Page 37

37

QUINN

I stare at myself in my bathroom mirror, twisting this way and that, trying to decide if I look ... good. Good enough. Appropriate. Whatever that means.

My dress clings in all the right places. It’s fitted through the waist, just enough movement at the hem to feel casual but still nice. The color’s deep blue, almost black in this light, and I thought it looked elegant when I pulled it from my closet.

Now, I’m not so sure.

The neckline dips a little too low. My collarbone feels too sharp, my shoulders too narrow. The bruised shadow of an old pimple lingers stubbornly near my chin.

I press my hands down the front of the dress, trying to smooth the doubt away.

I want to look good. I want to look right. Like someone who belongs at Warren’s side, someone his family won’t immediately question.

I turn again, checking the back. The fabric skims my hips, clinging to the curve of my waist. My hair’s loose in soft waves, but I can’t tell if it looks styled or just messy. My makeup’s fine—maybe too light. I should’ve done more with my eyes. Or my lips. Or ... something.

I blow out a breath and slump against the edge of the sink. God, this is ridiculous .

I’m overthinking again. Spiraling because this isn’t just dinner. It’s dinner with Warren’s mother and stepfather. A dinner I was invited to at the last minute.

They heard Warren’s been seeing me again through the grapevine. Apparently, Liam’s mom blabbed after she ran into Mrs. Mercer at Sycamore last week, and now, here we are.

I groan softly and drag a hand through my hair.

Alyssa’s voice floats down the hall, laughing at some rom-com she’s watching. I hesitate, then push away from the sink. Screw it. I need backup.

I find her in her room, stretched across her bed with her laptop propped on her knees.

“Hey,” I say, hovering in the doorway. “Got a sec?”

“Always. What’s up?”

I step inside and gesture helplessly at my dress. “I’m supposed to look like a person who has their life together. I feel like ... this isn’t it.”

She narrows her eyes, assessing the damage. “I think you’re half a bad shoe choice away from panic spiral. But we can fix this.”

Fifteen minutes later, I’m standing in front of her full-length mirror, hair half pinned back in a way that softens my face. She’s layered a cream cashmere wrap over my dress, and somehow, it pulls the whole look together.

“You look amazing.”

I squint at my reflection. “I look ... fine.”

“You look hot, but in a respectable way,” she insists, planting her hands on her hips. “Seriously, your ex is gonna forget how to speak when he sees you.”

I smile faintly. “Not really my ex anymore, is he?”

“You nervous?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe a little.”

“It’s understandable. Meeting the parents is kind of a big deal.”

I hesitate, chewing my lip. There’s so much I haven’t told her. About the whole history, about how I wasn’t just some girl Warren dated—I was the girl who stole from his family. The one who lied. The one whose mistake made everything fall apart. And Warren’s stepdad blamed him for it.

I don’t want to ruin this whole roommate slash friend thing. Not when they’re just starting to really like me. Not when I’m just now letting myself believe I might actually deserve it.

“I’ve met them before,” I admit. “A few times, actually.”

“I guess that makes sense.”

“Yeah.” I exhale shakily. “But ... the last time I was really in Warren’s life, I made a mistake. And if they knew ... I mean, if they found out, they wouldn’t exactly be thrilled that we’re back together.”

She’s quiet for a second. “Are you gonna tell them about it tonight?”

“I don’t think I can.”

“Hey,” she says softly. “Whatever happens, you’re still you. And they’d be lucky to have you in Warren’s life. Try and remember that. You’re a catch.”

I let the words settle for a moment. I’m starting to believe them, little by little. Being back with Warren, opening up again—to new friends, new chances, new versions of myself—it’s made something shift. I feel more like a person. More like I belong.

“Thank you for saying that.”

She grins and squeezes my arm. “Jordan and I will be here when you get back if you want to debrief. You know, in case it’s a whole thing.”

“It’s probably gonna be a whole thing,” I mutter.

“Then we’ll have wine,” she says brightly. “But really, Quinn, good luck out there.”

