31. Thirty-One
Thirty-One
Quinn
“Absolutely not.”
I stare at my reflection in the fitting room mirror, hardly recognizing myself in the silver Valentino gown that hugs my body like a second skin. The price tag dangling from the sleeve shows more zeros than I care to count.
“It’s perfect,” Reenie declares from her perch on the plush velvet settee, champagne flute in hand. “The color against your hair—divine.”
“Reenie, I can’t let you buy this.” I turn sideways, watching the dress shimmer under the boutique’s flattering lighting. “It’s too much.”
“Nonsense.” She waves away my protest with a bejeweled hand. “I promised you Valentino, and Irene Savage does not break promises.”
We’ve been at this exclusive clothing store for three hours now, ever since Reenie took one look at the dress I’d brought—a perfectly respectable black cocktail number from a mid-range designer—and pronounced it ‘suitable for a corporate dinner, perhaps, but certainly not a Guggenheim Museum Gala.’
“Besides,” she continues, her shrewd blue eyes twinkling, “think of Vincent’s face when he sees photos of you in this. The poor boy won’t sleep for days.”
Heat rises to my cheeks at the thought. “That’s not—I’m not trying to—“
“Of course you’re not, darling. That’s what makes it even more delicious.” Reenie rises, circling me with an appraising eye. “Now, you’ll need proper shoes. And a clutch. Maria,” she calls to the attentive saleswoman hovering nearby, “bring us the matching Louboutins in a seven and that silver and crystal clutch we admired earlier.”
“Right away, Mrs. Savage,” Maria responds, hurrying off with the efficiency of someone who recognizes a significant commission when she sees one.
I catch Reenie’s eye in the mirror. “Are you always this...”
“Are you going to say generous, stylish, or correct?” She smirks.
“Overwhelming.”
She laughs, a sound like fine crystal clinking. “Only when it counts, my dear. And you count.” Her expression softens, becoming uncharacteristically serious. “You’ve given my grandson something I wasn’t sure he’d ever find. Let me give you something in return.”
Before I can respond, Maria returns with an array of shoes and accessories. By the time we leave the store, I’ve been outfitted in grand style.
“I still can’t believe you did this,” I say as we slide into the back of the cab, Reenie insisted on for our shopping expedition. Shopping bags surround us like expensive confetti.
“Consider it an investment in my future great-grandchildren,” she says with a wink that makes me choke on the bottle of water I’m sipping.
“Reenie!”
“Oh, please. I’ve seen the way you two look at each other. And let me tell you, at my age, one develops a sense for these things.” She pats my hand. “Vincent may be many things, but a fool isn’t one of them. Not when it matters.”
I stare out the window at the passing city streets, trying to ignore the flutter of hope her words spark. Despite living with Vince for a while now and despite the intimacy we share in the darkness of our bedroom, there’s still a part of me waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“He cares about you, you know,” Reenie continues, her voice gentler than I’ve ever heard it. “More than he’s cared about any other woman.”
“I know,” I say, because I do. But caring isn’t the same as love.
Reenie seems to read my thoughts. “My grandson has always been guarded with his heart. Richard—my late husband—was the same way. Savage men don’t do things in half measures, Quinn. But when they finally commit, it’s absolute.”
“I’ve arranged for a stylist,” she informs me as we enter the elevator. “Hair, makeup, the works. Nothing but the best for Vincent’s girl.”
Hours later, I barely recognize the woman staring back at me. My hair has been swept up in an elegant updo, with a few strategic tendrils framing my face. My makeup is flawless—smoky eyes, defined cheekbones, and lips painted a deep crimson.
“Magnificent,” Reenie declares, entering the room in a cloud of expensive perfume. She’s resplendent in midnight blue. “Now, just one final touch.”
She crosses to her dressing table, opening an ornate jewelry case. As she sorts through the glittering contents, my eye catches on a ring nestled in the corner—a stunning emerald surrounded by diamonds in a vintage setting. It’s unlike the rest of Reenie’s jewelry—less ostentatious, more timeless.
“That’s beautiful,” I say before I can stop myself.
Reenie follows my gaze and smiles, her expression softening. “Ah, you have good taste. That’s the engagement ring Richard gave me.” She picks it up. “I love it too, though now my tastes run a bit more... gaudy.” She gestures to the substantial diamonds adorning her person.
“It’s perfect,” I say honestly. “Classic, but unique.”
“Like true love itself.” She places the ring back in its velvet cushion with surprising tenderness. “Richard always said the emerald reminded him of his heritage—that particular shade of eye color that runs in the Savage bloodline.” She gives me a knowing look. “The same shade of green Vincent and little Jasmine have.”
Heat rises to my cheeks again. Before I can respond, Reenie plucks a pair of diamond drop earrings from the case and hands them to me.
“These will complete your look. And don’t argue—they’re on loan, not a gift.”
The gala itself is a blur of glamour and excess—champagne flowing freely, celebrities mingling with art patrons, and music from a live orchestra floating through the transformed museum space. Reenie introduces me to so many people I lose track—names I’ve only seen on magazine covers.
I smile and chat and accept compliments on my dress, but there’s a hollow feeling I can’t quite shake. I wish Vince were here—not because I need him by my side but because I want to share this experience with him—to exchange meaningful glances across the room, to have his hand at the small of my back, making me shiver.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Reenie says, appearing with fresh champagne.
