Page 29 of Finders Keepers

Winging it was probably not the way to go.

Our vibes are all over the place. We can’t seem to settle on if we’re madly and disgustingly in love, or if we actually hate each other a little and just don’t realize it yet.

As we head upstairs with Avanti, Sprangbur’s event coordinator, I lean over to Quentin and ask, “So are you going to tell me exactly what your plan is here?”

“We’re going to make things super awkward until she leaves us alone for a minute.”

Oh. Well in that case, we could not be doing a better job. We are being nothing if not off-putting.

“Here on the second floor we have rooms where you and your bridal party can get ready before the ceremony,” Avanti says.

“Very nice,” I say, eyeing the Star Parlor.

“Speaking of the ceremony,” Quentin says, “if it’s usually outside in the gardens, what happens if it rains?”

“It’s up to the couple. Some people decide to get a tent just in case. Others choose a backup space indoors. Depending on the final guest count, we use either the conservatory or the downstairs sitting room that opens up into the drawing room.”

“Oh, the conservatory! That would be beautiful, wouldn’t it?” I lay my hand on Quentin’s arm and look up at him. “All the windows. Like being outside without being outside, you know? And with the rain dripping down the glass…”

“Eh. I think I’d rather the tent,” he says without looking back at me.

“Except a tent rental would be an added expense”—I elongate the word as if teaching it to a toddler—“while the conservatory is—”

“Wait, why would we rent? We can just buy one,” he says. “I’m sure it’s more cost-effective.”

“You want to buy a tent that will cover eighty people?” I take a step away and put my hands on my hips. “To use one time? And you think that will be more cost-effective?”

He matches my indignant posture. “Eighty? I thought we were only inviting close family and friends.”

“Yeah, and that’s about eighty guests. I told you, it adds up. Especially if we’re including children and plus-ones.”

“But that’s way too many people. Didn’t we agree we wanted something more intimate?”

This is all definitely uncomfortable for Avanti, but probably nothing she hasn’t dealt with a million times before.

We’re going to need to up our game to get her to excuse herself.

I meet Quentin’s gaze, and there’s this glint in his eye.

One I know quite well. I bet , it says, I’ll be the one who gets her to leave us alone .

I’m more than happy to accept the challenge.

“Well, I’m sorry,” I say. “But you’re the one who wants to invite all of his college buddies.”

“How many times do I have to explain this to you?” He raises his voice slightly and spreads his arms. “It just isn’t a party without Frankie J. and Goober!”

“I cannot believe you want to invite a grown man who goes by Goober to the happiest day of our lives .” I imbue the statement with as much drama as I possibly can, trying to sound like I’m on the verge of tears.

“Well, I can’t believe you want to invite a woman who keeps trying to seduce me.”

Oh, that’s good. But I can do him one better.

“For the last fucking time, Quentin, my grandmother is not trying to seduce you!”

Quentin almost busts out laughing then. He shifts so that his back is to Avanti, because he’s having trouble keeping a straight face. Which in turn makes it difficult for me to retain my angry look, because it’s hilarious watching him struggle.

Fortunately Avanti chooses that exact moment to hug her iPad to her chest and say, “Um, I’m going to just…

check on something.” She points downward.

“Downstairs. Give you two a moment to chat. And I’ll…

be back.” Avanti turns and takes the stairs more quickly than is probably prudent in her high heels.

As soon as we’re sure she’s made it to the first floor, we both break, laughing noiselessly, leaning against each other for support.

“That was inspired,” Quentin whispers.

“Thank you. I had a great scene partner,” I whisper back. “Frankie J. and Goober?” I burst into another round of quiet laughter, resting my forehead against Quentin’s shoulder.

“Actual friends of mine from college,” he says. “But they’re just Francis and Steven now. They actually just got married. To each other, I mean. It’s a funny story, really.”

“You can tell me later,” I say, turning him around. “We don’t have much time.”

“Right.”

We rush into the Star Parlor and head straight for the Impressionist painting of wildflowers along a river that’s taken the place of Whale’s portrait of Fountain.

Quentin gently lifts the frame up and toward him until its back wire slips off the heavy-duty mounting hook.

Unfortunately (but unsurprisingly), there isn’t an obvious safe or secret compartment directly behind it.

Propping the painting on the divan beside him, Quentin and I lean in toward the constellation-covered surface, inspecting it for any clues.

But it just…looks like a wall. A prettily painted one, but a wall all the same.

