Page 69 of Four More The Merrier

Radio silence.

I clear my throat and start singing in my most exaggerated voice. "I don't want a lot for Christmas-"

"Quinn, I swear to God-"

"There is just one thing I need-" I belt louder, drawing out each note.

"Stop."

"I don't care about the presents underneath the Christmas tree-"

The door flies open. Jarron stands there, hair mussed, eyes stormy. "What do you want?"

"To talk about the New Year's arrangement." I cross my arms. "But first, maybe explain why you're acting like a teenager who didn't get invited to prom?"

"I'm not-" He runs a hand through his hair.

"Could have fooled me. Is this about Derek?" I question.

He swallows like he has some bitter taste in his mouth. "Na. Derek seems nice."

"He is nice. He's also just a friend who came to support me."

"A friend, right." Jarron leans against the doorframe. "Because guys always travel across state lines in winter just to 'support' their gorgeous female friends."

My heart skips at 'gorgeous' but I keep my voice steady. "What's this really about, Jarron?"

"Nothing." He won't meet my eyes.

"Are you jealous, is this what this is?" I ask? I'm sure the thought is absurd, someone like Jarron Haynes surely wouldn't be jealous of another man regarding me.

He stands up straighter as his eyes cut straight through me."

"I said it's nothing…" He says menacingly. "But then again, it's everything. Maybe I don't like seeing another guy look at you like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I look at you."

Before I can process his words, he cups my face in his hands and kisses me. His lips are soft, desperate, tasting of coffee and something uniquely Jarron. My fingers curl into his shirt, pulling him closer as the kiss deepens.

33

JARRON

Islam the door behind us, the sound of it echoing in the cramped room. "Why did it have to be you?" I ask, my voice low and rough. My fingers are already working on the buttons of her shirt. "Why couldn't you just be some random girl I met at a bar?"

Quinn's hands are equally frantic, pulling at my belt with a kind of desperation that mirrors my own. "Maybe because fate has a twisted sense of humor," she says, her voice breathless but tinged with that familiar sarcasm.

"Fate's a bitch," I mutter, yanking her shirt off and tossing it aside. My eyes drink in the sight of her, every inch of exposed skin making my blood run hotter.

Her fingers find their way under my shirt, pushing it up and over my head. "You were an ass for so long," she accuses, but there's no real venom in her words—only heat.

"I had to be," I admit, pulling her closer. "I knew there was something about you from the moment I saw you." Her skin is warm under my hands, smooth and soft and everything I've been trying to avoid.

She laughs, short and sharp. "Something? Try everything." Her hands move lower, unbuttoning my jeans with a deftness that sends a shiver down my spine.

I groan, pressing her against the wall. "Now I've got to fight for you between my brothers." The word feels strange on my tongue; Austen, Lyle and Beau are more than bandmates—they're family. But right now, they're competition.

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