Page 82 of Seven Lost Summers
“None,” he agrees, eyes dropping briefly to my mouth before dragging back up.
I roll my eyes. “God, your ego.”
He grins. “Please, you love it.”
“I tolerate it.”
He pulls me tight against his side, resting his cheek on the top of my head. “God, I’ve missed this.”
I swallow hard. “Missed annoying the shit out of me?”
His laugh rumbles through me. “No, Quinn. I missed you.”
Up ahead, Nate takes hold of my disaster of a suitcase and wheels it forward, moving ahead while Theo and I fall in behind him.
And fuck, my eyes go to Nate.
I can’t stop them.
The way he moves. That body. Those shoulders. His jeans hang low on his hips, fabric worn and tight in all the right places, clinging to an ass that should be illegal. Muscles shift beneath his shirt, tattoos winding up his arms and spilling from his sleeves. Silver rings flash on his fingers. Every inch of him screams trouble.
Back in the day, he almost broke me.
One night. One look. That’s all it took to make me falter.
I nearly gave in when he stared too long, when his mouth curled the right way.
I’d heard the rumors. They were everywhere.
Girls whispered about him in the bathrooms, in the halls, drunk and glassy-eyed after a night tangled up with Nate Reynolds. They said he fucked with purpose, with something to prove. That he needed to own you. That he got off on watching you fall apart beneath him. That the sound of his name on your lips was what he wanted more than anything.
Others said he was unforgettable. The kind of fuck that brands itself into your memory and ruins every other man who comes after.
And for one fleeting second, I wanted to know what it was like to have him.
But I didn’t go there.
Because I knew exactly what I’d be after it was over.
Another fuck.
Another girl forgotten by Nate Reynolds.
Theo’s voice cuts through my Nate-induced coma, low and smug against my ear.
“You gonna need a minute, or should I start wiping the drool now?”
The heat in his tone catches me off guard.
I glance over, and there it is—that fucking smirk.
“I guess being in a band gave you a whole new personality,” I say, arching a brow. “The Theo I remember didn’t flirt as if he were trying to land in someone’s panties.”
“I’m still the same guy, Quinn. I only upgraded. I still talk shit, and now I can multi-task too.”
I laugh, shaking my head at how fucking confident he is. It’s effortless now, the way he carries himself, how he fucking owns it.
We step into the car park, late afternoon sun glaring off the pavement. Nate grabs my suitcase, still barely holding itself together, and hauls it into the trunk like it isn’t seconds from exploding again.
