Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Quinton
I made it through the day.
The look she had given him could’ve melted steel.
By 6:30 PM, I was officially done. Exhausted. Running on fumes and the vague memory of the granola bar I inhaled at lunch. I grabbed my bag, said goodnight to exactly no one, because everyone had already fled the moment Winnie announced it was closing time, and headed toward the parking lot.
The evening air was cool. Crisp. The kind of October night that made someone think about flannel shirts and apple cider and all the other bullshit people romanticized about fall in New England.
I was thinking about my couch and maybe ordering pizza.
And I was definitely thinking about Vivian, who was leaning against her car with her arms crossed, her expression unreadable, hair pulled back in that messy bun she always wore when she was stressed.
The sight of her made my heart do something stupid.
Something that felt suspiciously like hope mixed with terror as I walked over, forcing myself to smile. “Waiting for me?”
“We need to talk.”
Oh God. This is it. This is the moment she tells me it was a mistake. That we’re better off as friends. That she’s staying with the boyfriend because at least he has a gym membership and a car he actually washes.
I swallowed and forced my voice to stay steady.
“Want to come over?” I asked. “I can order dinner. Your choice.”
She hesitated.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said slowly.
And there it was. The rejection I had been dreading since the moment I woke up in my bed alone.
No. Absolutely not. I am not losing her without a fight.
“I think it’s a great idea,” I said, stepping closer. Close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in her eyes. Close enough that I could smell her shampoo. Something floral and clean that made me want to bury my face in her hair and never let go.
I reached out and pulled her closer.
She didn’t resist. “I know we need to talk about what happened,” I said quietly. “But if you’re going to tell me it was a mistake, I would rather live in bliss for one more night before you break my heart.”
Her eyes widened. “Quinton.”
“We were friends, Vivian,” I said. “Friends don’t hurt each other.”
“Friends don’t sleep with each other,” she interrupted.
“They do if they burn the sheets like we did.”
She blushed.
God, I love that.
“Yeah,” she said softly. “It was hot.”
“Come over,” I said. “We can talk. No strings. Just conversation.”
“And no tequila,” she added.
I smirked. “Fitz drank it all last night.”
She laughed.
There it is.
That sound I never knew was missing from my life.
“Fine,” she said, nodding. “I’ll meet you there in an hour.”
I leaned down and kissed her cheek.
Quick. Chaste. The kind of kiss that said I’m not pushing my luck, but I’m also not giving up.
“See you soon,” I said, and then I walked to my car, got in, and drove away before she could change her mind.
One hour.
I had one hour to figure out how to convince Vivian Darcy that what happened between us wasn’t a mistake. That our friendship, the late-night texts, the terrible movies, the baseball games and hiking trails and Chinese food, was the perfect foundation for something more.
That I was in love with her.
Completely, utterly, hopelessly in love with her.
And that I refused to let her go.
I drove home on autopilot, my brain spinning through every possible scenario.
Scenario One: She walks in, sits on the couch, and says, “Quinton, you’re a great guy, but I’m staying with Colton.”
Response: Cry. Possibly vomit. Definitely drink.
Scenario Two: She walks in, sits on the couch, and says, “Quinton, I think we should just be friends.”
Response: Same as Scenario One, but with more crying and possibly more drinking.
Scenario Three: She walks in, sits on the couch, and says, “Quinton, I’m in love with you too.”
Response: Pass out. Wake up. Confirm it wasn’t a dream. Kiss her until we both forget our own names.
I pulled into my parking spot, grabbed my bag, and headed upstairs.
My apartment looked exactly the way I had left it this morning. Clean. Organized. Completely devoid of any evidence that I was a functional adult who had his life together.
Because I don’t. I’m a disaster. A disaster who is about to confess his feelings to his best friend’s sister.
I dropped my bag by the door and looked around. The couch was fine. The kitchen was clean. The bedroom—Don’t think about the bedroom.
Do not think about the bedroom.
Shit... I thought about the bedroom. About the way she looked sprawled across my sheets, hair fanned out on the pillow, skin flushed and glowing in the dim light.
About the way she laughed when I fumbled with her bra clasp.
About the way she whispered my name as if it were the only word that mattered.
Focus, Quinton. You have forty-five minutes to figure out what the hell you’re going to say.
I paced.
Opened the fridge and stared at the contents as if they might offer some kind of divine wisdom.
Shocker: They didn’t.
I closed the fridge and paced some more.
Checked my phone.
No messages.
Good. That’s good. She hasn’t cancelled. Yet.
I sat on the couch.
What am I going to say?
“Vivian, I know this is complicated, but I’m in love with you and I think we should give this a shot?”
No, too direct.
“Vivian, I’ve been thinking about what happened, and I don’t regret it. Do you?”
