Page 54 of Four More The Merrier

“Yeah,” I agree with a lazy smile. “Who needs a heater when you're on top of me?"

I lean back against the seat, savoring the moment, feeling Quinn's warmth still lingering against me. But reality quickly catches up, and I realize we can’t stay here forever.

"Alright, superstar," I say, gently nudging her off my lap. "We better get dressed before someone comes looking for us."

Quinn giggles and rolls off me, reaching for her discarded thong. "You think anyone's actually gonna come out here in this weather?"

"Probably not," I admit, pulling my pants back on with some difficulty. "But let's not take any chances. We don't need another headline."

She grins, pulling on her leggings. "Just South of Mason's drummer caught with pants down—literally."

I laugh, shaking my head. "And the opening act caught red-handed. Sounds like a TMZ special."

We fumble around the truck cab, grabbing clothes and getting dressed in record time. It's hot and stuffy in here now, our combined body heat making it feel like a sauna. I don’t bother putting my shirt back on; just throw my jacket over my bare chest.

Quinn slips into her hoodie but leaves it unzipped. Her hair’s a mess, but it looks damn good on her. “Ready?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say, reaching over to wipe a smudge of lipstick from her cheek. “You look perfect.”

She snorts but doesn’t protest as we tumble out of the truck and into the cold night air. The sudden chill is a shock after the heat inside.

“Damn,” Quinn mutters, hugging herself for warmth.

“Come here,” I say, wrapping an arm around her shoulders as we start walking back to the tour bus.

The snow crunches under our boots as we make our way down the quiet road. “Think anyone noticed we were gone?” she asks.

“Nah,” I reply with a grin. “They’re probably too busy getting wasted.”

We reach the tour bus just as a gust of wind whips through the parking lot, sending shivers down our spines.

“Let’s get inside before we freeze our asses off,” I say, pulling open the door.

Quinn steps up first, glancing back at me with a playful smile. “After you.”

I follow her inside, immediately hit by the warmth and familiar smell of the bus—leather seats, cologne, and a hint of beer from last night’s party.

“Home sweet home,” Quinn says sarcastically.

“Better than that truck cab,” I joke back.

She flops onto one of the couches while I grab us both some water bottles from the mini-fridge.

“To surviving another day on tour,” I say, handing her one.

“To surviving each other,” she counters with a grin before taking a sip.

We settle in comfortably on the couch, close but not quite touching—content in this shared silence after everything that just happened.

“Thanks for tonight,” she says softly after a moment.

I smile at her sincerity. “Anytime.”

And with that simple exchange, everything feels right again—at least for now.

26

AUSTEN

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