Page 31 of The Boyfriend Material Novellas

Then we return to my apartment again.

In the elevator, I run into the head of the co-op board, who beams and launches right into chatter. “Everything is going swimmingly with the offer on your place.”

“That’s great news,” I say, and Quinn looks away as the woman and I chat.

Hell, there’s a part of me that wants to look away, too, from what’s coming at the end of the year.

But we both know the score.

We knew from the start.

When we reach my apartment, Quinn offers a smile. “Looks like your place was an easy sale,” she says.

“It should be off my hands pretty soon.”

“And you have a place in Miami already?” Her voice is the slightest bit strained.

“I made an offer a few days ago.”

“You’re going to be so happy there,” she says. Then she presses her lips to mine, and I feel happy right here too.

And that’s exactly the problem.

13

QUINN

It’s official. I’m going to burst.

I point accusingly at my sister. “Why did you let me do this?”

Josh chimes in. “You do this every year.”

“It’s because Mom makes the best stuffing. And mashed potatoes. And green bean casserole.”

Mom raises her hand, owning it. “I do. It’s all true. And your father is a champion turkey carver.”

“I’m the best, and none of you kids can resist my birds,” he says.

Kids.I look around at my thirty-six-year-old brother and his fiancée. At my older sister, Tabitha, who flew home from Paris for the holiday, and at Amy.

I adore them all madly, and I’m so glad they’re here. We’re hardly children anymore, but I love that my dad still calls us “kids.” I love that I can see them often like this, as a family.

Except for Tabitha. “Tab, when are you going to move back here? We miss you.”

She waves a hand airily. “Someday. I miss you all too.”

“We demand to see more of you,” Amy says, banging a fist on the table. “I see this stinker almost every week.” She points at me.

“I second that demand,” I say with a laugh, then I toss my napkin on the table. “After all, don’t you miss Amy’s baked goods? She brought me peanut butter cookies earlier this week, and they were divine.”

“Speaking of my divine baking,” Amy says, shooting me a stern stare, “you better have saved room for my world-famous walnut pie.”

“As if I didn’t,” I say.

Tabitha pats her belly. “My dessert compartment is open for business.”

As Amy serves the slices of pie, a wave of contentment washes over me. I’m happy here. Delightfully so.

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