Page 38 of Maverick
“You don’t have to indulge him.”
Quinton waited patiently while I toweled off enough to where I didn’t leave a trail of water through the house. “I don’t mind. He’s cute—woah, don’t give me that look! I happen to have eyes for another Taylor in the family.”
Heat flooded my cheeks. I hadn’t even realized my facial expression had changed. And since when did I get jealous over where Quinton focused his attention? I didn’t get that way when he looked at Maverick. Instead of addressing it like I should have, I squeezed the water from my trunks and tossed my towel on the back of a chair to dry. “Give me ten minutes?”
“Sure thing.”
Unsure of where Quinton was taking me, I played it safe and dressed in the nicest T-shirt and the least-distressed pair of black jeans I could find. After making sure my hair was semi-acceptable, I followed the sound of Beckham’s excited voice down the stairs.
I found the two of them in the living room, bent over Beckham’s phone where Quinton addressed different steps of his game-winning play last week. The moment I entered the room, however, Quinton’s was no longer focused on the screen. Those deep brown eyes raked overme,and I barely resisted the urge to squirm under his scrutinizing gaze.
“Am I dressed okay?”
“Perfect.”
“Are you two going to tell me what this is all about?” Beckham asked.
“Absolutely not,” I said, guiding Quinton toward the front door. I jolted when his hand found the small of my back, but recovered enough to yell at Beck over my shoulder. “Don’t wait up!”
I followed Quinton to his car which was thankfully already air conditioned. “Where’s Maverick?” I asked as Quinton backed out of my driveway.
“He’s meeting a friend tonight.”
Uh-oh. “Stetson?”
“You know him too?”
“Well…heknowsme. Needless to say he’s not my biggest fan.”
“There’s always room to fix that.” Quinton stretched his arm across to my seat, laying his large hand over my thigh. The act took whatever smart-mouthed retort I could make and tossed it right out the window. “You did it with Maverick, and it’s just like I told him: If Stetson loves him, he’ll see that you make his best friend happy—how long were you in that pool?”
“A few hours…” I admitted sheepishly. “Why?”
“With no break? I can feel the heatthroughyour jeans. Did you at least put on sunscreen?”
I let my silence—and the heat rushing to my cheeks—speak for me. “You’re such a Daddy,” I murmured.
“And you’re lucky you’re notmyboy or you’d be bent over my knee right now.” And now my entire face was onfire. “I’ll be sure to let Maverick know that you like that idea.”
“Are we done torturing me?”
Quinton only laughed and stroked my inner thigh with his thumb. “Is this okay?” he asked. “Me touching you?”
“Fine,” I uttered in some weak sound that could only be described as a squeak.
Quinton drove into downtown Auburn, traversing the streets until he came to a stop outside some hole in the wall Tex-Mex place. “Have you ever been here before?” he asked as we strode up to the door, which he openedforme. Flustered, I stumbled in ahead of him. When he took my hand in his, my knees damn near buckled.
“Uh… no.”
Quinton chuckled, a low hum that came from deep in his chest. He gave my hand a reassuring squeeze. “Relax, Reese.” People stared as we walked to our table, but it wasn’t at our entwined hands—it was atQuinton. He was getting recognized, and it wouldn’t take people long to figure me out as well.
That didn’t seem to faze him much though. He led me right to a table in the back and motioned for me to sit down first. He slid into the seat in front of me and someone appeared at our table, greeting himby name. Quinton ordered water, so I did the same, only for him to jump in before the server could walk away. “He’ll also have a strong margarita, frozen with extra salt on the rim, please.” Once we were alone again, he said, “Just because I’m not drinking doesn’t mean that you can’t.”
“How did you know my order?
He offered nothing more than a one-shouldered shrug. “I’m observant.”
There went that fluttering again, so violent that I rubbed my stomach beneath the table. With my other hand, I drew absentminded shapes on the colorful plastic tablecloth. Spanish music played from somewhere, audible but still low enough that it didn’t drown out conversation. Another server with a sizzling tray of fajitas bustled past me, making my mouth water. My stomach rumbled then, reminding me of the last time I’d eaten… which I couldn’t remember.