There are no obvious seams or places where one might push or pull. I slide onto the floor and wriggle beneath the divan, where I hastily search the lower portion and then lift the rug as much as I can to check the floorboards. The riddle does say beneath , after all, and I want to be thorough.

“I don’t think there’s anything here,” I say, sitting up, my glasses askew and my hair in my face.

Quentin takes a few steps back to scan the area from farther away. “Not unless there’s something we’re missing…”

But neither of us have any clue what that something could even be, and our time before the event coordinator returns is finite.

So we both sigh, wordlessly agreeing that we’ve reached the point where we need to give up looking here.

That’s when we hear Avanti in conversation with someone, closer than expected.

“Fuck,” I whisper, jumping back from the divan in a panic. My fight-or-flight instinct fully kicks in, and I find myself briefly and irrationally wondering how injured I would get busting through and leaping out one of the room’s large arched windows.

Quentin, who is apparently much cooler under pressure, grabs the landscape and hastily hangs it again—a little crooked, but it’ll have to do.

We hurry toward the Star Parlor’s doorway, hoping to make it back to the hallway where Avanti left us so she won’t suspect anything.

Before we get there, the creak of the stairs and the soft thud of her approaching heels alert us that we’re too late.

“Fuck!” I whisper more emphatically this time. Maybe the window wasn’t such a bad idea…

Before I can fully process what’s happening, I’m pressed against the gold star–covered wall, the cherry wood wainscoting digging lightly into my back.

One of Quentin’s hands has found its way to my hip, where it squeezes, and the other flattens on the wall beside my head, obscuring my view of the open door.

“Play along, cookiepuss,” he whispers into my ear, sending a shiver through my body that’s an odd contrast to the intense rush of heat between my legs.

He nuzzles his face into the crook of my neck as if kissing me there, his nose brushing against the skin briefly.

Having his lips hovering so close without actually making contact, his quick breaths hot and tickly…

Clearly this is supposed to be for Avanti’s benefit, and Quentin’s positioning does a great deal on its own to imply what’s happening without me having to do anything.

At the same time, it might look strange if I’m literally standing here, sandwiched between my supposed fiancé and the wall, with my arms awkwardly hanging at my sides.

Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to just…touch him a little.

You know. For authenticity’s sake. He did tell me to play along…

I splay my right hand across his shoulder blade and slide the fingers of my left hand up the back of his neck until they’re threaded into his red-brown hair.

I involuntarily give it a soft tug, and Quentin lets out a quiet sound that I’m not sure he intended to let slip.

I’m surprised to feel it echo against my pulse as his lips close the small amount of distance and make contact.

Even though he keeps them still, doesn’t actually kiss so much as rest there, the knowledge that his mouth is against my skin prompts a primal, subconscious reaction that makes me tilt the lower half of my body forward, searching for contact, for pressure.

I find it as I’m pinned harder against the wall, his hips subtly grinding into mine.

We are doing an excellent job here. Such a good job that it seems both of our bodies have forgotten it’s all a ruse. Either that or Quentin has an unripe banana stashed in his pocket.

His ragged exhale against the place where my neck meets my shoulder sends heat cascading through me, making me whisper once more, “Fuck,” the panic now completely stripped from it and replaced with something huskier.

A throat clears and my eyes open (though I hadn’t realized I’d closed them).

Quentin takes a few steps away from me, swallowing hard before he manages to speak. “Uh, excuse us. Sorry. We got…” He glances back at me with such heat in his gaze that I suddenly feel like an ice-cream cake left in front of a fireplace. “A little carried away.”

“You know how planning a wedding can be,” I say, my voice sounding reedy and unfamiliar to my own ears.

“Emotions run high,” he continues. “And…”

“And so do other things. Right? Haha.” I squint, unsure if that made sense.

Quentin reaches over and faux-discreetly fixes the strap of my dress where it slipped off my shoulder during our, um, pretending.

“Anyway, we appreciate you taking the time to show us around, but Nina and I have discussed things and we’re not quite ready to put down a deposit.

We’re going to have to talk a bit more about what we want, make sure we’re on the same page before settling on a date. ”

“I understand,” Avanti says. “We’ll be here and happy to host your special day whenever you’re ready.” Her smile is professional and practiced. But her dark eyes show her true thoughts: You people are a nightmare .

Quentin grabs my hand and brings it to his mouth to kiss it, hiding a smile.

“Whenever we’re ready,” I echo mindlessly.