Page 161 of Seven Lost Summers
She goes to Nate first. Wraps her arms around his neck in that easy way that says she trusts him. His arms come around, holding her as if loosening his grip might split him open. His jaw tightens, eyes dropping, shoulders refusing to let go even when the moment starts to stretch.
I watch him, every muscle in me screaming for him to ask the thing I can’t get out. Ask her to stay. Because maybe if he does, she will.
But, he doesn’t.
She turns to me, and my arms close around her before my head catches up. I keep her there, locked against me, memorizing the feel of her. The line of her shoulder under my palm, the warmth bleeding through my shirt, the way her breath moves against me. If I could hold her long enough to make time stall, I would.
Her hair brushes my jaw, carrying the soft scent of vanilla shampoo and something that is only hers. The ache spreads through my chest, until I swear it might crush me.
“You’re squishing me,” she murmurs into my shirt.
I smirk, resting my chin on her head. “Please. After putting up with you, this is the least painful part of my week.”
She laughs, but doesn’t pull away.
My eyes flick to Nate.
He’s watching us.
She shifts. Her arms loosen. She eases back enough to draw a breath, and her fingers swipe at the corner of her eye in a quick motion.
“I have something for both of you,” she says. Her voice is light, but there’s a flicker behind her eyes, half mischief, half nerves.
Before either of us can ask, she spins on her heels and bolts down the hall. Bare feet slapping against the tiles.
Nate and I stand still, watching where she vanished.
“Should we be worried?” Nate mutters.
“Only if she comes back with glitter or a live chicken,” I say. “If it’s handcuffs, I’m not asking questions.”
Nate groans. “You need therapy.”
“Probably,” I reply, because we both know that will never happen.
We are both smirking, because Quinn has a way of turning any quiet moment into a small-scale disaster.
Her footsteps reach us before she does. Quick, uneven, almost tripping over her own excitement.
Nate and I exchange a look.
“Brace yourself,” I tell him.
She skids into the doorway, cheeks flushed, hair a little wilder than before, holding something behind her back.
She remains silent, grinning as if she is guarding a secret big enough to blow the roof off the place.
“Well, I don’t hear a chicken,” I say, giving her a slow once-over. “We’re off to a strong start.”
Her brows draw together. “A chicken?”
I jerk my chin toward Nate. “He’s gutted. Already had a name picked out. Was gonna call it Cluck Norris.”
Nate groans and rubs his forehead. “I swear to God, Theo.”
Quinn takes a small step forward, her hands still tucked behind her back.
She hesitates, eyes moving between us. There’s a flicker of nerves in her smile, the kind you get when you’re about to hand over something that you’re unsure about.
