Page 20 of Salem's Fall
“I’m fine,” I say, though the lie rings hollow even to me. “I just need to?—”
“No arguments,” he says, cutting me off and grabbing my elbow. “Come on, you’re getting out of here, at least for a few hours. I’m taking you to breakfast.”
“Quinn, really, I’m fine?—”
“You arenotfine, no matter how many times you say it out loud. Let’s go.”
There’s a finality in his tone that makes it impossible to refuse. Quinn Alexander Kensington is not the kind of manyou say no to when he insists on something. I grab my coat and follow him out.
I’m surprised when Quinn walks past the bustling coffee shop near the office and stops instead in front of an expensive French pâtisserie tucked away in a quiet corner a few blocks away. It’s the type of place with warm brick walls, soft lighting, and tables draped in crisp white linens. I’ve walked by it many times before and have always wanted to try it, but you need reservations months in advance. Plus, the prices on the menu are not for the faint of heart.
Quinn holds the door open for me, his hand brushing lightly against my back as I step inside. The maître d’ greets him like an old friend and, despite the long line of people waiting to be seated, he escorts us into the dining room right away and finds a spot for us next to a beautiful, old-fashioned fireplace. Quinn helps me into my chair and takes the seat across from me, his long legs brushing against mine under the table.
The waiter approaches, a polished young man with a crisp white apron. Before I can say anything, Quinn holds up a hand. “Black coffee for the lady, no sugar. And I’ll have an espresso.” Then, as if an afterthought, he adds, “And please bring us a plate of your blackberry croissants. Thank you.”
“Very good, sir.” The waiter nods at Quinn. “I’ll return shortly with your drinks and pastries,” he says and leaves.
I blink at Quinn, surprised. “You remembered my coffee order?”
“Of course. You don’t like things too sweet.” He says it casually, but there’s a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. “But you’ll want to make an exception for the croissants here. Trust me.”
“This place is amazing. You’re certainly full of surprises today,” I say, trying to sound teasing, though I can feel the warmth creeping into my cheeks.
His eyes hold mine. “You have no idea.”
The delicious smells of fresh baked goods and brewed coffee fill the air as our waiter returns moments later with our order. Quinn slides the steaming mug toward me, and the tension in my chest eases a little. The first sip is perfect, bold and rich, just the way I like it. I let the gentle heat seep into my palms as I reach for the plate of pastries he insisted on.
I take a bite and can’t help moaning out loud. Quinn is absolutely right. Though I’m not usually a fan of sweets, my blackberry croissant tastes like heaven.
“Good?” he asks, chuckling softly.
“Oh my God! It’s amazing.”
Our eyes lock and the moment between us feels so nice, so easy, I almost forget all about the horror of last night.
“James, tell me, how are you holding up?” he asks, leaning back, watching me with a careful intensity. “You’ve been through a lot recently with Mark’s death. And I know you still feel badly about the Michelle case and that forensic report… plus, you’ve got your hands full at home with Madison and Lucky.” His voice softens, and I realize with a pang how much he’s been paying attention to me—to my life, and not just the obvious work stuff.
I glance up, meeting his eyes. There’s something tender and caring in them that makes it hard to breathe.
“I’m managing okay,” I say slowly. “Things are better at home. Maddie’s grades are up, though I still worry about her constantly. And Lucky’s… well, Lucky. He’s the best. Always around, especially when I need him the most. Almost like he knows.”
Quinn’s lips quirk into a small smile. “Smart cat.”
“He is.” I nod along. “Smarter than most people.”
“And work?” he presses, leaning forward slightly. His hand rests just inches from mine. “How are you feeling about things?”
I let out a sigh. “It’s just… you’re right. I do still think about the Michelle case. And I don’t want to let anyone down again. Not the firm.” My throat tightens. “And definitely not you, Quinn.”
His fingers brush against mine, just barely, but it’s enough to send sparks dancing up my arm.
“You could never do anything to let me down.”
For a moment, it feels like we’re teetering on the edge of something—something more than just a professional relationship, something I’m not sure I’m ready for. But then he clears his throat, breaking the spell.
“Eat more,” he says, nudging the plate of croissants toward me. “You’ll feel better.”
I take another pastry, more to appease him than anything else, but as I nibble on the flaky crust, I realize he’s right. I do feel better. But it’s not just the croissants—it’s Quinn. The weight pressing on my chest eases a little more with each bite, the longer I’m here with him.
