CHAPTER 36
Cole
Things slipped back into rhythm after yesterday's date. I worried for a beat that I’d pushed the boundary, but it didn’t turn out to be the case. We’re still renovating as usual, bickering in quiet moments and laughing in the loud ones.
I lug two huge tins of linen-white paint from the garage, the metal handles biting into my palms as I cross the hall.
At her bedroom door, I pause. Quinn’s already inside, back to me, cloth in hand.
Her hair’s twisted up in that messy knot she always does when she’s focused and she’s wiping down the walls.
For a second, I watch, not sure if stepping into her space will help or just get in the way.
I clear my throat. “How’s it going in here?”
She looks over, a flash of irritation crossing her face. “Fine.”
I guess renovating will never be her thing, but she never complains about the long days. And neither do I because somehow, with her, they don’t feel long enough.
“Here, let me give you a hand.” I walk over and take the cloth from her, our fingers brushing. Her skin is warm, her eyes a little too guarded. She leans toward me just slightly, and for a moment, I forget why I came in here at all.
“You ever paint a room before?” I ask, helping her wipe away the dust.
She shakes her head. “Nope. But it can’t be that hard, right?”
“Famous last words,” I murmur. Even though it looks easy, it’s the part I dread most: slow, repetitive, and somehow always messier than expected.
Back at the bar, we’ve got a crew to do this kind of stuff.
But here, it’s just the two of us. But honestly?
I wouldn’t trade it for anything. I’d paint every damn wall in this place if it meant spending this kind of time with Quinn.
She side-eyes me. “Come on, how hard can it be to roll some paint on a wall?”
I smile at the bite in her voice. “You’ve come a long way since the screwdriver incident.”
“Oh my God,” she groans, craning her neck back. “I will never live that down.”
“You tried to hand me a butter knife.”
“Well, it worked anyway, didn’t it?” She crouches low as she loads the tray with fresh paint. “So how do I do it? Like this?”
I arch a brow. “Yep, you’re a natural.”
She reaches past me, the brush “accidentally” grazing my chest on her way to the wall, and a streak of paint blooms across my arm.
I glance down, then up at her. She doesn’t even blink, just keeps tracing the edges of the skirting board like she didn’t just start something she has no intention of finishing peacefully. “Like this?”
I drag my roller across her shoulder. Accidentally, of course. “Mmm, yeah.”
She gasps, then stands up and strikes back with a bold streak, right across the front of my shirt. The whole scene is reminiscent of our pancake batter–off, and something about that familiarity sends a thrill down my spine.
“Hey, you started it.”
“Yeah, well, that was for the screwdriver comment.”
“Well earned then.” I laugh, lunging toward her as she darts away, mischief flashing in her eyes. She’s quick, already dipping her paintbrush back in.
She’s mid-swipe when I catch her wrist, and everything stills. Her breath stutters against my skin, and her lips part as her eyes flick to mine and then down to my mouth, then back again.
I want to close the gap and kiss her. God, I want to.
But I don’t move. And neither does she. The air hums between us. Then, in a flash, she shoves me back with a playful grin. “Truce?”
“Only if you admit I’m the better painter.”
“In your dreams.”
“In my dreams? More like I’m in yours,” I say, smirking.
She scoffs, grabbing a cloth and tossing it my way. “As if.”
We’ve almost finished cleaning the paint off our skin when the doorbell rings. Quinn wipes her hands on her paint-splattered jeans, heading for the door. “I wasn’t expecting anyone… were you?” she asks, glancing over her shoulder, a frown tugging between her brows.
“Nope, maybe it’s Sophie?”
“Maybe.” She trips over the uneven floorboard, cursing under her breath, and I mentally move it to the top of my to-do list.
I break away and head toward the kitchen, the sound of her footsteps fading as she reaches the front door.
“Um, Cole? I need some help,” Quinn calls out to me. I look over in time to see a delivery man handing her a clipboard. I join her and a guy who introduces himself as Paul, who’s walked over from a huge truck with a Furniture Kings logo on the side.
“Are you Quinn Rose, ma’am?”
“I am…” she says hesitantly, looking from Paul to the truck, disbelief written all over her beautiful face.
“Your furniture order is here, but we regret to inform you that the mattress won’t be in stock for at least a month due to supply issues.” He ticks something on his clipboard before handing it to her for a signature. “Just a scribble, here and here.”
I hear her mutter shit to herself before looking back at me guiltily. “Okay, so I may have forgotten about some furniture I bought while intoxicated a couple of months ago.”
“You’re full of surprises.” I shake my head as box after box is unloaded.
