23. Quinn
Quinn
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Allegra asks. She is on a grocery run, but when I told her about the pop-up wedding, she took a detour to my apartment and is now sitting on my bed watching me pack.
“In short? No,” I answer. “But it’ll be fine,” I say as I toss clothes from my closet onto the bed between her and my open suitcase. Allegra grabs the clothes one by one and folds them before setting them neatly in the suitcase for me.
“Will it, though?” she asks. “It feels dangerous.”
I snort. “Dangerous? In what way?”
“In every way?” she asks. “Forgive me for doubting you two are capable of self-control.”
“We’ve been perfectly successful at controlling ourselves up to this point,” I say, and this time she chortles.
“Right.”
I look back at my friend. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.
“It means that I am a therapist, Quinn. I literally majored in studying people. And you have not been one hundred percent honest about what has happened at these other weddings. That much I know for a fact.”
My jaw drops open, but no words come out. Because I can’t defend myself. Because she’s not wrong.
My cheeks blossom with pink splotches of embarrassment. “Okay fine. We’ve…fucked around a little.”
“Have you slept with him?” She asks, continuing to fold my clothes.
“No,” I say, and my tone is steady because I’m not lying. We haven’t. And won’t. Hopefully.
No, we won’t. We can’t.
“Well, that’s good. But that might be kind of hard to avoid this time, seeing as how it’s out of town,” she says.
“Allegra,” I say. “I am perfectly capable of not having sex when I don’t want to have sex,” I tell her.
“Oh, I know you are,” she says, holding her hands out and waiting for me to pitch the next item of clothing. I toss her a third swim suit. “But I’m also not thoroughly convinced that you don’t want to have sex with him.”
“How can you say that?” I snap. But Allegra just laughs.
“Because of the way you’re responding,” she says, and for a moment, I hate that she is a therapist. It’s nice when I need help, but it’s very inconvenient when I’m trying to bend the truth a little. “What all have you done?” she asks.
“What do you mean?” I ask, rifling through my closet for anything else I should bring.
“With Reid. What all has gone down at these weddings?” she presses.
“Kisses,” I admit.
“That’s a given. That’s part of your agreement, is it not?” she asks.
“And…other things…” I trail off.
“What kinds of other things…” she says and I don’t have to look at her to know she’s smiling. Allegra might be married and a mom and a therapist, and have a moral compass locked due north, but she’s also a woman, and it’s no secret that Reid is a very, very attractive man.
“Like…second base kind of stuff…” I say, and I am still not looking at her.
“Second base kind of stuff…” she echos and I know I sound ridiculous.
“Basically, the man has skilled hands,” I admit.
“I see,” she smiles. “And how about his tongue? Is it also skilled outside of the courtroom?”
“That I wouldn’t know!” I say satisfactorily. Then I feel ridiculous.
“Yet,” she says.
“I’m not going to sleep with him at the Myrtle Beach Resort,” I tell her. “No matter how hot he is. Or how hot I get around him, especially when there’s booze and dancing involved.”
“Say that back to yourself,” she says.
“I’m not!” I say with absolution.
“Alright,” Allegra finally gives up. On the sex part, anyways. “But I still think you need to be careful.”
“In what way?” I ask, buzzing over to my dresser to grab panties and bras and subconsciously picking out the newer and nicer ones.
Sex or no sex, I don’t want him seeing me in my Fruit of the Looms with stretched-out elastic bands.
And God forbid he witnesses the ones I save for that time of the month.
“I think you know,” she says softly.
“I don’t,” I say stubbornly.
“Reid might drive you nuts, but your chemistry is undeniable, Quinn,” she says, and I slam my dresser shut.
“What chemistry?”
“The chemistry everyone in the whole restaurant could sense at lunch that day. Even the people who don’t know you,” she says, and I bite my lips.
“Was it really that obvious?” I ask quietly.
“That you two have some serious sexual tension between you? Totally,” she says. “I say that as your friend and a therapist, but also as a bystander.”
“Fuck,” I mutter miserably.
“So, just…be careful. Remember why you agreed to go to these weddings. And focus on that. The wedding. Reid is simply your… chauffeur,” she says, and I nod.
A chauffeur. Right. Because I don’t know anyone at these weddings, and that’s why I am there with him. Nothing more.
But as I lay in bed that night, my bags packed for a flight that I didn’t even know about thirty-six hours ago to a place I am only just now researching for the first time, I’m not so sure.
I’m not sure if I can pretend I’m not his date.
I’m not sure I can convince myself that these weddings have been strictly business, especially considering most of them have ended in pleasure (glorious, heated, jaw-dropping pleasure).
And I’m not sure we are going to play by the rules considering we never have.
But there is one thing I know for sure.
I need his money. I need to stick to the contract.
For my clients. For Ashley specifically.
Because for some reason, her marriage feels personal to me.
Something about her whole case, knowing they both have lawyers, my father being one of them, I can’t fail her.
I just can’t. If ever I had a client that I wanted to succeed, it’s them.
And I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure that happens.
Even if it means resisting sex with the hottest guy I’ve ever gone out with.