37. Quinn
Quinn
Life is good.
Traffic is especially bad today. The kind of New York traffic when I wonder if it would be better just to use public transportation.
I’ve passed no less than six fender benders.
People are honking so fluidly it’s just one long sound.
It blends yelling of grumpy people, the screeching of tires, the jackhammers and excavators, creating a city cacophony.
And yet, as I cruise along (well, crawl along, I’m barely moving), knowing full well that I am going to be late to my coffee date with Reid, I am in a good mood.
Ashley has updated me no less than three times on how well their counseling is going, which is more music to my ears.
From the sound of it, they’re going to go weekly, which is currently out of the budget, but considering that this meeting is literally to talk about the money end of things, I’m not worried.
I’m not worried about anything, to be honest. The last wedding really solidified what I was hoping for. That maybe Reid isn’t who I thought. He’s jaded and scarred, yes. Afraid for sure. But truly anti-love? No. Anti-marriage? I don’t think so.
Our last night in the yurt gave me a lot of hope, actually that Reid is actually a romantic at heart; he was just burned so badly by a woman he loved that he built a bunker around his house, complete with barbed wire.
Add to that working in an industry where he is constantly surrounded by worst-case scenarios, and it was a recipe for all kinds of pride and prejudice.
I giggle at my own joke.
Because as I think about it, we are very Darcy and Elizabeth.
And in the end, like Mr. Darcy, he softened.
I saw it in his eyes that night. The sex was different.
Hungry and raw, of course. But it was also intimate.
We were naked on the inside and on the outside.
His eyes opened as his forehead pressed against mine.
And even if we didn’t say the words, we felt them.
We felt them deeply enough that we didn’t need to say them.
I’m tearing up just thinking about it, and I am grateful that I decided to go out sans makeup today. I took a two-hour bath, read a good chunk of the newest Tessa Bailey novel, and soaked until I was a giant, rose-scented prune. It was, in a word, lovely.
Now, as I drive to talk to Reid about the contract (and maybe other things…), in a light blue summer dress and flip-flops, nothing, and I mean nothing, could ever bring me down.
I see him from behind as soon as I walk in. His naturally rigid body is professional, and his good posture is notable from all the way across the shop. He is sitting in a corner away from everyone else and doesn’t seem to notice me yet.
I sneak up behind him and put my hands over his eyes.
“Guess who?” I ask, biting back a smile.
“No one I know…” he says, and I giggle, tugging my hands away.
“You’re funny,” I tell him, tossing my things in one of the chairs.
“Interesting. I wasn’t joking,” he says.
I plant a kiss on his lips, and he doesn’t kiss me back. Then I realize he doesn’t have coffee.
“I’m sorry I’m so late,” I tell him. “Traffic was horrendous. I also may have gotten a little lost in a new book. Tessa Bailey’s stories are a bit wild, but they get me every time. I wish I could tell a story like that.”
“Can you not?” he asks, and I tilt my head, slightly confused.
“Can I not what?” I ask.
“Tell a story,” he states, his eyes flashing up at me.
The man is truly in a mood.
“Okay…someone definitely hasn’t had their coffee yet,” I say, still smiling despite his disposition. “I’m going to grab an iced latte. Maybe the cinnamon dolce. What would you like, and I’ll grab it for you?”
“Don’t bother,” he mutters.
Okay. Now I’m a bit concerned. Not just that, but I’m also a bit annoyed. This isn’t the Reid I know. The Reid I used to know, maybe. But not the new Reid.
“What’s going on with you?” I ask, sitting down in front of him. Reid’s scowl doesn’t waver. He looks angry as hell. But also…he kind of just looks like hell in general. Like he hasn’t eaten or slept or anything.
“I have a better idea,” he says. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”
Now I’m truly lost.
“I don’t understand,” I tell him. “I thought we were just here to get coffee and talk about the funding. Which, by the way, is going to be at the perfect time because?—”
“About that,” he cut me off. “I’m not so sure funding your little nonprofit is in my best interest anymore,” he states.
I blink. “What do you mean?”
