26. Quinn
Quinn
Reid got a room with one bed.
I’m locked in the bathroom as it fills with steam, and I’m sure he assumes I’m angry. Irritated. And I am irritated. But mostly because the moment I looked at that bed, I thought one thing–
What it would be like to crawl into it…with him.
What it would be like to snuggle up under those fresh, white sheets with him.
What it would be like to get lost under that fluffy down comforter–with him.
What it would feel like to take advantage of every inch of that bed…with him.
I’m so frustrated that I am pacing the bathroom floor in nothing but my underwear trying to decide if I need a hot shower or a cold one because the very idea of what him and I could do in every room of this suite is both getting me hot and covering me in goosebumps.
My phone rings and I physically jump. Then I take the call, pressing it to my ear and lowering my voice to a whisper-yell.
“Are your ears ringing?” I ask Allegra.
“You know that’s not a real thing, right?” she asks. “And why are you whispering? And what’s that sound? Is it raining? Did your beachy getaway get rained out? Ugh, I hate that for you.”
“It’s not raining; I’m in the bathroom,” I tell her.
“How big is that showerhead?” she asks, and I look up.
“Massive. Rainfall. And there’s three of them,” I mutter.
“Of course there is, you lucky bitch,” she says.
“I would feel that way except you won’t believe what Reid did,” I say, tipping her off to why I am whispering-yelling, as she put it.
“Oh god. He tried to sleep with you, didn’t he? That jerk.”
“He got one room. With one bed,” I say.
“So, he’s going to try to get you to sleep with him,” she says. “Future tense.”
“I don’t know,” I sigh. “I mean, he says he won’t. But that’s not the problem,” I mutter.
“What is the problem?” she asks.
“The problem is, he’s so fucking…” I trail off.
“Egotistical? Manipulative? Jaded? I’m telling you, I’ve been trained to spot a jaded boy from a mile away, and that man is jaded with a capital J. Jaded. Jaded the Musical. Jaded on Ice.”
“Hot,” I say, and she stops. “He’s so infuriatingly hot. And not only that…he’s sweet. Only when he wants to be, which is not often, but…ugh. He watched Bridgerton, Allegra,” I say.
“Wait. On purpose?” she asks.
“No. I forced him. But he liked it,” I say.
“Did he admit that?” she asks.
“Not exactly. But he chuckled once in a while. Mostly when the Duke was being a dick. You know how he is at the beginning. Oh, my god…” I trail off.
“What?” she asks.
And it takes me a second. “I’m dating the Duke, aren’t I? Fuck.”
“I feel like this is all a bit…” Allegra searches for the word. “Much.”
“You think?” I snap. Then I groan. “What have I gotten myself into?”
“Listen to me,” she says. “As a therapist, this is what I want you to do. Stay calm. Remember why you’re there. Have fun with it. I mean, shit, it’s a destination wedding on someone else’s dime. And it’s not even his dime, so he can’t hold it against you later. Just…enjoy it for what it is.”
“And as far as the proximity trope goes?” I ask.
“Again. As a therapist, I advise you keep your wits about you. Don’t give in to anything you don’t actually want. Don’t let this be a What Happens in Vegas…scenario. The Myrtle Edition,” she says.
“As a friend?” I ask, looking in the mirror.
“As a friend…same advice. Only do what you want. And definitely…do what you want.”
I take another breath and let it out. Her advice both helps and makes matters worse. But if there’s anything I can be, it’s level-headed and composed. And she is very right about one thing. It’s not every day I get to go to a wedding like this. And I am going to enjoy it, damn it.
After I shower and shave, do my hair and my makeup, and slip into a dress that I may or may not have bought in the airport when we landed (because it literally screamed beachy wedding), I spritz on some perfume, something that smells like hibiscus and coconut and sunshine in a bottle.
Then I take a deep breath and open the door.
I am expecting the sunlight to pour in, the steam to pour out, and the panoramic view to ease my nerves and remind me that I am still in heaven.
What I am not expecting is for Reid to still be here, standing in the kitchenette, sipping a glass of whiskey, wearing tan slacks, dark brown leather shoes, and a white button down, rolled up at the elbows exposing his unrealistically toned forearms.
