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I yelp, the question fleeing my mind as someone pounds adamantly on my bedroom door. I jump nearly a foot in the air as I panic, thinking they might come in while I’m still in a state of disarray.
“Coming!” I call, scrambling to my feet. I quickly straighten my dress and attempt fruitlessly to cool the heat in my cheeks. I will myself to get it together so whoever it is won’t realize that I was jilling myself off in the bedroom.
And when I open the door, I find Lance standing there in all his sweaty glory.
Scowling.
My heart stops.
Oh God, did he actually catch me watching him?
5
LANCE
Quinn’s door jerks open with surprising force, and for a moment, I’m struck dumb by the sudden sight of her. She looks uncharacteristically frazzled, her cheeks flushed beneath her adorable freckles, her wild curls forming a golden halo around her face.
Her Cupid’s bow lips are parted slightly, her breaths coming fast, as if I interrupted her mid-workout, and I wonder if she might have been doing yoga or something in her room.
Then again, she’s wearing a loose-fitting dress, so I doubt it. My eyes track down her body to more thoroughly assess her outfit. And as I confirm my observation, I accidentally take note of the fact that she fills out the green, knee-length dress better than she might have in the past.
It strikes me suddenly that she’s grown into a beautiful young woman—one that any man would find attractive. Between her big, green, color-changing eyes and her perfectly shaped lips, I don’t doubt she has many eligible men pursuing her, and that makes my brow furrow.
I shouldn’t be thinking about Quinn like that.
I push the thought from my mind with a reminder that she’s my best friend’s little sister—and that’s all she’ll ever be to me, so I can’t entertain observations about how appealing she might be.
“Lance…” she gasps, clearly surprised by my presence.
And the breathy sound of her voice wreaks havoc inside my chest.
I can hardly say I blame her for being caught off guard. I’m not normally here at this time of day, but I stayed late last night to discuss new tactics with Killian that might get us closer to Don Lucian, so rather than drive back to my Brooklyn Heights penthouse, I decided to spend the night.
“W-what’s up?” she asks, her cheeks flushing a darker shade of pink—likely because I never seek her out in her private wing of the house.
I’m usually better about respecting her personal space.
And I wouldn’t bother her now if it weren’t necessary.
But like an idiot, I decided to use the Kings’ home gym before going to work today—a habit I formed as a teenager. And because I refuse to acknowledge my current limits enforced by my injury, I ended up busting a few of the perfect stitches Quinn gave me yesterday. So, frustrated with myself for ruining her hard work, I came to seek her out, hoping she might have time to sew me back up.
“I messed up.” Grasping one corner of the gauze square, I pull it back to show her the damage I did.
“Lance!” she scolds, her frazzled expression vanishing in an instant to be replaced by that all-too-familiar flash of frustration.
Secretly, I love this side of Quinn.
She’s a force to be reckoned with when she’s angry. And more often than not, she’s riled up about something Killian did—and therefore, me by extension. But as angry as she can get, and as impressive as her lectures can be, I still find her temperendearing. Because she only ever scolds us about being reckless, endangering ourselves unnecessarily.
Quinn’s the cutest kind of protective over her big brothers. Killian most of all.
Which is another reason I intend to keep him alive at all costs.
I know that losing him would crush her.
And I never want to witness the kind of devastation she and Killian experienced over their parents’ deaths again.
“What happened?” she demands, peeling the bandage off completely to more closely inspect my chest.