Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Quinn
In The Air Tonight
Natalie Taylor
I don’t sleep much Saturday night. Not because anything happened. Because nothing did. When we got back to the apartment, he didn’t make a move. Didn’t linger in the doorway. Didn’t pull me in close like the air between us wasn’t crackling.
He unlocked the door. Let me step inside first. Asked if I wanted tea. Tea. I almost laughed. We sat on opposite ends of the couch while the kettle boiled. Opposite ends. Like we hadn’t spent the entire afternoon brushing against each other in museum galleries and holding hands on the train.
He handed me the mug. Our fingers touched. He didn’t let them linger. “Long day,” he commented lightly.
Yeah. Long. Then he stood. “I’m gonna turn in, you good?”
I just nodded. He hesitated for half a second, just long enough that I thought maybe, but nope. He stepped forward and kissed my forehead. My forehead.
“Night, Q.” And then he went to his room.
And now I lay awake staring at the ceiling, replaying every second.
The way he wiped cinnamon from my lip. The way he held my hand.
The way he didn’t kiss me. Maybe I imagined the heat.
Maybe I misread the shift. Maybe when he said “Not like this” the other night, he meant not at all.
The thought settles somewhere ugly in my chest.
I sleep like crap, but the sunlight pouring through the blinds softens the morning. I hear him moving in the kitchen before I get up. Coffee grinding. Cabinet doors closing. He’s up first. Again.
When I walk out, he looks over his shoulder and smiles like nothing in the world is complicated.
He’s in a pair of loose sweats that sit low on his hips, and nothing else.
I avert my eyes in hopes of not making my attraction to him obvious by staring, which is the least of what I want to do. He flashes a quick smile. “Morning.”
There’s coffee already poured. A plate with the last muffin.
He slides it toward me without commentary.
He’s steady. He’s at ease and comfortable.
“Dean texted.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on the counter, his toned arms not helping one bit in the trying not to stare effort.
“They’re doing lunch. You haven’t seen Sadie all week, right? ”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Figured we’d go over for a bit. Some sister time will probably be good.”
He says it casually, but I note it. He’s still taking care of me. Still being the good guy. And the stupid, reckless part of me wants him to stop. Because now I want the bad boy. The one who would lift me onto this counter and slam his mouth over mine. Where’d he go?
“That sounds nice.” I say instead, and smile around my mug as I take a sip. “I just need a quick shower if that’s okay.”
“Of course.” He pushes off the counter and turns, opening the dishwasher to place his empty mug inside. I stare at his back, the muscles rippling like soft waves as he performs this mundane task and the urge to get up and wrap my arms around his bare torso slams into me.
Instead, I pop off my stool, coffee sloshing over the side of my cup as I do, Mikey spinning around, his brow furrowing as his gaze focuses on me. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I manage to squeak out, then clear my throat. “I’m going to go take that shower.” As cold as I can possibly take.
“Okay.” He scratches at the scruff on his neck as he continues to assess me as I scurry away, my cheeks heating under his scrutiny.
Dean’s place smells like garlic and sauce and something suspiciously like apple pie baking when we walk in. Sadie hugs me immediately. “What in the hell happened to your face?” Her expression a mask of concern as she pulls back to study my face.
“Work. A kid who reached his limit.”
“So, he decided to take it out on you?” Her tone now angry.
“He didn’t mean to hurt me. He threw a chair and it hit me.” I defend as I step out of her embrace.
“Are you sure it’s safe for you to work there?” Her fingers reach up and gently brush against the bruise on my cheek as I pull away.
“It’s safe.” I pat her on the arm. “I’ll be fine.” My eyes dart behind her.
She narrows her eyes slightly, then glances over my shoulder at Mikey. He’s already in the kitchen with Dean, laughing about something. Sadie doesn’t miss the way my gaze lingers.
“Oh.” A single brow raising as a small smile quirks up on one side of her mouth.
“What?” I deflect.
She loops her arm through mine and drags me toward the hallway. “Talk.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Quinn.”
I sigh. “He’s been really good to me this weekend.”
Her eyes widen. “Define good.”
“Not that kind of good!” Unfortunately. I giggle, shaking my head. “After what happened at work on Friday, he helped me through it, and then we went to the art institute yesterday.”
She blinks. “Mikey voluntarily walked through impressionism?”
“Yep.” I squeeze her arm. “And I think he actually enjoyed it a little.”
“Wow.”
I almost smile. “He made coffee this morning. Bought muffins. Didn’t make a single joke about me getting emotional.”
