Page 45 of Finders Keepers
This is all definitely uncomfortable for Avanti, but probably nothing she hasn’t dealt with a million times before. We’re going to need to up our game to get her to excuse herself. I meet Quentin’s gaze, and there’s this glint in his eye. One I know quite well.I bet, it says,I’ll be the one who gets her to leave us alone. I’m more than happy to accept the challenge.
“Well, I’m sorry,” I say. “But you’re the one who wants to invite all of his college buddies.”
“How many times do I have to explain this to you?” Heraises his voice slightly and spreads his arms. “It just isn’t a party without Frankie J. and Goober!”
“I cannot believe you want to invite a grown man who goes by Goober to thehappiest day of our lives.” I imbue the statement with as much drama as I possibly can, trying to sound like I’m on the verge of tears.
“Well, I can’t believe you want to invite a woman who keeps trying to seduce me.”
Oh, that’s good. But I can do him one better.
“For the last fucking time, Quentin, my grandmother is not trying to seduce you!”
Quentin almost busts out laughing then. He shifts so that his back is to Avanti, because he’s having trouble keeping a straight face. Which in turn makes it difficult for me to retain my angry look, because it’s hilarious watching him struggle.
Fortunately Avanti chooses that exact moment to hug her iPad to her chest and say, “Um, I’m going to just…check on something.” She points downward. “Downstairs. Give you two a moment to chat. And I’ll…be back.” Avanti turns and takes the stairs more quickly than is probably prudent in her high heels.
As soon as we’re sure she’s made it to the first floor, we both break, laughing noiselessly, leaning against each other for support.
“That was inspired,” Quentin whispers.
“Thank you. I had a great scene partner,” I whisper back. “Frankie J. and Goober?” I burst into another round of quiet laughter, resting my forehead against Quentin’s shoulder.
“Actual friends of mine from college,” he says. “But they’re just Francis and Steven now. They actually just got married. To each other, I mean. It’s a funny story, really.”
“You can tell me later,” I say, turning him around. “We don’t have much time.”
“Right.”
We rush into the Star Parlor and head straight for the Impressionist painting of wildflowers along a river that’s taken the place of Whale’s portrait of Fountain. Quentin gently lifts the frame up and toward him until its back wire slips off the heavy-duty mounting hook. Unfortunately (but unsurprisingly), there isn’t an obvious safe or secret compartment directly behind it. Propping the painting on the divan beside him, Quentin and I lean in toward the constellation-covered surface, inspecting it for any clues.
But it just…looks like a wall. A prettily painted one, but a wall all the same.
There are no obvious seams or places where one might push or pull. I slide onto the floor and wriggle beneath the divan, where I hastily search the lower portion and then lift the rug as much as I can to check the floorboards. The riddle does saybeneath, after all, and I want to be thorough.
“I don’t think there’s anything here,” I say, sitting up, my glasses askew and my hair in my face.
Quentin takes a few steps back to scan the area from farther away. “Not unless there’s something we’re missing…”
But neither of us have any clue what thatsomethingcould even be, and our time before the event coordinator returns is finite. So we both sigh, wordlessly agreeing that we’ve reached the point where we need to give up looking here. That’s when we hear Avanti in conversation with someone, closer than expected.
“Fuck,” I whisper, jumping back from the divan in a panic. My fight-or-flight instinct fully kicks in, and I find myself briefly and irrationally wondering how injured I would get busting through and leaping out one of the room’s large arched windows.
Quentin, who is apparently much cooler under pressure, grabs the landscape and hastily hangs it again—a little crooked, but it’ll have to do. We hurry toward the Star Parlor’s doorway, hoping to make it back to the hallway where Avanti left us so she won’t suspect anything. Before we get there, the creak of the stairs and the soft thud of her approaching heels alert us that we’re too late.
“Fuck!” I whisper more emphatically this time. Maybe the window wasn’t such a bad idea…
Before I can fully process what’s happening, I’m pressed against the gold star–covered wall, the cherry wood wainscoting digging lightly into my back. One of Quentin’s hands has found its way to my hip, where it squeezes, and the other flattens on the wall beside my head, obscuring my view of the open door. “Play along, cookiepuss,” he whispers into my ear, sending a shiver through my body that’s an odd contrast to the intense rush of heat between my legs. He nuzzles his face into the crook of my neck as if kissing me there, his nose brushing against the skin briefly. Having his lips hovering so close without actually making contact, his quick breaths hot and tickly…
Clearly this is supposed to be for Avanti’s benefit, and Quentin’s positioning does a great deal on its own to imply what’s happening without me having to do anything. At the same time, it might look strange if I’m literally standing here, sandwiched between my supposed fiancé and the wall, with my arms awkwardly hanging at my sides. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to just…touch him a little. You know. For authenticity’s sake. He did tell me to play along…
I splay my right hand across his shoulder blade and slide the fingers of my left hand up the back of his neck until they’re threaded into his red-brown hair. I involuntarily give it a softtug, and Quentin lets out a quiet sound that I’m not sure he intended to let slip. I’m surprised to feel it echo against my pulse as his lips close the small amount of distance and make contact. Even though he keeps them still, doesn’t actually kiss so much as rest there, the knowledge that his mouth is against my skin prompts a primal, subconscious reaction that makes me tilt the lower half of my body forward, searching for contact, for pressure. I find it as I’m pinned harder against the wall, his hips subtly grinding into mine.
We are doing an excellent job here. Such a good job that it seems both of our bodies have forgotten it’s all a ruse. Either that or Quentin has an unripe banana stashed in his pocket.
His ragged exhale against the place where my neck meets my shoulder sends heat cascading through me, making me whisper once more, “Fuck,” the panic now completely stripped from it and replaced with something huskier.
A throat clears and my eyes open (though I hadn’t realized I’d closed them).
