QUINN #2
“Grandma,” I say. Okay, it’s more like I’m panting. As if I just finished a marathon.
“Quinn.” She looks at Dorian, then back at me. After taking a sip of her martini, she continues, “Introduce me to your friend, dear. The one who was eating your face.”
“This is Dorian. He’s my… he is…”
“I gathered.” Another sip. “Young man, are you aware that you’re in a room with her entire family?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Dorian’s voice is much steadier than my legs are right now. “I apologize for the display. I got carried away.”
“Clearly.” But something in her face sort of flickers. Like a tiny crack in her disapproval. She pats his arm. “At least you have good taste.”
She walks away, and I stare after her while Dorian takes a drink. “I like her,” he decides.
“Everyone likes her,” I murmur. “She’s terrifying.”
Dinner is a four-course ambush. My parents have seated us at the family table, and Mom starts before the salad is placed in front of us. “So, Dorian. What is it you do?”
“I run a private investment firm.” He says it the way you say anything that’s been true for so long it’s boring. “Mostly acquisitions. Some asset management.”
“And how did you two meet?” Dad asks. He’s been using his interview voice on men since Alyssa brought home her first boyfriend in ninth grade. He has a system.
“Quinn takes care of my daughter,” Dorian explains. “Lillie is five. Quinn started with us about six months ago, and I’ve spent most of that time trying to convince her to call me by my first name.”
He looks at me, and the look is so warm, so real, that for a second, I forget it’s an act. “It took a while. She’s stubborn.”
“She is,” Mom agrees. “She gets it from her father.”
“I was going to say she gets it from you, dear,” Dad murmurs.
The table laughs, and the conversation moves on, and Dorian navigates all of it with the kind of ease that should make me feel relieved but instead makes me a little nervous, because the lies are coming out of him so smoothly.
He’s telling my parents what they want to hear, and they’re buying it, and he’s doing all of it without breaking a sweat.
He’s very good at pretending.
Things take a turn during the main course, because Aunt Linda has had three glasses of wine and believes family gatherings are performance art. “Quinn,” she announces, loud enough for the neighboring tables to hear. “Quinn, honey, does Dorian know about the recital?”
No. No, no, no. “Aunt Linda—”
“She was eleven,” Aunt Linda tells Dorian, leaning across Mom with the intense focus of the truly committed storyteller. “Decided she was going to sing at the talent show. Nobody told her she couldn’t sing, which was the first mistake.”
“I could sing,” I protest weakly.
“Honey, you sang ‘My Heart Will Go On’ in the key of pain.” Aunt Linda pats my hand. “She got through the first verse, and the microphone started feeding back. Instead of stopping, she just sang louder. By the end of it, the principal was crying, and not in a good way.”
The table is laughing. Dorian is doing the thing with the corner of his mouth, like he’s trying not to smile. I drain my champagne glass and signal for another one.
By the time dessert arrives, I’ve had enough champagne to enter what I think of as the Warm Zone. I’m not drunk, not even close, but the edges of everything have gone soft and golden. The nervous energy that’s been sitting in my stomach all night has melted into something looser. Braver.
Brave enough that when Dorian’s hand rests on his thigh under the table, I put mine on top of it.
He goes still for a second. Then his hand turns over and his fingers lace through mine. He squeezes once, and I feel it all the way up my arm and into my chest.
I lean into him. My shoulder against his arm.
My head almost at his shoulder. I can smell his cologne, and the champagne is making me warm.
I trace a small circle on the back of his hand with my thumb, and I feel him inhale.
A controlled, deliberate breath. The kind of breath you take when you’re trying very hard to stay in one piece.
I lean closer, my lips almost at his ear. “Is this part of the show?”
“Quinn.” His voice is barely a sound.
“Because I can stop if—”
“Don’t stop.” He says it fast, rough. And then, lower, “But we need to leave.”
I pull back. His jaw is set. His eyes are dark and focused on something in the middle distance, like he’s having a conversation with himself I’m not invited to. His hand holds mine tighter than before.
“Right now?” I ask.
“Right now.” He stands and pulls me gently up with him before turning to my parents with a smile so smooth it scares me a little. “Mrs. Thomas, Mr. Thomas, thank you for a wonderful evening. I’m afraid I have an early morning, but this was a real pleasure.”
Mom looks between us. She’s confused, but willing to let it go for now. “Oh, of course. Dorian, it was so lovely to meet you. Quinn, call me tomorrow.”
“I will.”
“Call me tomorrow,” she says, in that way that means you will tell me everything. Or else.
And then we’re off, navigating the room, weaving through tables.
I almost have to jog to keep up with his long strides, and the whole time I have to act like this is completely normal.
Like my heart isn’t ready to explode because this man wants to get me out of here all of a sudden, and I’m not exactly sure why.
There’s only one clear thought repeating in my head like a drumbeat, over and over.
I’m in trouble.