CHAPTER 28
Quinn
My black heels click against the uneven asphalt, each step a tiny drumbeat keeping time with my nerves.
Scanning the strip of restaurants, my eyes land on an Italian place whose pergola is strung with fairy lights and intertwined with vines.
The leaves are deep green, almost the same as Cole’s eyes…
God, when did everything start reminding me of him?
It’s the kind of place you’d expect to serve overpriced tapas and twenty-five-dollar cocktails with edible flowers. Sophie said to meet Fox here, but the moment I spot the only guy standing out front of the cute restaurant, dread settles in.
Bleach-blond, bicep-first, and radiating gym bro energy, my gut does a nosedive the second I clock him.
His build is stacked, sure, but not in an attractive way.
More like… croissant shaped. All puffed-up shoulders, no legs.
A tribal tattoo peeks out from his sleeve like it’s doing its best to warn me off.
Every over-tanned part of him screams fuckboy.
Ugh, Sophie, what were you thinking? I love her, I really do, but when it comes to men, red is her favourite colour. So really, I shouldn’t be shocked. But I’m already here, hair curled and heels on, hope clinging by a thread, so I plaster on a smile and keep walking.
You know what they say: Don’t judge a book by its poorly done veneers.
As I approach, he exhales a cloud of bubble-gum vapour that hangs in the air between us, like cotton candy left in the sun for too long.
He lowers the vape with a grin, casual as anything. “Want some?”
I wave it off quickly, but he’s already stepping in for a hug, and I almost choke on the overpowering, cloying warmth of his cinnamon scent, and a punch of sweat lurking beneath it all.
It’s like he marinated in 1 Million cologne for a week.
The kind of scent that makes your eyes water and your ovaries shrivel.
“Hey.” I step back quickly and hold my phone to my chest, nerves fluttering. “I’m Quinn.”
“Hey, gorgeous.” He winks. “Name’s Fox.”
His hand finds my lower back, and he steers me away from the restaurant entrance.
Toward the back of the carpark. Panic flares in my chest. This is how every true crime documentary starts, so maybe I’m destined to be another statistic on Forensic Files.
As we round the corner, a glaring orange neon sign cuts through the dim lighting.
Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.
“Hooters” is sprawled across a fake wood facade, the kind that’s trying very hard to look rustic but falls short. Because nothing screams “dream date” like deep-fried misogyny served with a side of ego and orange shorts.
The second the doors swing open, I’m hit with the stench of cologne-infused desperation. A wave of loud sports commentary, clinking glasses, and laughter crashes over me.
Fox finally removes his hand from the small of my back and charges ahead, clearly in his element.
I force myself to follow, each step sticking to the questionable tile floor as I walk toward the hostess stand, where a girl with bleached hair and bubble-gum-pink lips is tapping her tablet.
“Fox,” she says as we walk in, her voice flat with forced politeness.
“Hey, baby.” He flashes a too-white smile.
She raises a perfectly arched brow, clearly not going to put up with Fox’s bullshit. “Don’t baby me again, Fox,” she says with a tight smile. “My name is Crystal.”
“Okay, whatever you say, baby. You know we’re all G.”
Crystal ignores him, gesturing for us to follow her.
He watches her ass sway as she leads us through the bar, fixated on her tiny shorts.
Crystal guides us past the bar, where some middle-aged guys mixed in with bros wearing stringlets shout over pool tables, and waitresses in tiny orange shorts laugh too loudly.
“Your usual spot,” Crystal drones out. Her eyes flick from him to me, and I suddenly feel like just another girl on his roster.
Fox slides onto his tall stool at our high-top table, not even glancing to see if I’ve sat down yet.
I pull out the heavy stool and join him, the faux-leather seat sticking to the backs of my thighs every time I shift.
I gingerly pick up a laminated menu, edges curled and plastic sticky.
Scanning the menu, which is mostly cheap beer and spirits, I decide on a vodka lemon-lime bitters and the cheeseburger.
“Would you like to start with any drinks?” Crystal asks, her eyes trained on her tablet.
“Yeah, we’ll have two vodka lime sodas, doubles, tall glasses with extra lime.” Fox turns to me, flashing that sleazy grin again. “May as well make a night of this, baby.”
I give a tight-lipped smile, unsure of my next move, and Crystal lingers for a beat, her eyes meeting mine. There’s something in her gaze, a knowing, maybe even sympathy. Fox doesn’t notice. He’s too busy checking himself out in the mirror behind the bar.
I can’t help but wonder how different this would be if Cole were sitting across from me. He’d actually ask about my day and care about the answer.
Fox, on the other hand, doesn’t see me: he sees a box to tick, another story to brag to the boys about, and another night he didn’t go home alone.
Crystal struts away, and Fox leans back, ogling her like she’s part of the entertainment.
“How do you know each other?” I ask, loud enough to snap his attention back to me.
“We’re just friends.” He shrugs.
Judging from the way she all but rolled her eyes when we walked in, I’m guessing whatever they had wasn’t just “friendship.”
“Okay, that makes sense,” I say, forcing a smile.
“Why are you single?” he asks. “Someone like you is too stunning to be alone.”
“Uh… it didn’t work out with my ex,” I say, eyeing his overly styled hair. “What about you?”
“All my ex-girls were crazy. You know how it is.”
Red flag. He didn’t say girlfriends. Just girls. If all his exes were “crazy,” maybe the problem was him. Cole never once called Kass crazy, despite everything she put him through.