No, too passive.
“Vivian, I know you have a boyfriend, but he’s a terrible human being and you deserve better. Specifically, you deserve me.”
No, too Fitz.
I groaned and dropped my head into my hands.
This is impossible. How do people do this? How do people just... confess their feelings without spontaneously combusting?
My phone buzzed.
I grabbed it.
Vivian: On my way. Should I bring anything?
I stared at the message.
Yes. Bring a defibrillator because I’m pretty sure I’m having a heart attack.
Me: Just yourself.
Vivian: See you soon.
I set the phone down and took a breath.
Okay. Okay, I can do this. I’m a doctor. I handle emergencies. Trauma. Life-or-death situations. I can handle one conversation with the woman I’m in love with.
Probably.
The knock came exactly fifty-eight minutes later.
I opened the door, and there she was. Hair down now. She was wearing jeans and a sweater that made her look soft and warm and completely devastating.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi,” I said back.
We stood there for a moment, just looking at each other, and then she stepped inside, and I closed the door behind her, and suddenly the apartment felt smaller. Warmer. Like the air itself was charged with everything we weren’t saying.
“So,” she said, turning to face me. “We need to talk.”
“We do,” I agreed.
She walked to the couch and sat down, looking up at me with those eyes that had been haunting me for days.
Taking a seat next to her, I reached for her hand. “Vivian, before you begin, I need to tell you something.”
“Okay.”
I took a breath.
Here goes nothing.
“What happened between us,” I said. “It wasn’t a mistake.” She opened her mouth, but I kept going. “I know you think it was. I know you’re probably sitting here trying to figure out how to let me down easy. But I need you to know, it wasn’t a mistake. Not for me.”
“Quinton—”
“I’ve been in love with you for weeks,” I said. “Maybe longer. I don’t know when it started. Maybe it was the comedy club. Maybe it was the baseball game. Maybe it was the first time you laughed at one of my terrible jokes, and I realized I would do anything to hear that sound again.”
Her eyes were wide.
“I know this is complicated,” I continued. “I know you have a boyfriend. I know Julien’s going to lose his mind when he finds out. I know we work together and this could make everything weird and awkward and possibly catastrophic.”
“Quinton—”
“But I don’t care,” I said. “I don’t care about any of it. Because the truth is, Vivian, I’m completely, hopelessly in love with you. And I think—I hope that maybe you feel the same way.”
Silence. Complete, absolute silence.
She stared at me.
I stared back.
And then she said, “You’re an idiot.”
Oh God.
This is it. This is the rejection. This is—“I’ve been in love with you since the parking lot,” she said.
I blinked.
“What?”
“The parking lot,” she repeated. “When you said I deserve better than being someone’s secret. Quinton, you looked at me like I’m the only person in the world who matters.”
Oh.
“You—”
“I love you, Quinton,” she said. “I love your terrible jokes and your ridiculous commentary, and the way you look at me like I’m something precious.
I love that you invited me to your apartment even though you were terrified.
I love that you’re sitting here confessing your feelings even though you think I’m about to break your heart. ”
I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t do anything except stare at her like she had just told me the sky was green and gravity was optional.
“Say something,” she said.
“I—” And then I kissed her. I pulled her close and kissed her as if my life depended on it.
Like she was oxygen, and I had been drowning, and she kissed me back.
Her hands were in my hair. Her body pressed against mine.
Her mouth was soft and warm, and perfect.
When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing hard.
“We still have a problem, though,” she sighed. “Well, I do. I still have a boyfriend, Quinton.”
“Not one that’s good for you,” I said.
She sighed. “Still. He deserves to be told.”
“Send him a text,” I offered, trying to be helpful.
She raised an eyebrow.
“Better yet,” I continued, “let Fitz tell him. Everything sounds better with a British accent.”
She laughed.
God, I love that sound.
“You’re ridiculous,” she said.
“I’m serious. Fitz could make a colonoscopy sound romantic.”
“Please never say that sentence again.”
“‘Darling, I’m afraid we must part ways. It’s not you. It’s me. Well, actually, it is you. You’re a wanker,’” I said in my best award-winning British voice.
She was laughing now. Really laughing. The kind of laugh that made her eyes crinkle at the corners and her whole face light up.
“Okay,” she said, wiping her eyes. “Okay, you’ve made your point.”
“Have I?”
“Fitz would be terrible at breaking up with someone.”
“He’d be amazing at it. He’d probably get Colton’s number and take him out for a pint afterward.”
“That’s... actually possible.”
We sat there for a moment, the laughter fading into something softer. Holding her closer, I kissed the top of her head and muttered, “In the meantime, for the next week, I have you all to myself, and I plan to take advantage of every minute.”