Page 88 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

The feeling expands in my chest, and I bite into my smile. It simmers into something vulnerable and forlorn. I gaze out through the sheets of rain pouring off the roof.

“We aren’t going to find him are we?” I say softly.

Quentin holds my gaze like he wants to be optimistic, but he gives me a small shrug. “I dunno, honestly.”

I let this possibility settle into my stomach. It’s one part desperation, two parts resignation.

“You know what hurts the most?” I say. “That, after all this – after everything – I’m going to have to show up to court alone. It’s a gut punch.”

“You won’t be alone.”

I find his gaze, and he holds it. Two beats. Three. There isn’t enough room in my chest for this feeling. The certainty that even if we can’t find our client, Quentin will be there.

That he’s been there this whole time.

That he’s right here.

It tingles down my neck, along my shoulders, between my ribs. I snag my bottom lip between my teeth, giving him a nod. He returns the gesture before dropping his attention to the sticky menu.

“You know what I worry about?” he admits. “If this all blows up, they’ll know it was my fault.”

“It’s not your fault,” I scoff. “And I would round-house kick anyone who dares to say that.”

His smile comes slow, and I can tell he’s surprised. Hell, even I’m surprised. A surge of protectiveness is thrumming through me. For Quentin. I usually reserve that for… well, people who aren’t him.

“Thank you, sensei,” he says.

We finish our sandwiches with the storm still simmering, and I break out the playing cards I picked up at the yard sale. To Quentin’s apparent surprise, I shuffle the deck with a flourish.

“The game,” I say, “is five card stud.”

His eyes flicker with a smile. “Oh, PBG. You sure you wanna do this?”

“Why, are you scared I’m gonna take you for everything you’re worth?” I tease.

My skin tingles again when he looks at me like that. Down my arms. Along my inner thighs. This time, his eyes are playfully predatory. Alight with a challenge. He tips the last of his margarita to his mouth and orders another. Then he smirks, entirely unafraid.

“Deal me in.”

***

The rain clears, but we hold down our spot for a while, ordering drinks and making wild bets against each other. At one point, Quentin entertains the bar set with his hidden talent, guessing each of their preferred beverages with such astonishing accuracy that the regulars start buying our drinks and sending them over. We’re more than a few rounds in when I hear him suck in a sharp breath.

“Jackpot,” he says.

I check my cards. “Um, no. What?”

I glance up to realize that he’s not even looking at his cards – he’s eyeing his phone. The way he’s eyeing his phone reminds me of that night on his couch. Of Melissa’s messages. Even though he assured me there’s nothing going on there, I can’t help but remember that sour sting.

“Do you want to take a break?” I say.

“No. Sorry. It’s, um, Angela.”

My brain stutters, and I lower my cards to the table. “Angela? Like… my Angela?”

“The P.I.?” he clarifies.

“Yeah. I didn’t know you were working with her,” I say.

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