“Actually,” he clicks his tongue, his voice low and gravelly, but not in a good way. “I’m not so sure having anything to do with you in general is in my best interest anymore.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask. “That was the deal. That if I went to weddings, you would fund my current clients plus any new ones for a while. Until I get back on my feet and the government funding gets back on board and–”
“That was before,” he states.
“Before what?” I ask.
“Before you started lying to me. Although looking at the facts, I’m not even entirely sure when that was. But maybe you can clarify that for me,” he says and my heart tightens in my chest.
“Reid, I seriously–”
“My name’s not Reid,” he cuts me off again. “Not to you. Only my friends call me Reid. My family. People are let into my personal life. And as of right now, you aren’t one of those people anymore.”
“What in the world is going on?” I demand. My voice is shaking both from fear and anger because, seriously…what the hell??
“Well, first of all, my name’s not Reid. But I’m sure you know that,” he says.
“Is it August?” I ask. “I don’t see why it matt–”
“Stop pretending!” he snaps, loudly enough that we are attracting attention. “Jesus, Quinn. I’m calling you out on all of it, so for once, tell the truth.”
“About what?” I ask, beginning to cry.
“Wherever you want to start is fine,” he says, and I pinch my mouth shut, forcing the angriest face I have in me.
“I am not one of your witnesses,” I tremble.
“No. You’re not. Because any witness I talk to knows better than to lie to me,” he says. “So let’s hear it. How your dad isn’t just any lawyer, he’s Grant Bowen.”
“So?” she asks. “I have my mom’s last name. As a lawyer, you should know how common that is.”
“It is. But that’s not the important piece of information. That’s not the detail you kept locked up,” he states, waiting for me to say something. The problem is, I don’t know where he is going with this.
“I am not in your courtroom, Reid August,” I snap.
“August Remington, but don’t pretend you don’t know that.”
“Okay. August Reid Remington,” I state. Only when I say the name out loud do I recognize it. My father has spoken briefly of him, but never in detail. Only that he’s an ass and wins his trials through manipulation. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Really?” he asks. “So you are telling me that you were unaware that I was the prosecuting attorney in the Overholt case?”
Overholt.
Suddenly, part of the puzzle I am apparently supposed to put together while blindfolded comes together. “You were Michael’s attorney?” I ask. “Against…my client.”
“Against your client. Against your father.”
Holy shit…
I sit back in my chair, unsure what to say. But Reid isn’t finished. In fact, there’s a sort of devilish, competitive smirk on his face.
“Let’s piece this all together, shall we?
” he asks. And I am frozen. “You needed money. And when you figured out that I had money and was looking for help with the whole wedding date ordeal, you saw an opportunity. And when your client needed a lawyer, you hired your father, knowing full well that he and I have a track record and pitted them against me. Add Allegra to the process and you then had not just your client and your dad and your best friend who is also benefitting from my money against me, but my own client as well. Because why not use my money to fund your little romance project and make me look like a fool on a professional level at the same time? Did I leave anything out, Quinn Bowen?”
I stand up, no longer caring who is watching or listening.
“First of all, Reid, my name is not Quinn Bowen. It’s Quinn Delaney.
And you’re right. I did lie about something.
I didn’t have her name from birth. It wasn’t to keep me safe and anonymous.
I took her name when she died so that it would carry on in some way.
But that is information I didn’t owe you.
And it’s also the only thing I lied about.
I didn’t know you were on the Overholt case.
I wasn’t using you for money. I scratched your back, and you were supposed to scratch mine.
I didn’t use you for my nonprofit. We made a business deal.
One that you are refusing to withhold. I haven’t done anything wrong,” I state.
And by the end of my story, as he put it, I am winded from defending myself. Not that I should have to.
But Reid just studies me with fixed eyes and a smirk.
“Why should I believe you?” he asks, and that cracks me.
I blurt out a scoff at that. “Why should you believe me? Does everything that has happened between us in the past couple of months mean nothing to you?” I ask.
“You mean the weddings?” he asks.
“I mean the dates,” I state.
“Those dates were, as you put it, contractual,” he says with forced nonchalance.
“Bullshit,” I snap. “I don’t buy it.”
“Well, that sounds like a you problem,” he says, getting up from the table. “Because as far as I am concerned, we are done here.”