Chapter 17
Iwanted to argue, to explain, to make him understand that me leaving was the responsible thing to do. The safe thing. The thing that wouldn’t ruin everything.
But Knox, no, Andrew, was right.
I was terrified.
“Okay,” I said finally.
“Okay?”
“Okay.” I took a breath, forced myself to meet his blue eyes. “I’m not quitting.”
My lips still felt swollen. Warm. Like my body hadn’t gotten the memo that we were supposed to be calm and professional now.
Jesus. That kiss had felt good.
I shoved the thought down immediately.
He studied me for another moment, then turned toward the door. Paused with his hand on the handle.
“And Matthew?”
“Yeah?”
“Next time you want to punch someone?” His mouth quirked. “Maybe warn me first so I can get the fuck out of the way.”
Despite everything—the panic, the confusion, the absolute chaos of the last fifteen minutes—I smiled.
“I’ll try.”
“Good.” He pulled open the door. “Now fix your tie. It’s crooked.”
I looked down. He was right.
I adjusted it, then froze.
My mouth did something dangerously close to a smile.
This was insane. I’d punched my boss. Kissed him. And apparently my body thought that was… funny. Or thrilling. Or both.
I cleared my throat hard and finished fixing the tie.
“Better?” I asked.
He glanced back, eyes traveling over me in a way that made my skin feel too warm.
“Good enough.”
We walked back toward the ballroom together, and I tried not to think about how everything had just changed.
Tried not to think about the kiss.
About the fact that Andrew Knox was gay and had just told me—trusted me—with that information.
Boston Wardens’ record after a player suspension: 12-8-2 in games played during suspension period, league average.
My heart still wouldn’t settle. Not with numbers. Not with logic.
Because logic didn’t explain why my lips felt warm. Or why the memory of his mouth kept knocking loose something reckless and bright in my chest.
I caught a few glances as we crossed the ballroom—curious, measuring—but no one stopped us. No one said anything. When we made it back into the table, Archibald had vanished. Someone said he’d left early, citing a headache.
The auction moved forward without incident.
Item after item paraded across the stage—a weekend in Nantucket, a signed jersey collection, a custom pet portrait package that somehow went for twelve thousand dollars.
The energy in the room had shifted back to normal, the earlier tension dissolving into champagne and charitable giving.
When the medical fund enhancement came up—a direct donation package that would cover emergency surgeries for the next year—Andrew’s paddle went up immediately. Fifty thousand dollars. No hesitation. No fanfare. Just a calm raise of his hand like he was ordering coffee.
The room applauded. Andrew didn’t acknowledge it, just set his paddle down and went back to looking bored.
But I saw the way his shoulders relaxed when the emcee moved on. I saw the brief flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. This was what mattered to him. Not the attention. Not the credit. Just knowing the animals would be taken care of.
When the auction closed, the emcee took the stage one final time to announce the total raised—over eight hundred thousand dollars. The ballroom erupted in applause. People stood, congratulating each other, already planning next year’s event.
Andrew stood too, shook hands with the donors at our table, accepted their thanks with his usual gruff politeness. Like nothing had happened in that hallway.
Like he hadn’t kissed me twenty minutes ago.
We made our way through the thinning crowd, past donors in glittering gowns and perfectly tailored tuxedos, past the auction displays and the banners thanking sponsors. The valet had already brought Andrew’s Porsche around, and it sat at the curb, cherry red and gleaming under the hotel lights.
Andrew unlocked it, then paused with his hand on the driver’s door.
“Get in.”
“I can take a taxi—”
“Get in the fucking car, Quinn.”
I got in the car.
The silence felt different than it had on the drive over. Now it felt charged with everything we weren’t saying.
Andrew pulled away from the Fairmont, navigating through late-night Boston traffic with the same aggressive precision he used for everything. I stared out the window, watching the city blur past in streaks of streetlights and headlights.
My lips still tingled. Every time I shifted in the seat, I was aware of my mouth like it had been. . . recalibrated.
The way he’d pulled me in. The sounds he’d made.
I swallowed and stared harder out the window.
My hand was still throbbing from where I’d punched him—punched Andrew Knox, Jesus Christ—and my mind kept replaying the kiss. The way he’d grabbed my neck. The way he’d looked at me after like I was something he couldn’t quite figure out.
“You gonna start reciting records and averages, or did tonight finally break your system?” Andrew asked.
“I’m thinking.”
“About?”
“Logistics.” It was mostly a lie. I was thinking about Monday. About what it would be like to show up at his penthouse after this. About whether we’d pretend it didn’t happen or address it head-on.
“Right.” His tone suggested he knew exactly what I was thinking about.
We drove the rest of the way in silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just. . . weighted. Full of unspoken things that would have to be spoken eventually.
When he pulled up to my building, he put the car in park but left the engine running.
This was it. The moment where one of us should say something. Set boundaries. Establish rules for how Monday was going to work.
“Matthew.”
I looked at him.
His hands were still on the steering wheel, steady and unbothered.
“Monday. Eight a.m.,” he said.
“I’ll be there.”
I opened the door, started to get out, then paused.
“Andrew?”
“Yeah?”
“I appreciate. . .” I gestured vaguely, encompassing everything—defending me from Archibald, pulling me out of the spiral, not letting me quit. “All of it.”
He huffed a laugh. “I thought you were going to tell me what a good kisser I am.”
“Oh. Yeah. That. . . that, too. But also, yeah. Thanks.”
Andrew’s expression softened. “You punched a guy for me, Quinn. Pretty sure that makes us even.”
“I punched you.”
“Same difference.” His mouth quirked. “Besides, you’ve got a decent right hook. I’m almost impressed.”
Despite everything—the confusion, the fear, the absolute chaos of the night—I smiled.
“See you Monday.”
“Monday.”
I climbed out, shut the door, and watched him drive away. The Porsche’s taillights disappeared around the corner, leaving me standing on the sidewalk, hand throbbing, heart racing.
Monday was two days away.
Two days to figure out what the hell I was supposed to do. How I was supposed to act. Whether we were going to acknowledge what happened or bury it under professional courtesy and pretend everything was normal.
Two days to prepare for whatever came next.