6. Quinn
6
QUINN
I f looks could kill, Lance would have dropped dead at my threshold. Because Killian is scowling at him like he just farted in my brother’s Cheerios. Heat floods my cheeks at the unexpectedly awkward moment. And from the look on Killian’s face, I can confirm what I’ve always suspected—that he would not approve of me and Lance together.
Not that I thought for a moment that it would become a real possibility.
I know Lance doesn’t think of me that way.
But I need to intercede before things go sideways, so I rush forward to step between them.
“It’s my fault,” I insist, placing my palms on my brother’s chest as I try to refocus his attention on me.
And it works. His eyes snap down to meet mine, his expression thunderous but far less deadly.
“Lance was being an idiot and busted his stitches working out,” I explain, rolling my eyes and exaggerating my tone in an attempt to bring some levity to the situation. “He was all sweaty and gross, so I made him shower before I put him back together. No point in stitching him up if the wound’s just going to get infected.”
Killian’s expression softens slightly, the tension releasing from his shoulders. And the fire calms in his green eyes until they’re closer to their normal spark of mischief.
But my mouth keeps running because I just can’t seem to help myself. “You know, I should disown the both of you for being so reckless. Seriously, I can’t go a single day without having to patch one or the other of you up. One of these days, I’m going to make you learn how to suture yourselves so I can put my time to better use helping patients who have reasonable survival instincts—or any at all, really. Patients who don’t need constant attention.”
Killian laughs and pulls me into a protective side hug so I’m facing Lance once more. “Oh, come on. You’d miss it if you couldn’t use us as your pincushions,” he chides.
Lance releases a low chuckle that makes my stomach somersault, and his impossibly blue eyes meet mine for just a moment. Then he turns his attention back to Killian. “I’ll go change. Then I’m ready to get to work.”
Killian jerks his chin in a single nod of silent agreement, and Lance slips past me, gym shorts balled in one hand, his other firmly holding the towel around his waist closed. And though his broad shoulders and muscular back draw my eyes, I rip them away because I don’t want Killian to catch me ogling our foster brother.
“I’m heading into town for a bit of shopping today,” I announce, looking for any excuse to get past the uncomfortable situation.
Killian frowns, his arm slipping from around my shoulders as he turns to face me. “I’d rather you stay inside the grounds until things settle down with the Italians.”
“I’m not going to put my life on pause over every squabble you get involved in,” I insist, crossing my arms. “I’d never earn my degree if I stopped leaving the house whenever you pissed someone off.”
Killian chuckles and tips his head from side to side. “Fair point well made. At least take a guard. This conflict with the Italians puts us all at risk right now.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t be silly. You’re being too overprotective. Are you taking a guard?” I demand.
“I have Lance. I don’t need one.”
“Well, I’m meeting up with some friends, so I won’t be alone. And we’ll be in a public place,” I point out, crossing my arms.
Besides, what are the odds anyone from the Italian mafia would recognize me randomly on the street anyway? It’s not like I have anything to do with the family business. I know better than to say it, but sometimes, I think Killian is too overbearing. No doubt he learned it from our father. Dad was always so concerned with shielding me from their world and ensuring my safety.
It’s probably why I’m still a virgin. No guy wants to approach a girl when she has a scowling bodyguard glaring daggers at anyone who looks her way. It took me all of freshman year at college to convince Killian I didn’t need a bodyguard around campus. And I’ve been walking from class to class without a problem for years now.
I don’t need someone to babysit me in a mall.
But my brother’s look of disapproval tells me that he’s not letting me off that easy.
“I’ll have a driver drop me off, okay?” I compromise. “But I’m twenty-three, Killian. I don’t need a chaperone anymore.”
“It’s not about that, and you know it. But fine. You have him drop you right at the door, and your friends better be waiting for you there. I want eyes on you at all times.”
Huffing, I release my arms from their crossed position. “You are so ridiculous. Fine. That’s where we were supposed to meet anyway.”
“I’m serious, Quinny. No driving yourself. If you do, I’ll know. And watch your back, okay? Call if you need anything.”
“Will do,” I say, knowing it’s easier just to agree. “Did you come to tell me something?” I ask, redirecting the conversation once again.
“Oh. Yeah. Dinner’s at six tonight. Don’t be late. Cheryl’s cooking lobster thermidor.”