Two short knocks at the door jolt me upright. I glance at myself one last time in the mirror, adjusting my hair and smoothing the cashmere wrap over my shoulders. Then I blow Alyssa a kiss, grab my purse, and head for the door.

Warren stands on the other side in a black short-sleeved button-up, the top few buttons left undone just enough to reveal the silver chain against his chest. He’s wearing light linen pants that hang low on his hips.

It shouldn’t work. The shirt is a little too unbuttoned, the pants a little too laid-back. But somehow, he pulls it off. He looks unfairly good, like he just stepped out of an upscale bar where he’d been laughing with friends over whiskey and soft lighting. All casual confidence, all heat and ease.

And then there’s the way his eyes move over me.

They drag slowly down my frame before returning to my face, lingering there with a quiet steadiness.

“You look ...” He trails off, mouth curving like he’s searching for the right word. “Fucking perfect.”

My face heats. “Yeah?”

“More than,” he says softly, eyes still fixed on me.

“You look really sexy all dressed up.”

His smile curves higher at the corner. “Don’t get used to it.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

We’re still standing in the doorway, not moving, just watching each other like there’s a confession waiting on the tip of our tongues. Three words. Eight letters. A truth we haven’t spoken aloud in years.

I reach for my purse, and Warren steps back, waiting while I lock the door. When I turn, he’s still watching me like I’m something precious, something he’s afraid might slip away if he looks away too long.

“You ready?” he asks quietly.

“Let’s go.”

We head down to the parking lot together, footsteps quiet on the stairs. Warren doesn’t say anything as he unlocks the car, just steps ahead to open the passenger door for me.

“Such a gentleman,” I tease, sliding in.

“Only ’cause you’re worth it,” he says, flashing a crooked smile.

He leans in to buckle my seatbelt, his fingers brushing my side. Then, before pulling back, he presses a kiss to the curve of my neck. Soft and lingering. The kind of kiss that says he doesn’t want to rush a single second of this.

The quiet lingers as we pull out of the lot, the world slipping by in shadow and streetlights. As soon as we hit the main road, his hand finds mine. And I trace my thumb along his knuckles, following the faint calluses and lines.

“So, tonight,” I start. “Should I expect to be served a salad course by that weird man who always tried to talk me into playing pickleball?”

Warren huffs a laugh. “You mean Mr. Jennings? Who swore he had a ‘mean forehand and an even meaner backhand’?”

“That’s the one.” I cringe, already imagining it. “God, I can’t wait to rub elbows with all my old caddy clients. Nothing like eating a filet while pretending I didn’t once haul their golf bag uphill in ninety-degree heat.”

“We both know you greased the fuck out of those guys,” he says.

“I had to,” I mutter. “Tips weren’t gonna earn themselves.”

He laughs, but the sound falters too fast. It drops into silence, and something sharp presses at the back of my mind. Something I think we’ve both been trying not to linger on.

“You think Preston Beckett’s gonna be around?”

His jaw flexes. “For your sake, I hope not. But honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised.” His voice darkens. “I wonder if he talked to Daniel after I told him off. I never heard anything.”

I blink, turning to look at him. “What do you mean?”

His fingers tense, thumb tapping idly against the steering wheel. “When I picked up our paychecks, I sort of . . . snapped at him.”

My brow furrows. “Sort of?”

“I heavily implied I was the one who popped the fucker’s tire.”

I let out a sharp breath. “Warren.”

“Wasn’t my best moment, but I hate the sleazebag. Seeing his face again made me see red.”

I should be mad at him for stirring things up, but all I feel is this tight, aching gratitude. Warren’s always been like this—fiercely loyal, always ready to fight for me, even when I’ve tried to handle things myself.

I shake my head. “You don’t have to do that, you know. Stick your neck out for me like that.”

“Yeah, actually,” Warren says quietly. “I do.”

For a second, I can’t speak. The words get stuck somewhere in my throat, tangled up with everything else I don’t know how to say. I’m grateful, of course I am. But I don’t want him to get in trouble while protecting me, not again.

“Was he . . . alone?” I ask carefully.

Warren shrugs, eyes still on the road. “His same old buddies were there with him.”

