Chapter 3 Quinn
THREE
Quinn
My dress fits exactly the way it did twenty minutes ago. No one looking at me would guess.
The screwdriver in a champagne flute is cold, causing a shiver run through me. The condensation drips down the stem, making my fingers damp.
Nate finds me near the string quartet. He approaches with that easy senatorial smile, the one that makes everyone feel included.
"There you are. I thought you'd vanished."
"Needed some air. It's warm in here."
The lie comes out smoothly, with no hesitation. I don't even have to think about it.
"Fair enough. These things run long." He shifts his weight, glancing around the room. "You meet anyone interesting?"
"Someone at the bar. A friend of a friend, I think. We talked for a minute, then I ended up back over here people-watching."
Nate nods, already moving past it. "Good, good. Listen, I want you to meet the Caldwells. They're considering a major donation to Southern Stars."
He guides me toward an older couple near the far wall. His hand rests lightly at my elbow, steering me through clusters of guests. I let him. It's easier than resisting.
When did lying to Nate become this easy? The thought makes me uncomfortable so I shove it down.
Margaret Caldwell extends her hand first. Her grip is firm, her smile genuine. Her husband, Frank, stands beside her, silver hair slicked back, bow tie slightly crooked.
"Quinn Mercer. It's wonderful to finally meet you." Margaret's voice carries warmth. "Nate speaks so highly of you."
"The feeling's mutual. Thank you for coming tonight."
Nate launches into his pitch. He's smooth, practiced, full of compassion and urgency. He talks about veterans who need housing, families struggling to find resources, and the foundation's fifty-year legacy.
I step in when he pauses. "My grandfather started Southern Stars after he retired from his second career, years after he'd come back from the war.
He saw firsthand how hard it was to rebuild a life after service.
The foundation has helped over ten thousand families since then, but funding has been tight the last few years. "
Funding has been tight is a euphemism for the people running the foundation after my grandfather stepped down, mismanaged funds and essentially bankrupted the foundation.
Margaret nods, listening closely. Frank crosses his arms, assessing me.
"What's the biggest challenge right now?" he asks.
"Overhead. We've cut administrative costs as much as we can without sacrificing quality, but rent and staffing are fixed expenses.
We need consistent donors who believe in the mission long-term.
Nate has a whole plan to revive this and bring it back bigger than it was before. There is a real need that we can fill."
Nate jumps back in, reinforcing my point. I let him take the lead again, nodding at the right moments, smiling when appropriate.
This is what I do. Stand here, look polished, and play my part. The truth is, I was fine handling things when it was small, but what he has planned, he needs someone to run it full-time with a full staff. That is outside my wheelhouse.
Plus, I can't stop thinking about Keller's hands on my thighs.
The memory hits without warning. His mouth on my throat, my back against the wall. The pressure of his body, the heat, the way I forgot everything except the need to get closer.
I blink and refocus on Margaret. She's saying something about matching funds. I nod.
"That would be incredible. The impact would be immediate."
My voice sounds right. Steady, engaged. But inside, I'm fractured.
I almost let a stranger fuck me in a storage room.
The thought should shock me. It doesn't. That's worse.
Frank asks about transparency, about how donations get allocated. I answer automatically, pulling statistics from memory. Seventy-eight percent direct aid. Fifteen percent operations. Seven percent fundraising.
"Impressive," Frank says.
Nate beams. "Quinn's the best advocate we have."
Advocate. Right.
Margaret touches my arm. "You should be proud of what your family has built."
"I am."
Another lie. Or maybe not. I don't know anymore.
The conversation shifts. Nate steers them toward logistics, event schedules, tax deductions. I let my gaze drift over his shoulder, scanning the ballroom out of habit.
Chandeliers cast golden light across the polished floor. The string quartet plays something classical I don't recognize, but it has a nice rhythm. Guests cluster in small groups while champagne flutes catch the glow.
And then I see him.
Keller is standing near a marble column, talking to a tall man with dark hair.
My stomach drops.
He looks exactly the same. Composed, tailored, only now he has his glasses back on, catching the light. Damn he's an insanely good looking man.
My body involuntarily shivers and goosebumps race up my arms.
He tilts his head slightly, listening to whoever's speaking. His posture is relaxed. Confident. Not a trace of tension from what we were doing an hour ago.
My chest tightens and heat spreads low in my stomach.
Stop staring.
I force my gaze back to Nate, but his words don't register. Something about quarterly reports. Margaret nods and Frank says something I don't catch.
Keller shifts his weight. The movement is subtle, but I track it anyway. He lifts his glass and takes a sip.
My heartbeat thuds in my throat. The room is smaller now, and suddenly too warm and crowded.
"Quinn?"
Nate's voice cuts through the fog. I blink and find him watching me.
"Sorry, what? I zoned out for a second."
"I said, would you be able to meet with Margaret next week? She wants to discuss the foundation's housing program. I told her you're the expert on that initiative."
