Chapter 16 Quentin
SIXTEEN
QUENTIN
Quentin was on his way to lunch, minding his own business and mentally pre-ordering the sandwich he’d been dreaming about all morning, when he heard quick footsteps gaining on him.
Before he could turn, Devi had already materialized at his side, her energy somehow cranked to eleven.
“Hey, Quentin,” she chirped, practically bouncing. “A bunch of us are going to The Saloon tonight after filming. You should come.”
“Thanks, but I’ll pass,” he said, flashing a polite smile. He was already picturing a peaceful evening alone: dinner, a B-grade action movie, and silence. Pretending his life was not a flaming tire fire starring Sadie Murphy in every role.
Devi hummed, tone suspiciously casual. “Cool, cool… just thought I’d mention Reggie might show. And maybe Sadie.”
He was mid-step when she said the name but it was too late. His stride stuttered, his head whipped toward her, and he blurted, “What time?”
Devi’s grin was downright smug.“Eight. Don’t be late. Wouldn’t want you to miss any... fun.” She gave his shoulder a little pat, the kind reserved for people walking into emotional wood chippers, then flounced off like she hadn’t just detonated his entire night.
Quentin sighed and rubbed a hand down his face. He should’ve said no. He wanted to say no. But the idea of Reggie breathing the same air as Sadie had his skin itching like he couldn’t sit still in his own damn body.
By 7:45, he’d stopped pretending.
By 7:50, he was behind the wheel.
By 8:00 sharp, Quentin was pulling into The Saloon’s gravel lot, white-knuckling the steering wheel like it had insulted his mother.
He parked, heart thudding faster than he’d ever admit, and muttered under his breath as he climbed out.
“This is ridiculous. You’re not jealous. You’re just… concerned.”
Concerned about what exactly? Sadie’s oxygen intake?
Reggie daring to exist within a ten-foot radius of it?
Quentin didn’t know and he didn’t want to think too hard about it.
All he knew was that as soon as he shoved open the bar door, if Reggie so much as breathed in Sadie’s direction, Quentin might throw a punch or a prayer. Possibly both.
Inside, the familiar cocktail of spilled beer, fried food, and secondhand smoke smacked him in the face. Pool balls cracked somewhere to the left, and a country song wheezed out of the jukebox like it had seen things.
He paused to let his eyes adjust. A grizzled old man hunched over the pool table in the corner, looking like he’d been there since the dawn of cue sports. Someone in the back laughed like a chain-smoking hyena.
Quentin tugged his Stetson a little lower. Not that anyone out here would recognize him, this was Montana. People only stared at his face in LA. Here, he was just another guy in a hat. The Stetson was camouflage, something he saved for Montana.
His gaze slid to the group clustered near the bar.
Avery looked painfully out of place in her crisp button-down and blazer, like her GPS had glitched and rerouted her from an HR seminar to a biker bar and she was too polite to complain.
Devi, meanwhile, shimmered like a human disco ball in a dress that screamed Vegas VIP booth, not sticky floor and questionable bar nuts.
And then he saw Sadie.
Auburn hair loose and a little wild, like it refused to follow rules on principle.
She stood at the bar with a drink in hand, head tipped back in laughter at something Reggie said, and Quentin felt something ugly and tight cinch in his chest. For a half-second, he thought about turning right around and getting the hell out of there.
But then his gaze dipped lower, and fuck him sideways.
Those boot-cut jeans. That sweet ass, hugged just right in denim.
He was determined to sink his teeth into it before he left this mortal plane.
And those goddamn cowgirl boots. Like she’d just stepped off a horse instead of a flight from San Diego.
Like she was born in that skin, that attitude.
The worst part was she pulled it off effortlessly.
It made him want to tear his hair out. Or hers.
Preferably while she was underneath him.
His jaw locked. Hands clenched into fists at his sides. He didn’t know what he’d say but he didn’t care. He just knew he couldn’t keep standing there like some sucker watching her laugh like that with someone else.
So he crossed the room. He leaned in close, voice pitched low near her ear. “Room for one more?”
She stiffened, just a fraction, but it was enough. Quentin smiled to himself.
Sadie turned, those wicked green eyes locking with his and bam. Sucker punch. That look was deadly. It was like she could see every dark little secret he’d buried and wasn’t impressed by a single one.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she asked, squinting at him like he was some stray dog that had wandered into her yard uninvited.
“Sadie!” Devi cut in with mock horror. “You can’t just say that to people.”