Sadie studies me carefully now. “And?”
“And nothing.”
Her head tilts. “You like him.”
I open my mouth to deny it, then close it. “He hasn’t tried anything,” I admit. “In fact, I kissed him.”
Sadie stills.
“Twice.”
Her brows shoot up. “Okay, well, that’s very different from nothing.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “And I want to do it again.” There, it’s out. And instead of feeling better, I somehow feel worse.
Sadie’s expression shifts. “Oh.”
“Yeah.” I frown.
“And that’s a bad thing?”
“I just-,” I release her arm and plop down on the sofa, exhaling in frustration. “He stops. Every time it actually starts to matter, he stops.”
Sadie starts to laugh, but then covers her mouth with her palm when I flash an angry glare in her direction. “This is not funny. I thought he was supposed to be a bad boy rockstar who hooks up with anyone?”
“Quinn,” Sadie grabs my hand, “this is not a problem with Mikey.”
I frown. “Then what do I have?”
“You have a timing problem. And a man who sounds like he’s trying not to screw up what could be a good thing.”
That lands. Hard. I stare down at the hardwood floor, my cheeks flushing at my next admission. “He usually sleeps with anything that has a pulse.”
Sadie’s eyes soften. “You’re embarrassed.”
“I guess.” I shrug. “Why not me?”
“Maybe he doesn’t want to take advantage. Plus, you are my little sister. Maybe he thinks I’ll murder him if he does anything to hurt you.”
“Maybe.” I cover my hand over my mouth as a small laugh escapes, then exhale slowly. “I just don’t know if maybe he doesn’t want me now that he’s seen me fall apart.”
Sadie’s mouth twitches like she’s holding back a smile. “Oh honey.”
“What?”
“He’s been looking at you like he’s trying not to trip over his own feet since you walked into that garage in New York.”
My heart stutters. “But that was just me teasing him. I was being playful and fun. That was me living my best rockstar life for a day. Maybe he’s not into the real me.”
“It’s definitely not that.” She shakes her head. “He’s crazy about you. Even Dean has noticed,” she adds casually.
“That’s worse.”
Sadie squeezes my hand. “He’s giving you time. That’s not rejection. That’s restraint.”
The word lands heavy. Restraint. I swallow.
Because the truth is, I don’t want restraint anymore.
I know I pushed him away first, but that’s when I thought he was the world’s biggest player.
And after kissing him, twice, I’m ready for so much more.
But suddenly I’m terrified that if I make the first move again, and he says no, again, I won’t recover from it.
From the kitchen, Mikey laughs at something Dean says. The sound carries down the hall. It’s warm and easy. It’s not fueled by tequila or the chaos of touring. And I realize I want it to be mine. If I’m brave enough to claim it.
After lunch, and then watching Mikey and Dean argue over a song they were trying to work out, we drive back to Mikey’s apartment. The ride is easy. Comfortable. Dangerously comfortable. When we step inside, he tosses his keys on the counter and rolls his shoulders.
“I’m gonna grab a shower.” He wipes a hand down his shirt. “I smell like garlic and Dean’s ego.”
I snort. “That’s a strong scent.”
He grins at me over his shoulder before disappearing down the hall.
I change into leggings and an oversized tee, curl up on the couch, and grab the book I tossed in my bag earlier this week.
It’s a romance novel by Michelle Windsor.
Filled with scenes I wouldn’t mind acting out with Mikey, but not quite brave enough to try.
I barely make it three pages in before the bathroom door opens.
Steam rolls down the hallway first. Then Mikey appears.
Dark sweatpants. Gray t-shirt. Towel in his hand.
Damp hair pushed back carelessly like he doesn’t know it makes him look devastating.
He smells clean and like fresh soap and something undeniably him.
He catches me staring. “What?” he stops in place, dragging the towel through his hair.
“Nothing.” I mean, really? Is he doing this on purpose, or is he that clueless about how good looking he is.
He drops the towel on the chair and walks toward the couch.
Every step is unfair. He plops down a foot away from me like he hasn’t just turned the temperature in the room up ten degrees, reaches for my legs, and tugs my feet into his lap.
Like it’s second nature to him; possessive without pressure. “Whatcha reading?”
His thumb begins to absently trace circles over my ankle. My pulse skips. I consider telling him. Instead, I tilt the book slightly so he can’t see the cover. “Want me to read some?”
His eyebrow lifts. “Sure?”
I clear my throat and start reading.