12. Rafe #3
When the song ended, Quinn’s hand was still in mine, mine was still at her back. Neither of us moved.
Applause rose gently around us, but it sounded distant.
Quinn looked up at me, her lips parted as if she’d been about to say something and thought better of it.
The light caught the gold of her earrings and the warmth in her eyes.
She was close enough that I could see the place where one strand of hair had loosened near her temple, close enough that if I lowered my head?—
No.
The thought stopped there, but stopping it didn’t erase it.
Her gaze dipped to my mouth. My hand tightened once against hers before I made it relax.
“Quinn,” I said.
I didn’t know what would have followed.
Fortunately, or unfortunately, the quartet chose that exact moment to surrender the floor to the event DJ, who had either terrible instincts or an admirable commitment to chaos.
The opening notes of “Y.M.C.A.” burst through the ballroom.
Quinn blinked.
I closed my eyes.
Across the room, Miriam squealed, which made Max bark.
Then Quinn started laughing.
She laughed so hard she had to let go of my shoulder and press a hand to her mouth. The spell of the moment didn’t break so much as change shape. The longing remained, so did the warmth. But now it had somewhere to go that wouldn’t ruin us both in the middle of a charity gala.
“I’m sorry,” she said, still laughing. “That was the most aggressive musical intervention I’ve ever experienced.”
“It was an assault.”
“It was a public service. We looked too serious.” She studied my face, then softened. “Fine. I guess I’ve tortured you enough for one evening.”
“It wasn’t torture.”
Her smile returned. “No?”
“No. More like being forced into fresh air after insisting the window should stay closed.”
“That was dangerously close to being poetic.”
“Then I retract it.”
“Too late. I heard you.”
The song carried on behind her, ridiculous and cheerful. My mother would have found the whole thing absurd. She would have told me to stop standing near joy as if I needed written permission to approach it.
Quinn glanced toward the ballroom doors. “Come on. We can spare you the ‘Y.M.C.A’ and find Max some water.”
Max stood at the sound of his name, ready to escort us with more dignity than either of us deserved.
As we walked away from the music, Quinn’s shoulder brushed mine. She didn’t move away quickly, and neither did I.
The mission was complete for the night. By every reasonable standard, I should’ve been thinking about Friday’s meeting, the provenance packet, the sword that might finally come home.
I was thinking about all of that.
But I was also thinking that Quinn Bradley had a way of opening windows.
The ride back to Quinn’s apartment was quieter than the ride to the gala, but it wasn’t completely silent.
Quinn wasn’t a silent person, even when she said nothing.
She had a way of filling space: a glance out the window, a hand resting on Max’s head, a small shift of her mouth when her thoughts caught on something and didn’t yet become words.
The city moved around us in bright fragments, storefronts sliding past the glass, late traffic easing block by block as we moved away from the hotel.
Max fell asleep within five minutes, stretched out on the floor of the car, content that he had completed his mission for the evening. His plum tie had slipped slightly to one side.
Quinn noticed me watching him. “He’s fine. Just basking in victory.”
“He looks exhausted.”
“Being universally admired is hard work.”
“Then he handled it well.”
“He always does.” She reached down to straighten the tie, then paused when I moved at the same time.
I stopped before touching him. “May I?”
For some reason, the question changed her face. Surprise first, then something warmer. Softer. People probably touched Max without asking. People probably thought his calmness made permission unnecessary.
Quinn nodded. “Yeah. He won’t mind.”
I adjusted the tie carefully, slipping the knot back to the center of his collar without waking him. Max heaved a sigh and settled deeper.
“He approves,” Quinn said.
“That’s reassuring.”
“Don’t let it go to your head. He also approves of deli turkey and the squeaky eggplant toy Avery got him as a joke, which she had to replace twice because he developed an emotional dependence.”
“I’ll keep my pride measured.”
Her smile came and stayed, tired around the edges. The adrenaline of the evening had begun to leave her. I could see it in the way she sank back against the seat. There was a faint shadow under her eyes that the hotel lighting had hidden.
“You should be pleased with yourself,” I said.
She turned her head toward me. “I suppose I am.”
“You were exceptional.”
Her fingers moved over the water bottle in her lap. “You already said that.”
“It remains true.”
“Careful. If you praise me too much, I’ll start expecting healthcare.”