He grins, his eyes dancing as I release an appreciative groan. He knows how much I love Cheryl’s lobster.
“I’ll be there,” I assure him, my mouth watering already.
“I figured you’d say that,” he teases, playfully mussing my hair.
I swat at his hand, but he’s already turning to leave.
“Brat!” I call after him.
He doesn’t respond, but I can tell he’s laughing from the way his shoulders silently shake.
Glancing down at my phone, I jolt as I realize I’m running late. I lost track of time between fixing Lance’s stitches and Killian showing up unexpectedly at just the wrong time.
Closing my door, I race to get ready, changing from my loose-fitting casual dress to a pair of high-waist jean shorts and a yellow crop top. Then I slip on some wedge heels, apply a light coat of mascara to my lashes, and snag my leather shoulder strap purse before rushing for the door.
It’s been awhile since I went shopping with Kayla and Ellie, and I hate making them wait.
Wrangling Scott to give me a ride proves to be another delay, and I’m flustered, on the brink of giving up and driving myself—even if it would bring Killian’s full fury down on my head—when I finally run into him slipping out of the kitchen pantry.
From the flush in Cheryl’s cheeks, I have a pretty solid inkling of what they were doing in the enclosed space. Great, even our chef and driver are hooking up, but do I get to know what sex is like? Noooo. Because I have an overprotective big brother and a crush that’s never going to look at me that way.
“There you are, Scott. I need you to take me downtown. I’m running pretty late.”
“Of course, miss,” he says, tugging on the lapels of his blazer as Cheryl casts me a bashful smile.
And though I’m hit with a dose of unreasonable envy over her secret tryst, I return the smile to show her I’m not angry.
Scott is pulling the car up out front within minutes, and I slide into the back seat.
“Brookfield Place please,” I say, pulling my phone out of my back pocket to text the girls that I’m running late but on my way. Then I slump back against the Escalade’s plush leather because I can’t do anything to speed things up further.
Traffic isn’t on my side, and it takes us nearly forty-five minutes to get across the bridge and into the city. By then, the girls still haven’t answered me. And when the mall finally comes into view, I’m buzzing with anticipation to see them. With all the hours of study I’ve been doing lately, along with clinicals, I think it’s been almost three months since our last coffee date.
I hope they’re not pissed or think I forgot.
“Here’s fine, Scott,” I say, grabbing the door handle before he’s fully pulled to a stop.
“Give me a shout whenever you’re ready to be picked up,” he says. “I’ll stay nearby.”
“Thank you!” I call as I slip out of the SUV and close the door behind me. Then I race toward the glass doors of the shopping mall.
I scan the front of the building as I walk, searching for my girls. But they’re not waiting in our usual spot. Frowning, I slow and take a closer look, but neither Kayla’s signature purple pixie cut nor Ellie’s dark hair and wide smile stand out in the pedestrians making their way across the sidewalk.
Stepping aside to get out of the flow of foot traffic, I pull my phone out once more and find a text from Ellie.
Sorry, girl! Just saw your text. We figured you were running late, so we went inside to grab coffees. Come meet us at Matchaful.
Glancing over my shoulder, I check to see if Scott’s still here. Thankfully, he’s already pulled away because Killian would murder me if he found out I broke his rule right out the starting gate.
Slipping my phone back into my purse, I turn to head inside.
And slam headlong into a wall of muscle.
“Sorry. Didn’t see you there,” I gasp, stumbling back.
The person I slammed into reaches for me, grasping my arms firmly as he keeps me on my feet. And I smile sheepishly up at him. But when I meet his cold brown eyes, my grin slowly melts away.
“No need to apologize,” he says smoothly. “You’re actually just the person I wanted to meet.”
My stomach drops as my blood turns to ice, and I silently curse myself for not listening to Killian’s words of warning. If I were paying closer attention to my surroundings, I might have noticed he was coming for me. But now that I’ve had a good look at him, he’s unmistakably Italian, with his dark hair, olive skin, and proud Roman nose.
“You don’t want to do this,” I murmur attempting to pull away from his grasp.
But his grip tightens around my arms, his fingers pressing into my skin with bruising force.
“No, bellezza , I really think I do,” he sneers.
And then the world around me goes dark as a hood is yanked down over my head.