CHAPTER 30
Quinn
Whoever said vodka lime sodas prevent hangovers is a Goddamn liar.
Words echo in my pounding head before I’ve even opened my eyes. For a second, I can’t place where I am. The bed is too soft to be my lumpy couch, the sheets too crisp and comforting to be mine. As I snuggle back into the pillow, the scent of cedar wraps around me, soothing.
Then it hits me: Cole’s bed. Minus Cole.
Oh God. What did I do? Do I even want to know?
Groaning, I peel back the covers and plant my feet on the floor.
The hardwood is cold, and every step sends a dull throb behind my eyes.
I steady myself against the wall and start the defeated march down the hallway.
Caffeine, food, and painkillers. It’s my only shot at breathing enough life back into me for the kitchen reno today.
I’m almost at the kitchen when I catch a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror and wish I’d just kept walking.
Mascara is smudged beneath my eyes, leftover foundation clinging to dry patches, and the curls I slept in now sit in uneven waves.
I don’t have the will to fix them right now, so I gather what I can into a rough bun using the hair tie that lives permanently on my wrist. It’s not pretty, but it’ll do.
I round the corner, following the smell of butter crackling on the stove.
As soon as the kitchen comes into view, I pause and try not to stare as I’m met with the same view I secretly look forward to every morning.
A shirtless Cole with his hair ruffled from sleep, and grey sweatpants slung low on his hips.
God, I could get used to this.
But then I remind myself that it’s temporary. This arrangement has an expiration date, and it’s creeping closer with every passing day. Still, I let that thought slip into the background and watch him move through my kitchen like it’s his.
I realise I’ve been standing there a beat too long when he turns around with a playful smirk. “Good morning to you too.”
“Oh shhh, my head hurts,” I say, sinking into the barstool. I notice my favourite mug next to the coffee machine, flowers faded from too many dishwasher cycles. I blink at it in surprise.
“You found my old mug. Where was it?”
“It was hiding behind a cupboard of half-finished bottles of red wine,” he says. “Found it while I was taking the cabinet doors off to prep for painting today.”
“It’s actually my favourite, but I haven’t seen it in ages.”
“I could have guessed.” He turns back to the stove, skilfully flipping a pancake.
“How?” I ask.
“It reminded me of you, stubborn but cute. Mostly stubborn.”
My cheeks warm at the casual compliment, and I fumble for something to say. “Cole,” I warn, lifting an eyebrow, “you know the rule: no flirting before nine a.m. I haven’t had caffeine yet.”
“Firstly, it’s five past and secondly, how are you holding up after last night?” He chuckles, filling my cup and sliding it in front of me with a smirk.
I drop my face into my hands, no doubt further smudging my leftover makeup. “I’ve felt worse, but I still feel gross. It’s definitely time I cut back on the drinking.”
“You remember any of it?”
“I wish I could forget that whole date.” I straighten and groan into my coffee mug.
“And after you got home?”
“Oh God,” I mumble. “What did I do? Wait, never mind. I don’t want to know.”
“Don’t want to know that you ran your fingers through my hair and confessed your undying love for me?” he says as he opens the cupboard and rummages through the chaos of Band-Aids and expired cold meds until he finds some painkillers.
My mouth drops open. “I did not.”
He hums. “Well, I might be exaggerating a tiny bit… about the hair thing.”
I roll my eyes and sip my coffee. “Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.
“Also…” His eyebrows lift with faux innocence as he slides my plate of pancakes in front of me, already drenched in maple syrup exactly how I like it.
Oh God, what else could I possibly have done?
He answers my unspoken question a moment later: “You agreed to go on a date with me.”
“I did what?”
“Yep. You said it yourself. Said you’d die to have me take you out.” He grins, all smug and cheeky, and somehow it warms me rather than irritates me. My fork freezes in midair. I narrow my eyes, trying to gauge if he’s joking.
“I so did not.”
But even as I say it, doubt creeps in. Did I? I mean, he’s been on my mind constantly, and I was definitely drunk last night… maybe something slipped?
“You did. So, you can’t back out now.”
I bite into my pancake, savouring the sweet syrup. “I must have been drunker than I thought.”
“You know what they say… drunk words, sober thoughts. Or something like that.”
“Fine, whatever will make you happy.” I glance at him over the rim of my mug, trying not to smile.
I’m not saying yes. Not really. But I’m not saying no either.
I mean, haven’t I been curious about what a real date with Cole might be like?
I already know that it will be a thousand times better than sticky tables and soggy salads.
“Good. You won’t be disappointed.”
“As friends though, right?”
I try to sound casual, but my chest feels tight. Because friends are safe. Friends don’t leave. Friends don’t make promises they can’t keep.
Easier to call it that than risk wanting more.
“Of course,” he assures me, but there’s something in the way his words come out a little too casual.
When we’re done eating, he washes up without being asked. I walk over and grab a tea towel to dry the dishes.
I glance over at him, sleeves rolled up, forearms wet from rinsing.
I feel that small tug in my chest again, the one I’ve been trying to ignore.
Because this? This is dangerous. Cosy mornings, shared breakfasts, and inside jokes…
This isn’t what I signed up for. I tell myself it’s just a bit of fun, that it doesn’t mean anything.
But the way he’s looking at me right now?
I’m not sure I believe it anymore.