Page 17

17

WARREN

The banquet is exactly what I expected. Loud, overpriced, and crawling with people I have zero interest in talking to. Another Sycamore production dressed up to look impressive.

The ballroom’s been transformed for the night. Round tables draped in white linen, candles flickering in low crystal holders, floral arrangements that probably cost more than my monthly rent. It smells like money in here. Like perfume and polished wood and too many glasses of champagne.

Servers in identical black uniforms slip through the crowd like shadows, balancing flutes of sparkling wine while conversations rise and fall in carefully modulated tones. Laughter echoes off the walls—too loud, too practiced.

I adjust my tie for the fifth time, resisting the urge to tear it off completely. The uniform is stiff, the collar too tight, the sleeves cut wrong for my shoulders. If I wasn’t required to be here, I’d already be in the parking lot, halfway to home.

I exhale through my nose and scan the room, already counting the minutes until I can disappear out the back.

And then I spot Daniel and my mom standing near one of the high-top tables, deep in conversation with some board member I vaguely recognize. My stomach tightens on instinct.

I knew they’d be here. Of course I did. But that doesn’t stop the old reflex from kicking in—shoulders tensing, breath hitching, like I’m bracing for something. Like I’m eighteen again, pressed into a blazer that doesn’t quite fit, hoping I can get through their wedding night without embarrassing anyone.

Daniel looks like he belongs. He always does. The man’s a natural at this kind of thing—smooth, unshakable, the type of person who always knows what fork to use and which senator’s kid goes to which Ivy League school. He’s got that polished charm that makes people nod when he speaks, like he’s already won the argument.

My mom, though, she’s still figuring it out. Still trying to match his poise, his polish, his place in rooms like this. She looks beautiful—always does—but there’s a hesitancy in her smile, a split-second lag in her responses. She doesn’t laugh too loudly, doesn’t drink too much, doesn’t draw too much attention. Like she’s always aware she wasn’t born into this. Like she’s afraid someone will notice.

I glance away before either of them can spot me. Before I have to pretend I’m comfortable here too.

It’s been nearly four years, but it still feels strange to watch my mom in spaces like this.

Not because I don’t want it for her. I do. She’s happy now. She doesn’t have to stretch every paycheck or come home from work completely wiped out. She doesn’t flinch when the phone rings, doesn’t have to count dollars at the grocery store. But it’s hard to forget how things used to be.

Hard to forget the nights she came home bone-tired, her scrubs wrinkled, her eyes rimmed red from exhaustion. Hard to reconcile that with the woman standing here now, hair smooth, dress elegant, sipping from a glass of champagne like she’s always belonged in places like this.

It’s not a bad thing. Just a different one.

I take a breath, square my shoulders, and step up beside them.

She notices me first, and her face lights up, the lines around her eyes softening with something gentle. “Warren,” she says, touching my arm. “There you are. I was starting to think you were avoiding us.”

“Would I do that?” I say flatly.

Daniel lets out a quiet laugh and claps a hand on my shoulder. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Surprised you came to this one,” I say, my eyes flicking to my mom. “Aren’t you a little tired of the club?”

She exhales, half-amused. “Daniel said it would be fun.”

Daniel grins. “And she’s humoring me.”

I laugh. “Lucky you.”

He gives me a knowing look. “How’s work going?”

“Fine as usual,” I say, scanning the room. “Just serving drinks, avoiding assholes, same old, same old.”

“Ah,” Daniel hums, narrowing his eyes slightly. “I assume by ‘assholes,’ you mean my peers?”

I flick my gaze toward him. He’s perceptive—always has been. I don’t know if it’s the years of managing people or just something built into him. The way he watches. The way he notices.

“Among others,” I mutter.

My mom frowns and smooths a crease in her dress. “I thought you didn’t mind working here.”

I shrug. “I don’t. Doesn’t mean I have to like everyone.”

Daniel studies me for a second like he might push the subject, but then he lets it go. Instead, he gestures toward the two girls standing just outside the circle of our conversation.

