Page 7 of Primal

I bet she is…

CHAPTER SIX

CATLIN

After a short drive, we reach a quaint little restaurant and pull to a stop behind another SUV with all the windows blacked out. There are two men with a similar muscular build to Rory waiting on the sidewalk beside it. With their plain, non-well-fitted dress slacks and button-down shirts, they nearly blend in with the pedestrians passing them on the sidewalk—minus the guns affixed to their hips. They both respectfully tip their heads at Quinn as we pass them on our way to the entrance.

Did I not realize she’s famous or something?

Holding the door for us to enter the cafe, Rory informs Quinn, “I’ll be just outside with Grady and Raegan if you need anything.”

“Do you boys want lunch?” she kindly asks.

“No, thank you, ma—” He abruptly pauses when he catches himself. “Quinn.”

This place kind of reminds me of a little coffee shop I would sometimes go to in Galway to study. The street-facing side of the building is almost entirely paned windows, letting in a ton ofnatural sunlight for the copious amounts of greenery scattered throughout the interior. There are small conversation areas created with wicker tables and chairs, all with views of the street.

Following Quinn, we make our way to a table toward the back, where a man and a woman, not much older than me, are waiting. Reaching the table, Quinn introduces me. “Catlin, this is my sister-in-law, Layla.”

“Wow, mama!” the man exclaims. “You’re as big as a house.”

Layla smacks him and Quinn sighs, “And this, for some reason, is our friend, Jorge.”

“Nice to meet you both.” I chuckle as I take a seat between Layla and Quinn. “So, areyoumarried to Finn?”

“To Finn? God, no.” Layla scoffs. “I’m married to Tristan.”

Joining in her laughter, Jorge chimes, “But he wishes.”

“Oh, hush,” Quinn teasingly admonishes them before turning her attention toward me. “Don’t pay them any mind. Finnigan is a salacious flirt.”

“Yeah… I picked up on that,” I quip with a coy smile.

“Can I take your drink order? Perhaps some appetizers,” the server interrupts us when he approaches the table.

“We’ll have a bottle of rosé.” Jorge gestures between him and Layla. “Or do you not like rosé, Catlin?”

“Oh. Um, I can’t,” I stammer. “I’ll actually just have sparkling water.”

“Same. And the biggest basket of fried pickles you can find,” Quinn gives her order, causing Layla to chuckle. “I swear, it’s not a pregnancy thing. I’m just starving and they’re so good.”

“Fried pickles are delicious,” I agree when the server walks from our table.

“Pickles. No rosé.” Jorge eyes me suspiciously for a moment before asking, “Are you pregnant too, sweetie?”

“Goodness, no.” I shake my head. “I’m not married. And no to the wine because I’m not old enough to drink.”

“You do know you don’t have to be married to be pregnant, right?” Jorge teases, causing my cheeks to match the contents of the bottle of wine being placed on the table.

“Jorge!” Layla lightly smacks his arm. “Behave. Not everyone is as welcoming of having strange men in their bed as you.”

“Or you.” He cockily arches a brow. “Finding Mr. Right isn’t going well, so I’m settling for Mr. Right Now, Mr. Later Tonight, and Mr. What Are You Doing Tomorrow.”

“Oh…” I blurt.

“I’ve given up all hope for Conor.” Jorge lets out a heavy sigh. “That man and all his muscles seem to be steadfast in the hetero-normative lane.”

My brows furrow in confusion. “Conor?”

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