I am also not expecting his intense eyes to be brighter than the ocean itself as he lifts his chiseled jaw to look at me from across the room.
His lips part and I have no idea what to make of the expression on his face.
“Where would I go without my date?” he asks. Then his eyes trail over me and up again.
“What?” I ask, waiting for the comments.
“Your dress…” he says, and I roll my eyes.
“Don’t worry. My boobs aren’t going anywhere. But if you prefer I wore a turtleneck to dinner, I’ll go change,” I say.
“No, I didn’t mean that. I just…”
I am teasing him, of course. Being snarky comes naturally when I am talking to him. But if I didn’t know any better, I’d say Reid is…stuttering. Of his game.
“How strong is that drink?” I ask.
He looks down at it and sets it aside.
“Are you ready to go?” he asks, standing up straight.
“If you have no objections to my dress–”
“None at all,” he says quickly, and I am a bit dumbfounded.
Is Lawyer Reid…speechless?
I walk to the door, and he follows close behind. And I can’t help but smile.
The welcome dinner, as Reid said, is in the garden around a tiki bar. It’s blocked off to the public for the night, and the cocktails are free. Tiki lamps burn and the night air is warm and salty and amazing.
It’s a very different vibe than the other weddings, though I am not surprised.
Every man here works in law in one area or another.
And the women fit the bill too. As I glance around at all the designer dresses, I can’t help but wonder if I am a bit understated.
I doubt any of them bought their dresses at the airport.
And I’m sure their perfumes didn’t come in a buy one get one special either.
But as if Reid can read my thoughts, he places a hand on mine, the one clamped to the crook of his elbow.
“You look stunning,” he tells me, and I’m not entirely sure what to make of the compliment. It’s the first time he’s said anything like that to me.
“I feel like everyone is staring,” I whisper back to him as a server walks by and takes our empty cocktail glasses to replace them with new ones.
“They are,” he says and I look up at him. “Because they agree with me.”
With that, my cheeks flush.
Suddenly, we are approached by a couple.
“August,” the man says. “Did you really think you could sneak into my wedding with a gem on your arm and not introduce us?”
August? I’m confused for a moment and I look up at Reid curiously.
“Oh, be nice, Ryan,” the woman says. “He’s obviously too smitten to care about anything else,” she smiles. “I’m Krissi. And this is my fiancé, Ryan. And you must be Quinn.”
“I am,” I say, forcing a smile over the top of my confusion.
“August here has told us all about you,” Ryan says.
“Good things, of course,” Krissi says. “I’m so glad you could make it. Tomorrow is going to be a dream.”
“I’m sure it will be,” I smile. “It’s already like a fairytale.”
“She is the sweetest,” Krissi goes on. “Don’t let this one go, August.”
“I have no intention to,” Reid says.
“Well, drink up,” Ryan says. “Because after dinner is the bachelor-bachelorette party.”
He pats Reid on the shoulder, and they walk off to greet more guests, and I look up at Reid.
“What are they talking about?” I ask.
“Hmm?” Reid hums casually as he sips his drink. “Oh. They’re doing a combined bachelor/bachelorette party tonight. At the House of Blues, I think. There’s some concert going on, some jazz band Krissi loves.”
“Not that,” I cut him off. “Why did they call you August?” I ask, and Reid blinks, taking another sip of his whiskey.
“Because it’s my name,” he answers, and for a second, I am still lost. Until I figure it out.
Of course. He’s a lawyer. A lot of them go by different names, especially ones that not everyone is a fan of. AKA prosecuting lawyers. Ones that don’t have a lot of fans.
Reid August.
It doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue, but at least I can say I know his last name now.
After dinner, we pile into limos, something I didn’t know people even did anymore, and head off to the House of Blues.
It’s a quaint place, not what I was expecting.
But honestly, a lot of this crowd is surprising me.
They’re fancy, yes, and all very obviously rich.
But they like to drink and they love to dance.
And the band is almost Benny Goodman-esque, and I don’t hate it.
“It’s like stepping into a time capsule,” I smile as I talk to a bridesmaid named Chelsea.
“Yes. The bride and groom are big jazz and swing fans. They go to ballroom classes every week,” she says back.
“That’s so romantic,” I gush. “I love a man who knows how to dance.”
