Page 59 of Loving You

I jog up the steps to my house, yanking on the door and holding it open for her. Quinn brushes past me as if she comes here frequently, walking right into the kitchen. She takes two beers from the carton and places the rest in the fridge.

Sure, by all means, just walk around like you own the place.

She locks her gaze on mine and then walks right up to me.

“Drink this.”

I take the bottle and hold it up, examining it closer to the light.

“Did you put something in it?” I ask.

“No, but I’m going for the hope that you’ll be a little more agreeable after a few of these.”

I nod slowly, scratching my nose to hide my smile.

The look she’s giving me is serious, as if what we plan to do here tonight is going to change everything.

Which it could if I agreed to it, but I didn’t, and I’ve never really been the kind of guy who lucks out that easily.

Hence how we even got into this situation that has turned into a domino effect of stupid shit.

I honestly have no other way to explain it.

I twist the top off my beer and move toward the stairs, my stomach growling. “I’m going to take a quick shower, and then I’m going to sit on my couch and relax.”

“Perfect. I’ll go get some snacks.”

She moves with purpose right back out the front door, and I laugh as I walk up to my bathroom.

When she sets her mind to something, she goes all in. The only reason I didn’t tell her to forget about it again is because I'm curious about these snacks.

I skipped dinner.

I’m hungry.

I quickly shower and head back down to the living room in just a pair of sweats. I’ll be honest, I debated putting a shirt on and chose not to. I’m not trying to start anything or show off the body I’ve put a lot of work into, like some cocky dipshit. I’m in my house, and this is how I'd be whether or not Quinn was here. If I have to sit here and argue over whether we should plan matchmaking, whatever you want to call it, for a woman I’m trying to avoid, I’m going to be as comfortable as I can get.

Quinn lets herself back in and marches right back into the kitchen.

“I decided to just make you a late dinner. When I was in Italy last summer, I signed up for this class to learn how to cook different pasta dishes, and it was incredible. I can make a fettuccine alfredo that will make you cry a lot faster than you think. Lucky for you, I was going to cook this tomorrow, so the noodles I made this afternoon while I was waiting for you to get off are ready.”

That sounds delicious.

She sets the bags of ingredients down and then turns.

She pauses, her gaze directed solely on my chest.

I wait for her to make some kind of remark, a quick comeback to get my blood pumping.

“Do you need another beer?”

I chuckle and then cross my arms. “No, I haven’t finished my first one yet, and you need to chill out. I know why you’re here. No need to butter me up with beer and Italian food.”

“Okay. I guess I won’t cook.”

“I didn’t say that,” I retort quickly. “You said pasta, and now I want pasta.”

She rolls her eyes then as she starts talking a mile a minute about different places in town we could go, things we can do, and conversations we can help them engage in.

---