absolutely staring at Vivian.”
I forced myself to look away. “I was just—she looked—I was making sure she was okay.”
“Why wouldn’t she be okay?”
“I don’t know. She just looked tired.”
“She always looks tired. She works with us. OH MY GOD!” Fitz gasped, eyes wide.
Oh no.
Oh no! I watched in horror as the realization dawned across Fitz’s face like the goddamn sunrise—slow, inevitable, and absolutely catastrophic for me. “You didn’t,” he breathed.
“I have no idea what you’re—”
“YOU SHAGGED—”
I lunged. I actually lunged across the hallway and clamped my hand over Fitz’s mouth, practically tackling him as he tried to dodge me.
He was laughing. The bastard was laughing.
His eyes danced with absolute delight as I wrestled him toward the nearest conference room.
“Shut up,” I hissed. “Shut up, shut up, shut UP!”
“MMPH MMMPH!” Fitz’s muffled shouts were way too gleeful for someone being manhandled as I shoved him through the conference room door and slammed it behind us, my hand still firmly planted over his mouth. “If you say one word. ONE WORD! I will tell Winnie about the thing with her stapler.”
Fitz’s eyes widened. Then narrowed right before he bit my hand.
“OW! You British bastard!”
I yanked my hand back, and Fitz immediately exploded with laughter, doubling over and clutching his stomach. “Oh my GOD!” he wheezed. “Oh my God, you actually did it! You shagged Julien’s sister!”
“I didn’t—we didn’t—it’s not—”
“Your face!” Fitz was practically crying now. “Your face right now is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen! You look like you’re about to have a panic attack!”
“I’m not having a panic attack.”
“You’re absolutely having a panic attack.”
I was absolutely having a panic attack.
“When?” Fitz demanded, his grin so wide it looked painful. “When did this happen? Last night? Is that why you’re whistling? Oh my God, you were WHISTLING! I should’ve known. Nobody whistles unless they’ve gotten properly laid.”
“Fitz.”
“Was it good? It had to be good. You look as if you’ve seen the face of God. Or at least something equally religious.”
“I’m not discussing this with you.”
“Where did it happen? Your place? Her place? Oh God, please tell me it wasn’t in the clinic. Actually, no. Please tell me it WAS in the clinic. I want to be the one to tell Winnie the Pooh. Please let me be the one to tell her.”
“It wasn’t in the clinic!”
“So it DID happen!” Fitz crowed triumphantly. “I knew it! The moment you looked at her just now, I KNEW IT.”
I was going to kill him. I was going to actually murder Fitzpatrick Lovejoy and make it look like an accident. I could do it too. My ancestors fought in the American Revolution. He was just another British invader. No one would miss him. Hell, his family would probably give me a medal!
“How long have you been shagging her?” Fitz continued, pacing now like a detective solving a case. “Wait. Is this why you’ve been in such a good mood? All those weekends you’ve been ‘busy’? Oh my God, you’ve been shagging Julien’s sister for weeks!”
“It was one time!”
The words came out before I could stop them.
Fitz stopped pacing. Turned to look at me. His grin somehow got even wider.
“One time,” he repeated slowly. “Last night.”
I said nothing.
“After she had a terrible date with that wanker boyfriend of hers.”
“How did you know about that?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Fitz quickly said, then added. “And now she’s avoiding you like you’ve got the plague, which means it was either absolutely terrible or absolutely incredible, and given the way you look like you’ve been hit by a truck full of endorphins, I’m going with incredible.”
“Are you done?”
“Not even close. Was it—”
The door opened.
Gabriel walked in, looking confused. “What’s going on? I heard shouting.”
“QUINTON SHAGGED VIVIAN!” Fitz announced gleefully.
“FITZ!”
Gabriel’s eyebrows shot up. “Wait, what?”
“Last night,” Fitz continued, ignoring my murderous glare. “One time. Apparently incredible. She’s avoiding him. He’s whistling. It’s beautiful.”
Gabriel looked at me. “Is this true?”
I wanted to lie. I wanted to deny everything. I wanted to spontaneously combust and avoid this entire conversation. Instead, I slumped against the conference table and put my head in my hands.
“Oh my God,” Gabriel said. “It is true.”
“I’m so screwed,” I muttered.
“You’re not screwed,” Gabriel said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. “Well, technically you GOT screwed, but—”
“Not helping.”
“How did this happen?” Gabriel asked, pulling out a chair and sitting down as if we were about to have a proper conversation about my catastrophic life choices.
“She had a bad date,” I said, my voice muffled by my hands. “She texted me. I invited her over for a beer. We had several beers. And then tequila. And then—”
“And then you shagged her!” Fitz finished helpfully.
“Can you please stop saying it like that?”
“How would you like me to say it? Made love? Mattress Mambo? Bumped uglies? Played hide the sausage?”
“FITZ!”
Gabriel was grinning now, too. “I’m actually impressed. You swore off dating entirely and then went straight to sleeping with your best friend’s sister. That’s bold.”
“That’s suicidal,” I corrected.
“Was it worth it?” Fitz asked, and for once he sounded genuinely curious rather than mocking.
I thought about last night. About Vivian laughing as we fumbled with her jeans. About the way she looked at me. About how right it felt.
“Yeah,” I admitted quietly. “It was worth it.”
“Aww,” Fitz cooed. “He’s in love.”
“I’m not in love.”
“You’re absolutely in love.”
“I’m not—”
“Quinton,” Gabriel said gently. “You’ve been spending every weekend with her for two months. You light up every time she texts you. You bought concert tickets just to have an excuse to see her again. You’re in love.”
I opened my mouth to argue. Then closed it. Because he wasn’t wrong.
Oh God.
Oh God. I was in love with Vivian Darcy.
“I’m so fucked,” I whispered.
“Yep,” Fitz agreed cheerfully.
“What are you going to do?” Gabriel asked.
“I don’t know. She snuck out this morning. She’s avoiding me. She probably regrets the whole thing. I should just—”
“QUINTON!”
All three of us froze.
Julien’s voice carried clearly from the lobby, sharp and confused.
“Oh shit,” I breathed.
Gabriel and Fitz both turned to look at me with identical expressions of dawning horror. “Mate,” Fitz said slowly. “What do you think Julien’s going to do when he finds out you shagged his baby sister?”
The blood drained from my face. I hadn’t thought about that.
Julien, one of my best friends, Vivian’s semi-overprotective, albeit annoying older brother, the man who once threatened to perform an unnecessary surgery on a guy who looked at Vivian wrong, was going to find out that I slept with his sister. “I’m dead,” I said. “I’m actually dead.”
“Maybe he’ll be cool about it?” Gabriel offered weakly.
We all looked at each other.
Then Fitz started laughing again. “You’re so fucked.”
And I realized he was absolutely right.