I didn’t smile at that, though I knew she’d intended me to. “You should have healthcare.”
Her gaze found mine, and I realized too late that I’d stepped onto the edge of something precarious again. Quinn didn’t look offended, just tired, and for the first time that night, the tiredness didn’t feel like a charming detail.
She rubbed one thumb over the cap of the water bottle. “Before you offer to restructure the American employment system, I’m okay. Tonight was good. Let me have it without turning me into a nonprofit you want to fund.”
I went still.
She winced a little. “That came out sharper than I meant.”
“No,” I said. “It was useful.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “That’s an ominous response.”
“It was clear.” I looked out the window as I spoke. “I have a habit of seeing problems and reaching for solutions.”
“Rich people do love a solution.”
“Not only rich people.”
“No,” she said, gentler now. “But rich people have the option to confuse helping with fixing things they don’t understand.”
I’d nearly done it several times already.
With the dress, the car, my flippant comment about her loans.
I hadn’t even mentioned the broken door of her building, even though it had been stuck in my thoughts the entire night.
I knew the difference between care and management.
In theory. In practice, the line became less distinct when concern entered the equation.
“I’ll try to remember that,” I said.
Quinn smiled, though it wasn’t as bright as the other smiles she’d given me throughout the night. “I appreciate the attempt.”
“That sounds like praise for a poorly trained dog.”
“Max would never. He’s very trainable.”
“I’ll improve.”
“Good. There may be treats.”
The corner of my mouth lifted before I could stop it. “Appropriate ones, I hope.”
Amusement flickered in her eyes. “Depends how well you heel.” She pressed her lips together, then laughed under her breath. “Sorry. Too easy.”
“I walked right into that.”
“You did. But you did it gracefully.”
The car stopped at a red light. Outside, a couple stood in front of a closed bakery, arguing softly while sharing an umbrella that was too small for both of them. Quinn watched them for a moment, then leaned her head back against the seat.
“Friday,” she said, as if pulling herself by the collar back to business. “Georgiana will want the cleanest timeline possible. She’ll want a narrative that doesn’t feel like you’re trying to overwhelm her with paper.”
“I can prepare that.”
“I know. Also, I think she’ll care about institutional framing. If you come in saying the museum was wrong, she’ll defend the museum. If you say the museum has a chance to correct the record, she can be the person who makes the process better.”
I watched her, exasperated by the steadiness of her mind even while her body was visibly losing a battle with exhaustion. “You need to rest.”
She gave me a look. “Says the man who brought me to an event that required shapewear, emotional diplomacy, and a dog in formalwear.”
“You chose the shapewear.”
Too tired to continue the banter, Quinn only hummed.
She turned her face toward the window again, and the city light moved over her cheek, catching the gold of one earring.
The whole night seemed to narrow to the interior of the quiet vehicle, the faint scent of her perfume, and the knowledge that if I reached across the space between us, she might let me.
I didn’t move.
The driver pulled up outside her building a few minutes later.
The entrance looked no better at night. The weak lobby light glowed through the scratched glass.
The buzzer panel sat uselessly beside the door.
Trash bags had been added to the curb since I’d left, and a delivery bike leaned against the railing at an angle that suggested either haste or resignation.
I opened my door before the driver could come around.
Quinn gathered her skirt and woke Max with a touch. “Come on, Senator. Your public awaits.”
Max rose slowly, shook once, and looked offended by gravity.
I walked around and helped Quinn out of the car, offering my hand. She took it. The contact lasted only as long as it needed to.
“Thank you,” she said when both feet were on the sidewalk.
“You’re welcome.”
Max stepped down after her, tie crooked again but dignity intact.
We walked to the building together. I told myself I was only seeing her to the door because that was the appropriate thing to do.
It was late. She was tired. The neighborhood wasn’t silent.
Also, the building’s front door didn’t latch, and I hadn’t forgotten it.
I tried the handle.
It opened immediately.
Quinn sighed. “Please don’t look at my door like you’re about to reprimand it.”
“It doesn’t latch.”
“I know.”
“That’s unacceptable.”
“Welcome to New York real estate. The city motto is ‘That is unacceptable, and rent is due.’”
“That’s not funny.”
“It’s a little funny.”
“Quinn, it’s unsafe.”