Page 36 of Four More The Merrier

"I'll work on being nicer, okay? That's all I got right now."

Quinn's eyes narrow, a mix of exhaustion and skepticism crossing her face. "I'll believe it when I see it, Haynes. Your track record isn't exactly stellar."

"Fair enough." I push off from the wall, my boots scuffing against the carpet. "Actions speak louder than words anyway."

"That's rich coming from you." She wraps her arms tighter around herself. "Considering all the words you've thrown my way."

"Look, I know I've been-"

"A complete jackass?" Beau cuts in.

"Yeah, that." My jaw clenches. "But I'm trying here."

Quinn shakes her head, water droplets flying from her damp hair. "Try harder."

I turn to leave, then pause at the door. "I'm sorry Quinn."

"Wow, has hell froze over?" She almost smiles. Almost.

"Baby steps, darlin'." I tip an imaginary hat, channeling every bit of Southern charm Mama drilled into me. "Baby steps."

I stride down the hallway, pulling out my phone to call my mechanic back home. Quinn might not believe me yet, but I'm gonna prove I'm not the total tool she thinks I am. Even if it kills me.

And knowing my luck lately, it just might.

18

AUSTEN

Irun my fingers through my hair for the hundredth time, staring at the cheerfully decorated entrance of the Boys and Girls Club. Christmas lights twinkle mockingly in the afternoon sun.

"This is bullshit," I mutter, adjusting my guitar strap. "We're musicians, not a church choir."

"Come on, man." Lyle claps me on the shoulder. "Think of the kids."

"Yeah, think of your image too," Quinn chimes in with that irritating know-it-all tone. "Nothing says 'reformed bad boys' like singing carols to orphans."

"Nobody asked you," I snap, but there's less bite in it than usual. Ever since Jarron's half-assed apology, we've been trying to play nice. Trying being the operative word.

"Alright everyone," Monica corrals us toward the door. "Remember - smiles, clean language, and for God's sake, Austen, stop looking like you're being led to execution."

"The wheels on the bus isn't exactly our usual repertoire," I grumble, following the group inside. The walls are plastered with construction paper snowflakes and crayon drawings.

"At least you know the words," Beau says. "Quinn's been practicing all week."

"Have not," she protests, but her cheeks flush pink.

A group of kids comes barreling down the hallway, stopping dead in their tracks when they spot us. One little girl's eyes go wide as saucers.

"Are you really Just South of Mason?" she squeaks.

"No, we're the Mormon Tabernacle Choir," I deadpan, earning an elbow in the ribs from Lyle.

"We sure are, sweetheart," Quinn says, shooting me a warning look. "Want to hear some Christmas songs?"

The kids cheer and I force my face into something resembling a festive spirit. This is going to be a long afternoon of fa-la-la-ing. But watching their excited faces as we set up, I can't quite maintain my sulk. Maybe spreading a little holiday cheer won't kill me. Maybe.

The kids crowd around Quinn as she kneels down, showing a tiny girl with braids how to hold the guitar. My chest tightens at the gentle way she guides those small fingers over the strings.

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