Quentin didn’t flinch. He grinned, eyes still locked on his target. “I’m used to it. She was raised by feral dogs and never learned how to say hi. No manners to speak of.” He reached out and gave her hair a light tug, the silky strands sliding through his fingers. “But I’m fluent. Woof woof.”
Her glare could’ve melted titanium.
“I’ve got a loud bark and an even deeper bite,” she snapped, voice like velvet laced with venom. “Keep testing me, Quentin. I dare you.”
That should have been intimidating. It absolutely was not. If anything, it made him want to pull up a chair and see how far he could push before losing a limb. He leaned back against the bar, casual as hell, chewing on a grin.
“Dick,” she said suddenly, staring straight at him. Okay, she was skipping foreplay and going straight to insults.
Then she turned away. The bartender, apparently named Dick, perked up from polishing glasses like a cat hearing a treat bag crinkle.
“Can I get another round?” Sadie asked sweetly, lashes fluttering, voice sugar-coated.
Dick practically tripped over himself to get to her. Poor bastard. The guy was blushing like a schoolboy at prom, and Quentin watched, torn between mild amusement and the undeniable urge to knock the glass right out of Dick’s overly eager hands.
Jesus. The girl had range. She reeled people in like it was a sport, and she was absolutely going for gold.
And the longer Quentin spent around her, the clearer it became that he wasn’t just caught. He was fully wrapped, gift-bagged, and topped with a goddamn bow, probably with a handwritten tag that read good luck, idiot.
In all the years Quentin had been orbiting her chaotic little planet, Sadie Murphy had never once had a boyfriend. Flings, sure. A couple of situationships that combusted on impact. But never a real, actual commitment.
Everything else he knew about her came courtesy of Eden—Sadie’s sister-in-law and, unfortunately for Quentin, the self-appointed human Encyclopedia on all things Sadie.
Not that he ever asked. Every fact had been delivered against his will, like some slow-burn form of psychological torture.
Why would he want to know anything about someone who hated him?
Even if she was gorgeous. Even if she laughed like trouble and smelled like heaven.
He knew she was from San Diego. That she technically lived nowhere, thanks to her refusal to commit to a lease longer than six months. That she dated like she was speedrunning heartbreak with the attention span of a caffeinated goldfish.
Sadie was a heartbreaker. A walking, talking natural disaster. Not the kind you ran from, the kind you watched from the porch with a drink in hand and a dumb smile, fully aware she was about to wreck your entire life.
Not that Quentin had much of a moral high ground. His own romantic history was as barren as the moon, maybe worse, considering he’d never even attempted a real relationship.
But that didn’t mean he had to like the way Reggie was looking at her like she came with a side of fries and the damn chef’s recommendation.
His jaw tightened involuntarily. A stupid, completely unnecessary reflex. It wasn’t like he had any claim over her. Sadie wasn’t his. She wasn’t anyone’s. But damn if seeing some guy look at her like she was up for grabs didn’t make his fingers twitch with the urge to put a stop to it.
“Can I have some money?” she asked him suddenly, her tone sweet enough to rot teeth.
He didn’t miss a beat. “Of course, Sweetheart. Want the Black card or the Gold?”
He pulled out his wallet and held up both: sleek, heavy, and shiny enough to blind.
Her eyes dropped to the cards then widened, then rolled so hard it probably counted as cardio.
“That line usually clears the creeps,” she said, dry as gin. “Screw ‘I have a boyfriend,’ and ‘I’m a monk’ only makes them try harder. But ‘give me money’? That’s the nuclear option. Works every time.”
“I’m not every guy.”
She gave him a slow once-over, dragging her gaze down his body like she was mapping weak spots.
“Mmh,” she murmured. “You say that like it’s a selling point.”
“It is.”
She raised a perfectly sculpted brow. “You’ve got the energy of a man who tips 40% and still manages to ruin the whole night.”
He smirked, heat crackling in his eyes. “Wanna test that theory?”
She took a step closer, her knee brushing his thigh, barely a whisper of contact, but it sent electricity straight to his spine.
“You offering performance reviews now?” she asked, her voice dipped in trouble, smooth as a slow pour.
“If you’re offering hands-on evaluations.”
She stepped closer, close enough that the heat of her seeped into him, close enough that his body registered her before his brain could catch up. The scent of her curled through his chest.
“Do you always hand your wallet to women who insult you?”
“Only the pretty ones who do it creatively,” he said smoothly, his voice slick as velvet, eyes never leaving hers.