Page 53 of Finders Keepers
“I had a lot of fun tonight,” he says. “It was nice to just…be with you.”
“It was,” I agree, vaguely aware that the words echo what I said I was looking for in a partner.No, shush, brain.This is lust, pure and simple.Notromance.
“And you look…” His eyes sweep over me briefly, as if refreshing his memory, before closing hard, an almost pained smile on his face. “You look so fucking beautiful, Neen.”
I know that my hair is gigantic from being outside in the humidity, the eye makeup beneath my glasses is probably smudged, and my lipstick is just a light stain clinging to the edges of my lips. The fabric of my tank top sticks to my back, and my thighs are slightly chafed where they rubbed as we walked. It’s hard to believe I’m particularly pretty like this, but when he opens his eyes again, they’re all honesty and reverence, almost daring me to argue.
Okay, maybe it is romantic, but still, not romance. This is not a romance.
But, god, he’s beautiful too. The way his hair shifts from red to brown depending on the light. The small, nearly vanished scars near his mouth, his eyebrow, his hairline—marks of childhood misadventures. Deep lines sunbursting from the corners of his eyes, evidence of how often he smiles. The faded freckles sprinkled over the very tops of his rounded cheeks. It’s like his face is its own sky full of constellations and corresponding stories, and I think it would be nice to spend this warm summer evening committing each one to memory.
For the life of me, I can no longer come up with even one reason why I shouldn’t.
My stomach dips and my heart pauses. My mind can’t help but wonder if there’s someone else out there he might wish hewere with right now. Someone he’s been waiting to kiss for years and years. But whoever they are, they aren’t here.
I am. I’m the one he said it was nice to be with. The one he said looks beautiful.
The wanting is stronger than my doubt, than my anxiety—stronger than anything that could stop me—and I’m leaning in, in, in, once again.
Quentin meets me halfway, our fingers still entwined atop the railing, his free hand settling on the side of my neck while his thumb comes to rest sweetly on my chin. And then we’re kissing. The hint of heat I felt at Sprangbur yesterday is nothing compared to the volcanic eruption happening inside me as my body registers the sensations of his mouth pressing against mine. His lips are soft, wide, perfect. He tastes of warmth and sweetness and a hint of rum.
How far will this go? How far do I want it to go?All the way, all the way, my body chants. My brain, however, is like,Hold up a second. Because I’m not supposed to want this. It’s admittedly hard to remember why that matters right now, but I’m pretty sure it does. I pull back ever so slightly and let out a small hum. “I’m…a little bit drunk,” I say.
“Same,” he whispers as his lips find mine again. His stubble is deliciously abrasive against my bottom lip as I gently suck on his. It adds another dimension to the sensation that grounds me in the moment. My hips press into the railing, as if they hope maybe it will disappear and bring our lower halves flush if they’re persistent enough.
“I’m sure we’ll laugh about this in the morning,” I add when his mouth slides to my jaw.
“It’ll be hilarious,” he mutters into the sensitive spot below my ear before taking the lobe between his teeth.
I spent so much of the summer of 2008 hoping Quentin would kiss me. I wanted that kiss between us more than I wanted anything up until that point in my life. But in this moment, as he unthreads our fingers so he can slide his into my hair, tongue swiping over the seam of my lips, requesting entrance, I am so immensely glad that it’s happening now instead. That we saved this for when we truly understood how to do it. What it could lead to.
Like my hand beneath his shirt, making his breath catch when I brush over his nipple.
If I invited him inside right now, I know he’d come. Come in, I mean. And also, well…
“Nina,” he says, pulling back, though his voice matches the dark, drugged appearance of his eyes.
I try to close the distance he creates, to lean in and put our mouths back together—where they belong—but he slides his hands from my hair and cups my face, gently keeping me at bay.
“Nina,” he repeats. “Wait.” And while his pupils are still blown out, his gaze is focused now. He’s a man regaining control of himself. Putting a stop to this.
Well. Fuck.
I remove my hand from his shirt and take a few deep breaths, our eyes connected as we see each other through the comedown. As the lust clears, I decide I agree with Quentin that we need to stop before things go too far. We’re still in the middle of hunting for the treasure. We don’t need sex derailing our efforts. Like, best-case outcome if we followed this to its logical conclusion: We don’t make any progress on finding a new lead because we’ve wasted our remaining weeks in bed. Worst-case: We wind up complicating this too much and obliterate the small amount of trust we’ve managed to rebuild. Most likely: I don’t know,but probably some combination of the two. None of those outcomes include me winding up with my portion of the reward money or a way out of Catoctin.
Also, while neither of us are wasted, we aren’t exactly sober either. The inside of my skull still feels a little too light and fluffy, like it’s filled with cotton candy. That alone is a decent reason to hold off.
“Oh. Um, okay,” I say. “Yeah.”
“I don’t want to stop,” he says quickly. “Ireallydon’t want to stop. But we can’t—I can’t—”
I lay my hands over his and fake a smile as I take a step back, slipping out of his touch. “No, no. I get it. It’s for the best.”
“Nina, wait,” he says again. The exasperation in his voice is corroborated by that vertical line between his eyebrows. But I don’t want to wait. I don’t want to linger in this feeling of awkward incompleteness. I don’t want to stand here looking at him, wanting him, without any possibility of relief.
And I don’t want to give him the chance to say it was a mistake.
“It’s fine, Quentin. Thanks for the drinks and, um, stuff,” I say, moving backward until my butt hits the storm door’s handle. “Good night!”
