Chapter 21 #2
“Is that as good as it smells?” I ask.
“Try it,” he says, pushing the plate toward me.
The thrill I felt earlier intensifies. This is more than a stolen moment at breakfast or touching feet under the table.
This is sharing food.
Using the same fork.
“Sure,” I say, looking him in the eye as he lifts it toward my mouth. It feels reckless in a way that makes no logical sense—like we’re not just sharing breakfast, we’re making a public declaration.
I really shouldn’t do this …
I lean forward and bite.
The eggs are fluffy and salty, the green chiles bright and sharp, and the cheese has melted perfectly into everything. It’s warm, tangy, and strangely comforting.
“Um, yeah,” I say after I swallow. “I’m getting one. Be right back.”
I stand quickly and grab a plate before I can spiral over the fact that I just ate off his fork.
It’s food, Scottie. Not a kiss.
You missed that chance this morning.
The buffet line is mercifully empty. Stainless steel chafing dishes reflect the early morning light slanting through the courtyard doors. A cook behind the omelet station nods at me, and I order the green chile omelet, confessing my feelings in culinary form.
By the time I get back, plate in hand, I’ve scanned the room twice. Still just the two men in golf polos. No Firebirds. No staff.
I sit.
“How was your morning?” he asks.
“Productive,” I say, my eyes shifting left and right.
“Productive?” he asks, leaning closer and grabbing my hand under the table. “That sounds a lot less exciting than I’d hoped.”
“You have no idea how exciting I find productivity.”
A laugh bursts out of him. “I stand corrected.” He takes a bite of his omelet. “How did you sleep?”
Normally, I wouldn’t be up for truth bombs before seven in the morning, but with Lucas’s hand on mine, I feel stronger. Safer.
“Like someone who got emotionally body-slammed by a group text at ten thirty,” I say.
He winces, and his thumb rubs my palm. “That bad?”
“Agent’s ‘BIG mad,’” I say, air-quoting with my free hand. “Which is apparently worse than regular mad.”
Lucas huffs but doesn’t let go. “So there’s a scale?”
“Oh, definitely. Mildly annoyed. Frustrated. Disappointed. Mad. BIG mad. Nuclear.”
“Where does Scottie mad fall?”
I give him a level look. “Scottie doesn’t get mad.”
“Everyone gets mad.”
“I beg your pardon. Scottie’s anger is futile and ignored by her well-meaning but oblivious family.”
He nods, twists his hand, and intertwines our fingers in a way that’s so intimate, I can’t believe everyone in the lobby isn’t blushing.
He looks past me. “You know, my mom’s been gone for three years, but she was sick for a long time before that—”
“Lucas, I’m sorry,” I interrupt. “I’m complaining about my family when your mom—”
“No, I’m not saying that,” he says. “My sister’s big on the idea that life isn’t the pain Olympics—you don’t have to win at suffering before you’re allowed to hurt.”
I tip my head to the side. “I love that.”
He smiles. “Yeah, Liesel’s smart like that.
But what I was going to say is that my mom was sick for so long that we put her on a pedestal before she even died.
I told myself she couldn’t do anything wrong because she was dying, but it wasn’t true.
She was an amazing mom, don’t get me wrong.
But she still said insensitive things or got mad or accidentally compared us to each other.
It’s not like being sick turned her into a saint. ”
His head is angled down too much for me to tell what emotion he’s processing. “She loved us, and with everything going on, I never felt like I was allowed to get mad at her or tell her if she was being hard on me.”
“Do you wish you could go back?” I ask.
“No. I don’t know. Maybe. She would have felt awful, but she wouldn’t have beat herself up about it. She would have tried harder. That’s it.”
“But you couldn’t do it,” I say.
“No. There was always this fear that if I said anything mean, it might be the last thing I ever said. I’d have to live with that forever.”
Tears spring to my eyes, making everything blurry. “Lucas—”
“I don’t know what I’m saying.” He takes two big bites and stares at his plate for a second before looking up. “Yes, I do. My mom would have wanted to know so she could do something, even if she was sick. Your family loves you, Quinn. I bet they’d hate knowing they’ve chosen Jake over you.”
