CHAPTER 27
Quinn
Iswear to God, I am three fucking seconds away from crashing out.
I have to leave for this date in ten minutes—one I’d cancel in a heartbeat if I hadn’t already committed. And my hair does not seem to be understanding the assignment.
I take a healthy sip of the rosé, which is somehow still balancing beside my curling wand on the edge of the sink.
Letting the warmth spread through me, anchoring me for a moment as I take a slow, steadying breath.
I pick up a new section, but each time I attempt to wrap a section of hair around the barrel, the cord smacks the cupboard door.
The noise is driving me insane, each clunk plucking at my last shred of patience.
After another glass of wine and what feels like hours, I manage a passable imitation of the salon curls I had done yesterday.
Most of my hair falls in short, glossy waves just above my shoulders, catching the light and showcasing the subtle caramel tones that Soph convinced me to get.
A few rebellious strands curl in the wrong direction, but it’s the best I can do.
At least it’s better than my usual fallback of half-up, half-down mess.
I’m glad I listened to Sophie about getting my hair done, there’s just something about fresh colour and soft curls that makes me feel like I’ve got my life (mostly) together again.
Regardless of how good I look, I’m so not ready for tonight. I’ve been doing my best with pep talks in the mirror while doing my makeup, but no amount of self-reassurance is calming the anxiety rippling under my skin.
It’s been over six years since I last went on a “first” date, and that was during the first few months of seeing Josh, if you could call a sports bar lunch special a proper date. I am so out of practice, it’s not even funny.
Still, I’ve decided to go through with it, if only because I rarely leave the house for anything besides Sophie’s or Avellana.
I need to start getting out again and doing things that remind me I’m still myself, like going on blind dates arranged by my best friend, because apparently, that’s where we’re at.
It helps to remind myself it’s just dinner, nothing more.
I’m not looking to go home with anyone, especially not with this random guy from Tinder.
I have more important things to worry about than breaking my accidental dry spell.
So what if it’s been over a year? I’m still standing, and honestly, I’m doing just fine.
More importantly, the absolute last thing I need right now is a Josh 2.0.
With one last look in the mirror and a deep breath that barely does anything, I grab the half-finished wineglass from the bathroom sink and my small clutch and carry them with me down the hall, my heels echoing softly on the hardwood floor.
I’m halfway down the hall when the front door opens and Cole steps in, carrying some tools and stopping mid-stride.
“Quinn… you look beautiful,” he says, voice a touch lower than usual.
His eyes scan from my heels to my curls, clearly caught off guard.
His usual playful smirk falters, replaced by something softer, almost reverent. “And I-I like your hair.”
“Thanks, are you sure it’s not too much?” I swish the fabric around my thighs and fiddle with the neckline, trying and failing to tug it higher in an attempt to hide my cleavage.
The way he’s looking at me makes my breath catch and my heart do that thing again, and something in me softens. It’s not just the way he looks at me; it’s the way it makes me feel. I can’t quite name the feeling, but it seems to calm my nerves, so I’m not about to question it.
“Nope. Trust me, he’s a lucky guy.”
“If you say so,” I murmur, checking the time on my phone. “I should go before I’m any later.”
“I’m taking you, remember?” he says, already moving toward the kitchen for his keys.
“Really? I don’t mind getting an Uber.”
“Of course. I’ve got no plans. Just staying in and watching TV.”
“You mean Gilmore Girls?” I smirk. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed every time I log in, there’s a whole new season playing.”
“Nope, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says with a grin.
“Uh-huh, if you say so.”
“Okay, fine, maybe one episode, but only until the rugby starts.”
I roll my eyes and shake my head. “Are you ready to go?”
“Yeah, let me just grab my keys. Have you seen them?” He heads toward the kitchen bench, their usual place, but finds it empty, a faint crease forming between his brows.
“Oh, I think I threw them into the everything drawer when I was cleaning earlier.”
“Ah, of course.” He lets out a warm laugh and rummages through the top drawer, the one overflowing with receipts, batteries, and random keys to who-knows-what.
I wait patiently by the door, grateful for the delay, and roll my lips sheepishly as I watch him search.
“Found them,” he says triumphantly, slapping them on the bench. He gives the drawer a shove, then another, before finally surrendering with a laugh. “I’ll take care of this tomorrow,” he mutters, turning on his heel and strolling out of the kitchen.
“But then how will I find anything?” I huff, throwing up my hands dramatically.
“Fine, we can keep it as is.” Cole laughs. “You ready to go?
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I say, grabbing my tan clutch with gold hardware that Sophie insists goes with everything.
I turn and find him holding the door open for me with a patient, knowing smile.
I trip over the same loose floorboard I always do, but he’s there again to catch me, holding me steady before I faceplant off the porch.
I grip his arms instinctively, grounding myself. His hand lingers at my waist a second longer than necessary, steady and sure. For a moment, I let myself breathe in the scent of his woodsmoke, laundry detergent, and something inherently him, and everything in me finally settles.
“Is this a sign I should stay home?” I look up at him, heart thudding. He holds my gaze for another beat before gently releasing me.
“Quinn,” he starts, “you know, you don’t have to go if you don’t want to. We could stay in and watch a movie or something?”
Something flickers behind his eyes, too quick to catch but not quick enough to miss. It’s gone in a blink, but it makes me wonder if he’s hoping I’ll stay.
“I do want to,” I lie, plastering on a smile that I know probably doesn’t reach my eyes. “It’s just dinner, and I’ve come too far to bail now.”
“All right.” He pauses, then adds with a gentler tone, “But seriously, if it turns into a disaster or you want to leave, please call me. I’ll come get you.”
We step down the porch stairs, side by side, the warm evening air cool against my legs.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” I sigh, climbing into the familiar comfort of his Ute.
“Good,” Cole says, looking relieved.
“I mean, unless he starts talking in third person like Chad, I think I’ll survive,” I joke, trying to lighten the tension.
It works, and Cole lets out a soft laugh. “Very true, but seriously, you know I’ve got you.”
“I know and thank you for being such a great friend.”
“Anytime.” He smiles over at me before starting the engine.
I glance back at the house growing smaller in the side mirror and swallow down the urge to say screw it and stay. My hands fidget in my lap, and I mentally scold myself for worrying at the skin around my thumbnail again.
We drive in easy silence, the city lights slowly blooming around us as twilight settles in. The soft hum of my indie 1975 playlist drifts through the speakers, and I almost forget my earlier worries.
As we approach the restaurant, Cole glances over at me, his voice sure. “You’ve got this, Quinn.”
I nod, but the nerves in my stomach tell a different story.
“Just be yourself.”
That almost makes me laugh. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
He chuckles under his breath, pulling smoothly up to the curb in front of the restaurant and slipping the car into park. The gentle click of the gearshift sounds louder than it should. I reach for the door handle, my heart thudding like it’s prepping for something bigger than dinner.
“Have fun,” he murmurs.
“I’ll try,” I say, smiling reassuringly back at him as I step out and shut the door behind me, pausing on the footpath to take one last deep breath. Through the window, Cole gives me a small wave.
And as I take a breath and start toward the entrance, I realise something else: maybe this isn’t just about proving I can still do it. Maybe it’s about remembering what it feels like to be seen by someone new and letting that version of me exist again, even just for a night.
Even if part of me already knows exactly who I wish were sitting at that table.