Page 83 of The Best Wrong Move

To my future.

I take one last look at my past.

“How do I look?” I ask nervously, holding out my arms, peeking down at my feet. When I look back up at him, an unexpected surge of emotion catches in my throat.

Ten thousand times I’ve left our apartment asking him how I look.

Ten thousand times he’s looked at me just like that.

Ten thousand times he’s told me that I look beautiful.

And ten thousand times we’ve parted ways with a kiss.

I smile sadly at him, knowing this will truly be the last time I walk away like this. I leave tomorrow, and don’t plan to be in contact with him once I’m back in New York. This is our very last goodbye.

Deep down, I know that I’m finally getting the type of goodbye that I wanted all along. One that’s civil, heartfelt, and kind. One that does justice to our years that were filled with love together. Not angry texts, or revenge sex behind a thin, shared wall.Thisis what my heart wanted all along to fully close this chapter and leave it in the dust.

“You look perfect,” he says.

My phone pings. It’s the driver, letting me know he’s here.

“Of all the things to be late for, tonight isn’t it. You’ve got this, kid. I can’t wait to hear what Quinton says.”

“Thank you.” I smile.

Finally, I walk out the front door with my head held high, knowing Rex is still there, watching me leave.

“Goodbye, Rex,” I say over my shoulder.

And this time I mean forever.

Chapter 56

Within a few seconds of knocking, I’m faced with the man, the myth, the legend himself — Quinton Rockwell opens the front door.

He’s dressed in gray board shorts and a glossy white shirt. Three buttons are undone, exposing a single, thick gold chain with a cross around his neck, peeking out through a mound of curly peppered chest hair. In all my years of interviewing and working with extremely successful people at the news station, I’ve noticed that most wealthy people have an expensive air about them no matter where they are, or what they’re wearing.

Quinton is certainly no exception.

Although, if I had to guess, at first glance I’d say he was already drunk.

“Ma chérie!” he exclaims, shooting out an arm and pulling me inside. Then he kisses the air on each side of my face, like he’s French. Wealthy west coast LA types tend to do this, I’ve noticed. “You must be Olivia!”

“And you must be Quinton.” I pull out my best megawatt smile, then hold my hand out to shake his.

“No formalities here, my dear.” He pulls me in for a hug, foregoing a handshake. “If Dom is bringing you around here to introduce us, we’re family already.”

Just then, Dom pops around the corner — looking handsome, if not a bit nervous.

“What about formalities?” he asks before breaking into a wide smile when he sees me, still tucked under one of Quinton’s long arms. Quinton is the older of the two, and his lifestyle has certainly aged him more than Dom. The crow’s feet beside each eye branch out longer than Dom’s when he smiles. The stubble across his jaw is peppery, like his chest.

“Oh, I bet Dom brings all the ladies by.” I’m still smiling to put Dom at ease, while hoping to break the ice with Quinton. Though he seems to be doing a fine job of that himself with the pet names and air kisses. And now bear hugs.

“Quite the opposite, actually.” He pulls his brother in, so we’re both tucked under one arm, with Quinton in the center.

I can smell the familiar scent of whiskey on Quinton’s breath, and even that smells expensive.

“Dom hasn’t brought a lady around Selma and me since, oh, it had to be that nice little redhead back in college. Tori? Tami? Tara?”

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