“They haven’t—” I cut myself off. “They haven’t meant to.”
“That’s my point.”
Lucas shifts, and the easy, steady warmth from his hand moves up my arm, through my chest, and settles in a lump in my throat.
I clear it. “Thanks for—”
“Wow. Don’t you two look cozy?”
Our hands fly apart beneath the table, yet the accusation hits like a record scratch.
Coop and Logan are standing only a few feet from us, trays in hand.
The guilt that floods my system is immediate.
And totally unfair.
Suddenly I’m eight years old, standing in the kitchen sobbing over a crime I didn’t commit.
Mom had baked a batch of chocolate chip cookies for a neighbor, and Jake and my brothers had raided the ones Mom saved for dessert, leaving nothing but crumbs.
I was so upset—and jealous—that I ran to the kitchen to see if they’d left anything behind.
They hadn’t.
Just crumbs and a single chocolate chip at the bottom of the cookie jar.
I wiped my finger through the crumbs, eating them and that solo chocolate chip, and that’s when Mom walked in.
She wasn’t furious. Just disappointed.
I immediately blamed the boys. Told her it wasn’t me.
“Sweetie,” she said. “Be honest.”
“I am being honest! It was the boys! Jake started it!”
“Scottie, that’s a big accusation.”
“But it wasn’t me!” I cried.
“Prescott Grace Quinn, I can see the crumbs on your face right now. You’re not in trouble for eating the cookies, but you are in trouble for lying. You tell me what happened this instant.”
The injustice hit me at the same time as the guilt. I did have crumbs on my face, and I had wanted a cookie—I just hadn’t gotten one.
So I burst into tears. “I’m sorry, Mom!”
She hugged me and kissed my tears and thanked me for being honest.
Sitting here now, I feel eight years old again—but worse, because I’m the one who made this situation off-limits, and my actions could put other people at risk.
Plus, Logan’s expression is unmistakably disappointed.
Coop’s, though, is thoughtful. Curious. He looks like he’s taking notes and filing them away.
Lucas glances between them and then back at me. “Relax,” he says lightly. “She was thanking me for recommending the omelet.”
“That so?” Logan says, sliding into the chair beside Lucas. “It seemed a lot more serious than that.”
“She had a headache and needed something that wouldn’t make her nauseous,” Lucas says, his cheeks flushing angry.
“Nauseated,” I correct.
Lucas rolls his eyes, like he’s annoyed with me, now, too. But his knee presses against mine under the table. “Great, now I have the breakfast police and the … dictionary police. Word police. This is fun,” he says.
Coop grins and pulls up a chair, angling it at the corner nearest me. The table is definitely too small for four—our knees will all be touching—but if I jump up, they’ll suspect something. When Logan starts bringing in a fourth chair, Lucas shakes his head.
“Don’t crowd,” Lucas says quickly. “Take my chair. I’m done.”
He wipes his mouth with a napkin and looks at me. “Hey, do you have a minute to go over the media grid before we get on the bus?”
The shift is seamless. Professional. Polished.
I shake my head, picking up my fork. “No, sorry. Just text me questions. I need to finish breakfast and make sure the other Flaps all have their agendas for the day.” I look at Logan deliberately. “Like you. You know where you’re going today?”
“Yup,” he says. “I have defensive reps, PFPs, lift, then the afternoon workout.”
“And sponsor activation,” I add.
He groans. “Right.”
“Just smile and sign,” I tell him. “It won’t kill you.” Before I can look back at Lucas, he’s already standing, tray in hand.
“I’ll see you crazy kids later,” he says pointing to us in an over-the-top way.
Like we didn’t just share a fork.
Like we weren’t the only two people in the world five minutes ago.
He tosses his tray and leaves me with Coop and Logan, where I return to my omelet. Take a bite.
And for the next twenty minutes, I laugh with Coop and Logan the way I’m never allowed to laugh with Lucas—out loud, in public, for anyone to see.
Like pretending doesn’t cost me anything.