“Right,” he says. “You’ve seen them at holidays, but I don’t think you’ve actually caught up in a while.”

One of the twins rolls her eyes and steps forward with a smirk that’s too confident for her age. “Oh, please. Like he could forget us.”

Daniel’s daughters from his first marriage—fraternal twins, now fifteen. We all lived in the same house the summer before I started college. They were absolute menaces back then. Always eavesdropping. Always snooping. Always up to something.

I’ve seen them since, of course. Thanksgiving, Christmas, the occasional family dinner. But it was never like that summer. That summer, they were eleven, curious about everything, and I was the older almost-brother they didn’t know what to do with.

The one with the smirk tilts her head, all mischief and energy. “We see you on TV sometimes,” she says. “Well, not TV-TV, but YouTube clips from your swim meets. Your mom puts them on the big screen.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Uh ... cool?”

The other twin, the quieter one, finally speaks, her tone smooth, more deadpan. “You should let us come to a meet sometime. We’d make really embarrassing signs.”

The first one grins. “Yeah, something like Go, Warren, Go! but with, like, really aggressive glitter.”

I sigh, scrubbing a hand down my face. Jesus Christ .

Daniel smirks, eyes glinting with amusement. “They’re a lot.”

I chuckle. “Yeah, I can see that.”

My mom is smiling, watching the interaction like it’s the best thing she’s seen all night. She looks genuinely happy. Maybe it’s seeing me talk to them. Maybe it’s seeing me slot into this version of a family, even if I’m still figuring out where I belong.

“Alright,” I mutter. “This has been fun, but I gotta get back to serving.”

My mom squeezes my arm. “Don’t work too hard, okay?”

I offer a half smile before stepping back and disappearing into the crowd.

The Sycamore banquet is still in full swing. The hum of conversation rides over the clink of glasses and the shuffle of designer shoes across marble floors, crisp and controlled like everything else here. I weave through a group of members, nod at one of the other servers, and make my way toward the bar.

I should be working. Clearing tables, checking trays, pretending I care about making this place run smoothly. Instead, I lean against the polished edge of the bar, let out a breath, and let my focus drift.

Quinn stands to my right, waiting on a drink order, her back to me. The hem of her uniform clings to her hips in a way that makes it impossible not to notice. Her hair is pulled into some kind of loose knot, but a few strands have slipped free, curling down the back of her neck.

I know I shouldn’t let my gaze linger. I shouldn’t watch her. But I do.

We’re wearing the same stiff black uniform, bland and shapeless, designed to make us blend in. On her, it doesn’t. On her, it moves like a second skin. Like it was made to fall that way. She shifts her weight, balancing a few empty glasses at the edge of the bar, her movements fluid and practiced, like her body already knows what to do before her mind has to ask.

There’s something about it that catches me off guard. The ease of it. The precision. Like everything about her has already found its rhythm.

Her eyes flick to mine for just a second. She tilts her head, assessing, like she’s measuring the air between us. Then she smirks. A small thing, barely there, but it hits its mark. With that single look, she pulls me back in like gravity.

I take a step closer, not even thinking about it. No hesitation, no second-guessing. Just instinct.

Because it’s her.

Because it always is.

By the time I’m standing beside her, she’s already facing the counter again, fingers tapping a slow rhythm against the tray in front of her.

“Took you long enough,” she says, still not looking at me.

I scoff as I lean back. “Didn’t realize we were on a schedule.”

She tsks, finally cutting her sharp gaze back to mine. “You’re always on my schedule, Mercer.”

A breath sticks in my throat. It’s a joke. Just a throwaway line, meant to tease, to poke at the tension strung tight between us. But I don’t laugh. Because she’s right.

I’ve spent the last two years pretending we don’t exist on the same timeline. Dodging run-ins, sidestepping conversations, avoiding the inevitability of this—us. And yet, here I am, leaning against the bar, standing too close, watching the way her fingers trace aimless patterns in the condensation on the counter like it means something.

