Page 33 of Finders Keepers

When I don’t respond automatically, he prompts, “How about you?”

“Nina,” I say. “Nina Hunnicutt. Historian. I’m here visiting my parents for the summer.”

He’s gracious enough not to point out that this is a gross simplification of the reason I’m back home.

Instead, his smile widens. It isn’t that too-charming one that bothers me either, but something much more natural and unguarded.

Something that, even if he were actually a complete stranger, I would know right away is genuinely, one hundred percent him .

“I hope to get to know you better…Nina, was it?”

I narrow my eyes at him, but then my gaze goes softer as I say, “Yeah, I hope to get to know you better too, Kevin.”

Joking aside, I do mean that. Because Quentin is right that there are a lot of gaps in my knowledge of the adult version of him that’s sitting across from me.

I’ve been so preoccupied trying to reconcile that he’s the same boy who hurt me with my undeniable attraction to the man he is now that I’ve neglected to consider the time we spent out of each other’s lives was actually longer than we spent in them.

So much happened during those years, things that shaped us both.

And now I have a million questions. Like, what does he like to do on a lazy weekend?

Does he know how to cook? Does he like IPAs or porters?

Does he even drink beer at all? How many times has he had his heart broken?

Or broken others’? I might know his origin story, but that isn’t enough.

I want to know the person he’s grown into and everything that’s made him that way.

I want him to know me too. Which may be difficult, considering I barely have any clue who I am right now. But maybe this is the first step in figuring it out. And maybe it will take away some of the mystery, some of the allure of him.

So Quentin and I spend the next few hours just…

chatting. Catching up on the time we missed.

Filling each other in on where we were, with whom, why.

Funny stories, new hobbies, the music we listen to these days.

I learn that he spent two summers in college volunteering with Habitat for Humanity—hence the comfort with power tools.

I tell him about when I got stuck in my apartment building’s elevator for an hour and that I learned to drink black coffee in grad school because someone kept stealing all of the sugar and creamer from the student lounge.

We talk a bit more about Dad’s accident, the emotional and financial uncertainty of it all.

The aftermath of his parents’ divorce, and the resentment he used to feel toward his sister, who was already out of the house and much less affected by it.

We agree that Neapolitan pizza is the best, but disagree on the order in which we rank Detroit-, Chicago-, and St. Louis–style pies.

And it’s frankly better than any real first date I’ve ever been on.

Not that I’ve been on that many. Or any at all for the past six years.

Also, not that this is a date at all. It’s only like a date.

We’re just two strangers who already sort of know each other, getting drinks to support an old classmate’s injured employee, and so that one can avoid drawing naked people with her mom. A tale as old as time, really.

It’s dark before we know it. I’m sure we missed the Pog tournament—for the best, as Quentin definitely would’ve trounced me. Solar lanterns and café lights keep the patio illuminated, but not brightly enough to block out the stars.

“Hey. Wanna dance?” Quentin asks.

“What?”

“Do you want to dance? With me.”

“Really? Here? Now?” I don’t bother adding “To S Club 7’s ‘Never Had a Dream Come True’?” because it feels like that part goes without saying.

My hesitation to slow dance with Quentin must be obvious, because he pulls a very dirty trick. “Unless…Well, if you don’t think you can keep up…”

I scoff. “Oh, please. I remember the homecoming debacle. How many stitches did you wind up needing that time?”

He grins, running his finger over a barely visible scar by his left eyebrow.

“Only three, which is practically the same as none. And that was mostly Edgar’s fault anyway.

Who wears spiked leather cuffs to a formal dance?

” He holds out his palm, waiting for mine as if it’s an inevitability I’ll give in.

Which I hate to admit, it is. “Besides,” he adds, “I’ve lived a lot of life since then, as we’ve spent the evening discussing.

My coordination and balance have improved quite a bit. ”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” I grumble, laying my hand atop his.

He pulls me in quicker and closer than I expect, and I laugh in nervous surprise as I place my left hand on his shoulder. “Do you remember Mrs. Mann coming around with a ruler during our middle school dances to make sure everyone was at least a foot apart?”

Quentin’s response sends a delicious tingle down my spine, his voice only inches from my ear as he brings me even closer to his warm body. “Thankfully, she doesn’t seem to be here tonight. Unless she’s the person in the Daft Punk helmet I saw in the bathroom.”

We exchange smiles as we settle into a nice swaying rhythm.

It isn’t long before his eyes on mine become too much to bear.

I clear my throat and tentatively rest my forehead against his jaw, which strikes me as even more intimate but somehow soothes my nerves.

“So, uh, when and where did you learn to dance without incurring or inflicting injuries?”

“I took a class senior year of college,” he says, his words fluttering the curls framing my face.

“Needed a phys ed credit to graduate and it was the only thing available that worked with my schedule. I also learned how to waltz…” He adjusts us into a more formal posture and spins us around the patio.

“And cha-cha.” His hand on my lower back leads me into a few unfamiliar movements before we fall back into our previous low-key sway, matching the sedated rhythm of the music.

“A lot of it’s muscle memory,” he tells me.

“But I did get to practice a few times over the years. Lots of friends’ weddings.

” He pauses. “Huh. Guess I would’ve been dancing at my own wedding in just a few months, if things had been different. ”

“I’m sorry things didn’t work out,” I say.

Because that’s the polite response, even if it’s not strictly true.

I’m glad he isn’t with Charlene. Quentin might have hurt me in the past, but I’ve never stopped wanting only the best for him.

And she certainly wasn’t the best when she didn’t even understand how lucky she was to have him in the first place.

“Yeah?” He looks down at me, and I’m startled to find his eyes filled with heat.

My tongue darts out to sweep across my lips in unconscious response.

“I’m not,” he whispers as his thumb dips beneath the hem of my tank top and strokes back and forth along the exposed skin above the waistband of my shorts.

I think…Are we actually…?

Best-case outcome: He kisses me. Worst-case outcome: He kisses me.

Most likely outcome: He kisses me? Or maybe I kiss him?

I am internally screaming at the near certainty of what’s coming.

I’ve never wanted something as badly as I want his mouth against mine at this moment.

Even if the worst outcome were the end of the world, it would be challenging to talk myself out of it as long as our lips still made contact for a split second beforehand.

My eyes flutter closed as I lean in, waiting, waiting for the contact I’ve been craving so intensely it feels like an intrinsic part of me.

There’s the warmth of his exhale, of his nearness as inches between us turn into centimeters into millimeters and—

The song transitions abruptly, the speakers seeming suddenly louder as they blast out SomeBODY once told me…

Goddammit. We’ve been mouth-blocked by Smash Mouth.

Our laughter erases the remaining tension. I rest my head on his shoulder, and he wraps his arms around me for a moment before stepping away and downing the rest of his third drink. He pulls my empty glass toward his and pinches them both between his fingers. “Want anything else?” he asks.

My brain immediately responds: You. I want you.

I shake my head, feeling said brain rattle around a bit in my skull. “No. I’m good. Probably should have stopped earlier, really.”

“Same. I blame Hanako. These things go down way too easy.” He bangs his hip into a stool as he passes by and mutters an apology to it—the most endearing evidence of his tipsiness. “I’m going to run these in and we can head home.”

“Sounds good,” I say. As soon as he’s out of sight, I press my fingers to my lips, trying to ease the anticipatory buzz. But I suspect nothing is going to do it except finally, finally kissing Quentin Bell.