“Yeah… I guess so.”
“I’m glad you’re skinny like in your photos,” he adds. “So many girls catfish these days. It’s such a waste of my time.”
Is this guy serious?
“Um, thanks?” I mumble, trying to keep the peace.
“So what do you do for work?”
“I’m in interior design,” I reply, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “I’m trying to start my own business. What about you?”
“I’m an online fitness coach. I’ve got like three hundred clients and I train full-time too. No pain, no gain.” He flexes his exposed bicep, clearly impressed with himself.
Right on cue, our drinks arrive. Thank God. I immediately take a long sip, avoiding Crystal’s gaze, trying not to cough it back up when the soapy bitterness hits my tongue.
“Are you ready to order?” she asks, eyes barely flicking up to acknowledge us.
“She’ll have a salad, and I’ll take the steak medium rare, with mayo on the side. Oh, and another round.” He forgets his manners, instead flashing her a cocky smile that she clocks but meets with a flat, unimpressed stare.
“Sure thing. Food won’t be long,” she says over her shoulder as she walks away.
Did he… order me a salad? Seriously?
I drain half my glass and invent a game: one solid sip every time he flexes, brags, or checks himself out in the reflection of his phone.
“So where were we, gorgeous?” he asks, doing just that.
One sip.
“You were telling me about work.”
“Oh, right, baby. Just got back from a boys’ trip in Turkey. It was so sick.” Oh, so that explains the tacky veneers.
Two sips.
He goes on about clients, travel, and how he’s looking for a girl who’ll quit her job to “hit up Europe” with him. Not once does a question come my way. By the third sip, my glass is empty. The vodka, tangled with the wine at home, is making the room tilt ever so slightly.
“What’s your ideal date?” I ask.
“Wake up at four a.m., train legs, get iced coffee, then back to mine.”
“Right, that sounds nice. Any plans for the future?” I ask, trying to steer the conversation in a less shallow direction. Luckily, Crystal reappears with another round, sliding both drinks onto the table. I thank her, but my attention shifts when I notice Fox’s hasn’t even touched his.
“Got an investment coming through that’s gonna make a mil, babe.”
Babe count: three. Sip count: fucked.
“What kind of investment?”
“Crypto. A guy messaged me on Instagram and sent me a link. It’s legit.”
Crystal is back with the food by the time I’ve finished my second drink, and I look at the sad excuse for a salad. The limp lettuce, a few rogue cherry tomatoes, and a limp cucumber slice do nothing to soak up the vodka that’s begun to take effect.
The edges of the room blur, and I scan for any sign of an exit strategy. And there it is, the bathroom sign next to a merch stand cluttered with hot-sauce keychains and neon-orange crop tops.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” I say, standing too fast. “I’ll be back.”
“No worries,” he says with another wink.
Inside, I sit on the closed toilet lid and shut my eyes for a second, willing the dizziness to ease. When I open them, I try texting Sophie but end up typing SOS to Cole.
Autocorrect turns it into “sis.”
I try again. Sis.
Dammit.
Sorry, I type, then give up and send one last, clear SOS.
I’ve got you, he texts back, and I flick my phone off Do Not Disturb.
I close my eyes, trying to will the spinning to halt.
After a few deep breaths, the world steadies just enough for me to stumble to the sinks, gripping the edge for balance.
The mirror flickers under fluorescent lights, and I catch my reflection: flushed cheeks, slightly smudged eyeliner, but makeup and hair otherwise still intact.
Thank God I don’t look as drunk as I feel.
I steady myself in the mirror, lips barely moving as I mutter, “Cole’s coming. You can do this.”
Eventually, once I’ve convinced myself I won’t faceplant on the grimy tiles, I push open the bathroom door. I almost run straight into Crystal. Her expression softens, concern replacing the snark she used with Fox earlier. “Hey, just came to see if you’re okay?”
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
She gives a sympathetic smile. “He’s a player, I just felt like I had to say something."
We both glance toward where Fox is swiping on Tinder, and this time, when our eyes meet, we share a knowing laugh instead of an eyeroll.
“I could’ve guessed.” I sigh, smiling a little. “Thanks for checking on me.”
“Of course. We’ve got to look out for each other,” she says. “If you ever need a quick save, order a vodka lime soda with ‘extra’ mint. The girls will know.”
“I’ve got a friend coming to get me now,” I say, trying to keep my words from slurring.
Crystal squeezes my hand lightly. “Good. Get home safe, okay? You deserve better than that.” She gives me an encouraging nod before we both exit the bathroom.
I find Fox right where I left him. He doesn’t bother looking up when I rejoin him. It’s just him and his phone, thumbs swiping right.
I all but wave a hand in his face. “I’m back.”
“Hey, baby, dessert here or at mine?” He grins, finally setting his phone back on the table.
“Let’s start with dessert here,” I blurt, desperate to buy myself time and dodging the awkward moment where I’d have to split the bill.
Finally, after what feels like a lifetime, my phone rings, and my stomach flips. I swipe to answer so fast that I almost drop it. “Oh no, she’s in labour?” I gasp into the phone, already pushing back my chair and glancing wide-eyed at Fox.
“My sister’s in labour. Gotta go.”
I bolt out the front door, duck into the burger place next door, and wait in the bathroom until Cole texts that he’s outside.
When he rolls to a stop, I don’t hesitate. I practically sprint toward his Ute.
Everything’s going to be okay.