She tips her head toward the ballroom. “How’s your night going? Enjoying the spectacle?”

I let out a short laugh. “Oh, yeah. This is exactly how I wanted to spend my Friday night. Wearing a crooked tie and making sure some guy named Richard—also known as Dick—doesn’t get served the wrong scotch.”

She smirks. “Don’t forget your mingling duties. I saw you earlier, schmoozing it up with Stepdaddy Dearest.”

I exhale, rolling my shoulders. “Yeah, well. Can’t avoid family forever.”

Something flickers across her expression. It’s quick, barely there, but I catch it. I always do. The slight press of her lips. The way her fingers stall for a beat before moving again. She’s never been close with her parents, not in the way people like to pretend they are. But Wesley—he’s the exception.

She loves him with a kind of protectiveness that borders on fierce. Like she’d take on the whole damn world just to keep it from touching him.

She shifts her tray to her other hand, her voice light but her eyes still on mine. “You look good in a tie.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

She shrugs, a casual tilt of her shoulder. “Not as much of a mess as usual.”

I huff out a sound caught between a laugh and a scoff. “High praise, Rose.”

She waves a hand like it costs her nothing. “I’m feeling generous tonight.”

The bartender finally slides her order across the counter—a fresh tray of whatever overly sweet martinis are trending this week. Quinn grabs it with ease, but I catch the way her fingers tighten just slightly, the sharp inhale she tries to bury before lifting the tray from the bar.

I don’t mean to say anything else. I shouldn’t. But the words come anyway. “You need a hand?”

She scoffs, shifting the tray like she’s debating whether to carry it or throw it at my head. “What, you think I can’t handle a few drinks?”

“I think you’re a little off your game,” I say, smirking as I lean in.

Her glare sharpens, jaw tight. “I could carry three of these with one hand while balancing on a barstool.”

My voice drops, low and steady. “And yet, you’re gripping that tray like it might bite.”

She exhales sharply through her nose. I can tell I’ve landed somewhere close to a nerve, and before she can fire something back, I reach out. Just a little. Just enough to press my thumb to the inside of her wrist.

The touch is light, almost nothing. But her breath hitches, and I feel the thud of her pulse against my skin. Her eyes flick up to mine, and something in them shifts—electric, unguarded, on the edge of unraveling.

I should let go. I should pull back, step away, pretend none of this is still lingering between us. Instead, I let my thumb draw slow, quiet circles against her skin, not a question, not quite a promise, just something steady in the space between us.

Her fingers tighten around the tray, but she still doesn’t pull away.

“You always do this,” she says, voice soft now. Not a whisper, but close. “You get in my head.”

I tilt my head, brush the edge of her sleeve with the pad of my thumb. “Do I?”

She swallows, breath uneven. “You make it impossible to think straight.”

It isn’t quite a confession. But it’s real. And it’s enough.

I let my fingers shift slightly, just enough to skim the inside of her palm. Just enough to make her blink like she’s snapping out of a trance, like she’s suddenly realizing how close we are, how much weight is pressed into this tiny, stolen moment.

Her throat bobs, lips parting slightly.

I should step back. I should let go.

But then she exhales, so quiet I barely hear it, and it’s like a fuse catching fire.

I lean in, close enough for my breath to ghost over her cheek, my voice a whisper against her skin. “Say the word, Quinn.”

Her fingers flex against the tray. She doesn’t move.

I press my palm fully over hers, feel the way her breath stutters, the way her pulse hammers against her wrist. And then she yanks herself free. Both hands return to the tray, steady, controlled. A fraction of a second, and it’s like nothing happened at all.

Except for the way she won’t look at me. Except for the way her chest rises and falls just a little too fast.

I exhale, dragging my hand through my hair. “Quinny?”

Her fingers tighten around the tray, and then—just like that—she’s gone, slipping back into the crowd, disappearing into the hum of conversation, into the careful, curated spectacle of the night.

Leaving me standing there, my skin still burning from where it met hers.