“Do you know how to dance?” she asks. “Swing, I mean,”
“Not well,” I admit. “I took a class in high school for a play, but I haven’t done much of it since.”
Chelsea is about to say something else when her husband, a cute man with warm brown eyes, sweeps her away and they fall into an east coast swing with ease.
I smile as I watch everyone, taking in the room in its entirety. The band, complete with brass and strings and woodwinds, the couples tangled together on the floor, the lights and laughter and shrieks of excitement.
“Are you having a good time?” Reid asks over my shoulder, and I smile up at him.
“This is amazing,” I answer. “When you said bachelor party, I assumed it would be club music and people doing shots.”
“Honestly, I kind of expected that, too. But this is much better,” he says over the music.
“Really?” I ask, arching an eyebrow.
“You don’t think so?” he asks.
“Oh, I do. It just seems a little…”
“A little what?” he asks, snaking an arm around me. He’s pulling me closer so we can hear each other better. But maybe for other reasons too.
“Romantic,” I say. “It’s so 1940s. That was a romantic time. The music. The dancing.”
“Do you want to dance?” he asks, and it surprises me a little, if I am being honest.
“Do you?” I answer his question with the same question. “Or should I say, can you?”
Reid’s eyes darken mischievously, and a smirk crawls across his lips.
Then, he wordlessly grabs me by the hand and pulls me onto the floor.
And it turns out that Reid can dance. Not only that, but he can dance well.
Well enough that it doesn’t matter that I’ve forgotten all the steps to swing dancing.
He’s a good enough lead that I don’t need to know.
In his lead, I couldn’t fall out of step if I tried.
The song ends, and the room erupts before the band picks up again, this time playing Sing Sing Sing. It’s fast-paced and intimidating, but Reid just smiles down at me.
“Are you ready for this?” he asks.
“No,” I admit with a giggle. Then he grins and pulls me back into the dance, and I shriek.
It’s literally the most exciting, movie-esque thing I’ve ever done, and I am swept away by all of it.
Romanced by all of it. And as we move around the floor, every one of my steps is guided by his, his hands on me, his pheromones filling the air between us as we turn and twist and dip, I feel drunk.
But not from alcohol. I have only had two drinks since we got here.
I am drunk on whatever energy is between us. Whatever chemistry floats naturally in the space between us, magnetizing us together. It feels like a dream. Like something I am going to suddenly wake up from and ache with sadness that it’s over.
But for now…for now, it’s real. And I soak up every moment of it until it’s over and we are walking back into our almost too quiet hotel suite. The only sound is the ocean crashing outside against the beach and our shoes on the marble floor.
I kick my shoes off and set them aside, my feet aching from a night of dancing in wedge heels.
But I don’t even care. It was worth every blister.
Reid sets his things on the counter, emptying his pockets.
I turn to look at him, and he looks at me too.
Despite the shift in the energy level, there is still residual heat between us.
It lingers in the air, moving with us, growing thicker as I inch closer to him.
I stop right in front of him, looking up. Then I reach up and touch his hair, hair that is usually slicked back, every strand in place. Tonight it is tousled from dancing, his salt and pepper temples glistening from sweat and the hairs around his neckline curling into little locks.
I tug on one of them, and he places his hands on my waist. Then…he just waits. Wait for me to make a move. Any move. Or no move at all. There is no urgency. No manipulation. But there is want. Want that neither of us can deny.
Slowly, I rise to my tiptoes. And he lowers his head. I tip my chin up to him. And he tilts his down to me.
Our mouths meet, warm and whiskey-tinged and slow. My lips part, and his jaw unhinges slightly. Our tongues connect and dance around each other. Slow. Hot. Enjoying each other the way you eat a piece of chocolate. Savoring it.
When we pull back in need of air, Reid runs a hand over my jaw, his thumb grazing my lips, tugging the bottom one to open my mouth.
“What do you want?” he asks grittily.
And I know I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t because I said I wouldn’t. But at the same time…I want it. And isn’t that what matters?
“I want…” I say breathily, kissing the pad of his thumb and making him groan.
“Anything…” he whispers huskily.
“You,” I answer, and his eyes darken even more.
“Where?” he asks.
“The bed…”