Page 86 of Seven Lost Summers
I exhale hard through my nose. “Christ, Reynolds. Want to dim the lights while you’re at it? Maybe throw on some slow music before you interrogate me?”
He doesn’t blink.
He keeps staring, cutting through every wall I’ve ever built.
I swallow, jaw tight.
Fuck.
How the fuck do I tell him that this pull I have toward Quinn hits wrong in a way I can’t shake. That every time my mind drifts back, that voice cuts in, telling me I shouldn’t. She was Bianca’s best friend. They were inseparable. Every memory I carry of her has Quinn stitched into the edges, tied to her, woven into the mess of what the four of us used to be. That every time I let myself think about what it means to want Quinn, the weight slams into my chest. That sting you can’t explain but can’t escape. The betrayal that lodges in your bones no matter how much time has passed.
But I don’t get the chance to say a damn word, because Quinn walks in.
The second her eyes land on us, she stops cold. She doesn’t move. She only watches, eyes flicking between us.
“Sorry,” she says, finally. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
I do what I always do—pretend.
That smile I’ve mastered over the years, the one that says I’m good and everything’s fucking perfect, slides on without effort. A reflex. A lie with teeth.
“You didn’t interrupt anything,” I say, too fast, too smooth.
I don’t look at Nate because I already know what I’ll see. Him still staring. Still reading every goddamn crack I’m trying to hide.
I turn slightly toward the counter.
“Your beer’s here,” I say, grabbing the bottle and passing it to her, anything to break the weight of this moment.
Quinn steps forward and takes the drink.
As she moves, Nate lifts his arm. His hand clamps onto mine, giving a quick squeeze.
The gesture is subtle, but the impact hits hard. A silent message. I see you.
Quinn circles the bench and drops onto one of the stools.
“Kit said to come with you guys to the studio,” she says. “What time do you usually start?”
“Hold on,” I mutter, pulling out my phone. I scroll through the messages until I find Xander’s note with this week’s schedule. The time shifts now and then.
He planned the whole thing around Poppy and Alex. Makes sure he can drop Alex off at school when Poppy has early mornings at the academy. He’s fully committed when it comes to them.
Even when he has to walk through a crowd of women at school drop-off who can’t stop staring. Grown-ass women swooning as if they’re still sixteen. The attention drives him insane. He’s never been one for small talk, and he sure as hell isn’t the type to smile and charm his way through the moment.
But he goes through it anyway, because he loves being a dad.
I tease him about it sometimes. Call him the local MILF magnet, all to get a rise out of him.
He doesn’t bite.
He only snorts, gives me that deadpan stare, and lifts his coffee for a slow sip, as if I’m the dumbest person in the room.
That’s Xander. No bullshit. No temptation.
Loves Poppy and Alex in this fierce, all-consuming way that never needs to be proven.
I skim the message before glancing up at Quinn.