"Of course. I'd love to."
Margaret smiles. "Perfect. I'll have my assistant reach out."
"Thank you."
My voice sounds normal, I look normal. No one can tell my pulse is racing or that I can't stop thinking about a stranger's mouth on my neck.
This isn't sustainable.
Nate launches back into fundraising mode while Frank asks another question. I nod at the right moment, but I'm not really listening. I think I might crawl out of my skin if I have to sit here for another second.
My thighs press together. I take another sip of champagne, hoping the cold will help.
"Excuse me," I say, cutting into Nate's sentence. "I've got to visit the ladies' room."
Nate pauses mid-pitch but recovers quickly. "Of course. We'll catch up in a minute."
Margaret waves me off with a warm smile. "Take your time, dear."
I move before anyone can say anything else. The crowd parts as I weave through, my heels clicking against the polished floor. The noise of the gala swells around me, voices layering over violin strings and clinking glasses.
I don't look at Keller again. If I do, I'll lose whatever composure I have left.
The hallway leading to the restrooms is quieter, dimmer. I push through the door and let it swing shut behind me.
Silence.
I lean against the counter and close my eyes.
My chest rises and falls too fast. My hands grip the marble edge. The cool surface grounds me, but barely.
I open my eyes and meet my reflection. My lipstick is smudged and my hair is slightly mussed. I laugh out loud at how I must have looked to Margaret and Frank. There goes my assumption that I looked normal.
I open my clutch to see if I can find something to write on. There's a compact, some lipstick, keys, and no pen.
Of course not.
I glance around the counter. Nothing. No pens, no paper, nothing useful in this pristine, useless bathroom.
A matchbook sits near the sink. Someone must have left it. The cover says "Napoleon House" in gold foil lettering. I pick it up, flip it open, and decide to write my number inside it like a cheesy noir movie.
I grab my lipstick, uncap it, and stare at the red tip.
This is insane. Maybe. But I'm doing it anyway.
I write my name on the inside cover. Quinn, adding my number below it. The lipstick smears slightly, but the digits are clear enough. I snap the matchbook closed and drop it back into my clutch.
I take the opportunity to actually use the restroom when a group of three ladies walks in. Once I'm finished, I wash my hands and check my reflection one more time, smoothing my hair before heading for the door.
The ballroom noise hits me first. Laughter, music, the clink of silverware on china. I step back into the flow of guests and let the crowd carry me forward.
I don't search for him. That would be obvious. Instead, I move through the space naturally, pausing to nod at someone I half recognize, accepting a fresh champagne flute from a passing server.
My pulse hammers in my throat, but my face stays calm. I scan the room for the area where he was standing before I left. I clock a couple near the windows and a group by the dessert table.
And then I see him.
Keller stands near the edge of the ballroom, still talking to the same man from before. His glass is nearly empty, and he tilts his head back, showing off that immaculate jawline as he laughs at something the other person said. My mouth waters.
I angle my path toward them. Not direct. Just close enough.
I pass him on his left, and my hand brushes his as I move. The matchbook transfers from my palm to his in one smooth motion.
Our fingers touch, but just for a second. I don't say anything or look back. I keep walking.
My heart pounds harder than it did in the storage room. Harder than when he had me against the wall.
I reach Nate's side. He's still with the Caldwells, gesturing as he talks. Margaret laughs at something he says. Frank sips his scotch.
"Feeling better?" Nate asks.
"Much."
Margaret tilts her head. "You have wonderful color. Are you a runner?"
"I try to get out a few times a week. I drag Nate with me when he's in town."
"Good for you. I keep telling Frank we should take it up again."
Frank grunts. "My knees disagree."
The conversation continues. I participate, nodding, smiling, and adding comments when appropriate. I'm a little more tolerant than before my bathroom break, but I'm ready for the night to end. Unlike my cousin, I don't enjoy standing around in uncomfortable shoes small-talking.
I don't look for Keller again. I don't need to. Either he'll call, or he won't.
The gala stretches on for another hour, but it feels like four. Nate works the room with practiced ease, and I chime in on command when needed.
When we finally leave, the night air is cool against my flushed skin. Nate walks me to my rideshare, thanking me for coming, and promising to follow up with the Caldwells.
"You were perfect tonight," he says.
The only perfection that occurs to me in this moment is the few stolen moments upstairs in the storage room. My thighs instinctively clench.
"Thanks, Cuz."
He hugs me briefly, then heads toward his own car.
I slide into the backseat and close the door. The silence is immediate and welcome. My body hums as I finally relax.
Sitting finally makes my legs and lower back throb. I didn't realize how much I needed a break.
I giggle shyly, quietly to myself when I think about what I did tonight. I can't believe I hooked up with a stranger and then wrote my number on a matchbook with lipstick.
Holy shit, I must think I'm Rita Hayworth or something.