Page 35 of Roommate's Guide to Love

“You’re right.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “I am? I mean, I usually am. But about what? Just so I know for posterity.”

“This.” I point back and forth between us. “You. Me. We have history. And as much as I know we’re both adults, what we were can’t keep going.”

I don’t know what I expect Quinn’s reaction to be, but I wasn’t expecting a devilish smile.

“You’re smiling about this?”

She shakes her head. “Not because it makes me happy. I’m just basking in the ‘you were right’ glow.”

I lean back in my chair, thankful for Quinn’s humor that will keep this conversation from not getting too heavy. “This is serious, Quinn. I know you said that this was going to be complicated with our history, and I dismissed it. I was wrong to do that. It…well, it hit me today that you’re here. And staying here. At least for a while.”

She nods in understanding. “Now I’m not leaving.”

I see a flash of sadness over her face before the mask she likes to wear reappears. It was quick. If I’d have blinked, I would’ve missed it. But I’ve learned to not blink around Quinn Banks. If you do, you might miss something. And you never want to miss a thing around this woman.

“You’re right,” she continues. “Me leaving is what worked so well for us. Neither of us ever wanted anything serious. Me leaving every time and going back to Arizona made that happen. And now…”

“Now you’re here.”

“In Rolling Hills.”

“In my bar.”

“The complete opposite of leaving.”

The two of us fall silent as our situation unfolds before us. Our eyes are locked with each other, a little sadness in hers, and I’m sure in mine. But both of us are smiling, because at the end of the day, Quinn and I are friends. We always have been. Always will be. It might’ve come over the years in the form of roasts, teasing, and quick fucks, but at the root of everything was friendship.

And that’s what we’ll be again.

Friends.

Boss and employee.

That’s it.

“It was a good run,” she says.

“It was. Eight years is a long time.”

“Longest relationship of my life,” she jokes.

“Mine too.”

We both stand up, and it feels like we should shake hands or something. Never in our eight years of doing this, or even the years before of hanging out from time to time, have I felt awkward around Quinn until right now.

“Let’s not make this weird,” she says, clearly feeling the same thing I was. “We know what we did. But it’s in the past. Officially now.”

“You’re right.”

The biggest smile crosses her face. “Twice in one day? Porter McCoy…you spoil me.”

I know she didn’t mean it the way my teenage brain is taking it. Or maybe she did. This is the woman who once dared me to see how many different ways I could make her come in a three-hour time span.

“Get out,” I say. “Close the door behind you.”

“Whatever you say…boss.”

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