“Where do you want them?” Paul says, looking past me at the minimal space of the lounge room that barely fits the current couch, TV, and bookshelf.
“Umm, I guess just the living room, please,” Quinn says, shrugging and stepping aside to give the delivery workers space.
The guys squeeze them inside, and a few pieces are already assembled, leaving just a tight gap to pass through.
When the van leaves, we lean against the wall, surveying the maze of boxes crowding the room. “We’ll clear a path, start small and move what we can into the rooms.”
She nods. “Sounds like a plan.”
We begin with the medium-sized, lighter box by the door closest to her room.
However, it’s also the bulkiest one. As we attempt to lift it, we realise that we’ll need to manoeuvre between the tight space at the end of the bed and the wall to reach the en suite.
This means we’ll have to lift the box over the end of the bed as we shuffle to the bathroom.
“Okay, just let me get a better grip,” Quinn tells me as she picks up the underside of the box. But we lift it at different times, knocking over the entire 4-litre paint tin. Paint soaks the unprotected mattress.
“Oh my God,” Quinn says, her eyes wide as she glances at me.
“I know, shit.”
“Please don’t be mad at me,” she says, looking around the room frantically, tears pricking her eyes. “Let me fix it.”
“It’s okay, it was an accident,” I reassure her. “It’s just an old bed.”
“I shouldn’t have been so careless,” she chokes out, sliding down the wall to the floor, her head in her hands. “I hate that I’m like this. I know it upsets people.”
“People like who?” I take a few slow steps toward her and sink down beside her, wanting nothing more than to pull her close and take the ache away. But I know I can’t fix this. All I can do is stay beside her and let her fall apart for a while, hoping my presence is enough.
“Um…” She hiccups, her cheeks wet from her tears. “Josh…”
My chest tightens. Josh never deserved her. If she were mine, I’d have treated her with the kind of love that feels safe. I would’ve held her close instead of pushing her away, made her feel steady instead of on edge.
I dip my head so we’re at eye level. “Hey, Q, look at me. Do I look upset?”
She turns her head to peer at me through watery eyes. “Well, no, but sometimes he didn’t either. It was so confusing.”
“There isn’t anything you could do that would make me angry or upset.”
Quinn wipes at her eyes and looks up at me. “I know you’re not him.” She sighs. “I just can’t help how I react to things sometimes. He was so unpredictable and always made it seem like everything was my fault. I’m trying to be better.”
I reach out and gently brush a tear from her cheek. “You don’t have to be better for me,” I say quietly. “You already are. None of that is your fault.”
She closes her eyes and takes a slow, steady breath, then shifts closer until her chest presses against mine. I wrap my arms around her and hold her tight, her head tucked beneath my chin, her trembling easing little by little.
She exhales, her breath catching against my neck, and for a long time neither of us moves. She eventually pulls away. “Let’s take a break and have some lunch, we’ll figure out a plan,” I reassure her when she looks ready.
In the kitchen, I start cutting up some salad and chicken, thinking Quinn’s favourite meal will further soothe her.
I pour us a glass of cold water, and she picks a few pieces of cucumber off the chopping board and pops them in her mouth. “Okay, seriously, where are we going to store these boxes?”
“Hmm.”
“The mattress in your room won’t be usable even after the paint dries. The fumes will hang around, so let’s ditch the bed and mattress and use that space for the boxes instead.”
She purses her lips. “But then… Where will I sleep?”
“Easy. You take the guest room, and I’ll take the couch.”
“No way. You wouldn’t fit on that thing,” she says, frowning at the couch a few meters away from the kitchen.
Quinn makes a fair point. She hardly fits on it herself, and the top of her head barely reaches my shoulder. I would probably have to sleep sitting up, which I would do if it meant she was comfortable.
“It’s okay, really.”
She takes the bowl I pass her and smiles. “How about we just share the bedroom? Friends have sleepovers all the time. It’ll be like when Sophie and I do.”
“I’m not going to make you share a bed with me.”
After her breakdown, I don’t want to push her. Plus, it’s the kind of offer I’ve imagined too many times—her next to me, the weight of her on the mattress, warm beneath the sheets. But not like this. Her cheeks are still flushed from crying, and her hazel eyes are still glassy.
“I can hear you overthinking,” I tell her, grinning. “Don’t stress, okay? I’ll be just fine on the couch.”
“Fine, but you have to promise to let me know if you’re not. Yeah?”
I nod, and the silence between us stretches, but it doesn’t feel empty. It feels steady. Like something has shifted.
The bed situation, the mess, it can all wait. Because this? This is enough.