“Just thinking this would be more fun if Vince were here,” I admit.
Her smile is surprisingly tender. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder, my dear. Sometimes, we need a little distance to see what’s right in front of us.” She clinks her glass against mine. “Besides, I suspect Vincent is feeling the same.”
“Really?”
But Reenie just winks and glides away to greet a handsome silver-haired actor, leaving me wondering if this is a planned strategic move on her part—to bring Vince and me together. While I appreciate the sentiment, I don’t like the idea of either one of us being manipulated.
As my flight from New York touches down in Jacksonville, exhaustion settles over me like a weighted blanket. Two days of Reenie’s whirlwind socializing has left me exhilarated but drained. All I want is to get to my apartment, check on my cat, and go straight to Vince’s to curl up with him and Jasmine, relishing that quiet connection that I’ve come to cherish.
I’m not expecting Vince to pick me up; he knows I’m heading to my apartment first. Yet, as I wheel my carry-on through the arrivals gate, there he is—leaning against a pillar, looking unfairly gorgeous in worn jeans, a simple black t-shirt, aviator sunglasses, and a wicked grin.
My heart does that ridiculous flutter it always does when I spot him unexpectedly. He pushes away from the pillar, striding toward me with purpose.
“Hi,” I say, suddenly shy. I wasn’t away that long, but seeing him now, I realize how much I’ve missed him.
He doesn’t respond with words. Instead, he wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me against him and kissing me with an intensity that makes me forget we’re standing in a public airport. When he finally releases me, I’m dizzy and breathless.
“Hi yourself,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “I missed you.”
“I can tell.” I smile up at him, my fingers playing with the soft hair at the nape of his neck. “Where’s Jasmine?”
“Home with Grace. I wanted to have you all to myself for a bit.” He takes my carry-on, linking his free hand with mine. “Reenie sent me about fifty photos of you in that dress, by the way. Nearly caused a car accident when I opened them.”
I feel the heat on my cheeks. “She went a little overboard with the shopping.”
“The silver dress was perfect on you.” His gaze darkens slightly as he glances at me. “The color made your hair glow like a flame.”
I laugh as we walk toward the parking structure. “Reenie’s a force of nature.”
“Tell me about it. She texted me with updates on who you’d met and what a wonderful time you both were having.” He shakes his head, but his expression is fond. “I think she likes you more than she likes me.”
“Impossible.”
We pick up the rest of my luggage. “I’ll stop by the house before we head to your apartment. Jasmine has been missing her Quinn.”
“I’ve been missing her, too.”
We reach his Range Rover, and he loads my bag before opening my door with an exaggerated flourish. “Your chariot, Ms. Donovan.”
The drive home is filled with comfortable conversation—me sharing stories from the gala. Him updating me on Jasmine (she’s developed a surprising fascination with the remote control).
Vince seems oddly energetic as he helps me out of the car. He’s unnaturally quiet as he leads me to the front door.
“Is everything okay?” I ask as he unlocks the door.
“Everything’s perfect,” he assures me, pushing the door open. “After you.”
I step inside, immediately scanning for Jasmine, but I don’t see her. “Is Grace upstairs with—“
The words die in my throat as something streaks across the living room floor—a familiar flash of calico fur that launches itself onto the back of Vince’s expensive leather sofa, yellow eyes regarding us with imperial disdain.
“Luna?” I whisper, sure I must be imagining her.
But no—it’s definitely my cat, her tail twitching lazily as she observes me from her new perch. Behind her, I notice her scratching tower positioned in the far corner of the room. Her food and water bowls sit on a mat near the kitchen entrance. Even her favorite catnip mouse is on the floor nearby.
I turn to Vince, unable to form words.
“Surprise,” he says with a lopsided smile. “I picked her up yesterday. Figured it was time she moved in too.”
“But, you hate cats,” I manage to say, emotion making my voice thick.
“I don’t hate cats,” he protests, and I give him an incredulous look. “Okay, I’m not a fan. But she’s important to you. And you keep having to go back and forth to check on her, and...” He shrugs, suddenly looking vulnerable. “I like having you here, so that means Luna, too.”
I’m not a crier—never have been—but something about this gesture, about the fact that he did this thing he absolutely did not want to do, simply because it matters to me, breaks something open inside my chest.
“She knocked over a guitar stand within minutes,” he continues, “And I’m pretty sure she’s planning to use my armchair as her new bed. But we’ll figure it out.”
I launch myself at him then, wrapping my arms around his neck and pressing my face against his chest. “Thank you,” I sniffle into his shirt.
His arms come around me, solid and secure. “Does this mean you’re happy?”
I nod against his chest, unable to speak past the lump in my throat. Luna watches us from her perch, looking thoroughly unimpressed by my emotional display.
“She’ll warm up to you eventually,” I say when I can finally trust my voice.
Vince makes a skeptical noise. “I somehow doubt that.”
Vince may not be able to say he loves me yet. But as Luna jumps down from the couch and winds herself around my ankles, reclaiming me after my absence, I think perhaps some things don’t need to be said out loud to be true. Because it’s evident in the quiet compromises, the small sacrifices that say, ‘You matter more than my comfort.’ And right now, watching Vince cautiously reach down to pet Luna (who predictably swats at his hand before darting away), I feel more loved than any words could possibly express.