My stomach twists. I slouch lower in my seat, arms curling tighter across my chest.

Of course Davis and Mancini would still be hanging around. They told me they’d “take care of it,” that they’d talk to Preston. And in a way, they had. He backed off, dropped the complaint with the club.

But that didn’t mean they dropped him.

“Right,” I say bitterly. “Of course they were.”

For a second—one foolish, fleeting second—I thought maybe they’d actually cared. Thought maybe I mattered enough for them to draw a line somewhere. But that’s not how it works. There’s always a divide between the people wealthy enough to belong to the club and the ones who were only ever allowed near it to serve.

I should’ve known better than to mistake proximity for loyalty.

* * *

Dinner’s been ... nice. Better than I expected, at least.

Daniel and Willow are warm, relaxed in a way that makes the whole thing feel less like some intimidating family dinner and more like an overdue catch-up. There’s a bottle of wine on the table, Willow’s hand curled loosely around her glass as she tells a story about their latest trip to Charleston.

Daniel chuckles along, adding the occasional detail or dry commentary. It’s easy to see where Warren learned how to read a room. He knows when to chime in with a sharp one-liner and when to sit back and let everyone else take the lead.

I’ve always liked his mom. She’s sharp but kind, her smile quick and genuine. I forgot how easy she makes it to relax, like you’re not being evaluated. You’re being welcomed.

“So, Quinn,” Willow says, turning her attention to me. “What’s been keeping you busy this semester?”

I take a small sip of wine and smile. “Mostly drowning in essays. I’m in a really tough lit seminar this term.”

Willow laughs. “You’re an English major?”

“Guilty as charged.”

“Careful,” Daniel says with a teasing look in Warren’s direction. “Writers are always trouble.”

Warren’s hand finds my knee beneath the table, steady and warm. “I know. That’s why I like her.”

We talk about the past a little after that. Stories about Sycamore and old memories from the so-called glory days. Daniel mentions his twin daughters, who are in the middle of their sophomore year of high school.

“Miracle they’ve stayed out of trouble so far,” Daniel says. It’s loving but laced with that particular exasperation only a father can get away with. “We were sure they’d give us hell. Two teen girls under one roof? We braced for chaos.”

“We’ve been very lucky with all three of our kids,” Willow adds, shooting Warren a pointed, teasing look. “You’ve always been a stickler for following the rules. Aside from a minor blip here and there. Freshman year really threw us for a loop.”

I freeze, my fingers tightening around my fork. Freshman year. Eighteen and taking the fall for his girlfriend without ever once telling them the truth.

Warren just laughs under his breath. “Yeah, well. We all make mistakes.”

“Some of us more spectacularly than others,” Daniel jokes.

I force a smile, but my chest feels tight. The air feels too warm, the room suddenly too small.

“Excuse me,” I murmur, already rising from my chair. “I’ll be right back.”

Without waiting for a response, I slip out of the dining room and down the hall, barely registering the framed pictures lining the walls—smiling faces, vacation shots, old family photos. I keep walking until I find one of the break rooms near the back.

I sink into an old leather armchair and press my palms to my face, forcing a breath.

God, I should’ve said something years ago. Should’ve told Daniel the truth before Warren ever had to take the blame.

“Quinn?”

I look up and find Warren in the doorway. For a second, I think he assumed I was having an asthma attack. But it’s not the tightening in my lungs that’s stopping the air; it’s guilt. Old and heavy, the kind that never quite lets go.

He steps inside and closes the door softly behind him. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” I lie, my hands still covering most of my face. “Just needed a second.”

He doesn’t believe me. I can see it in the way his eyes narrow, sharp with concern. He crosses the room, crouching down in front of me so we’re at eye level.

“What’s going on with you?”

“I should tell them, shouldn’t I?” I ask quietly. “About what I did.”

Warren places a firm hand on my knee. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look away.

“I know they’ve forgiven you, but I can’t just sit there like nothing happened. I stole from Daniel, and they blamed you for it. They still do. That’s not fair. They should know the truth.”

“They don’t need to know,” he says softly. “Not anymore.”

“But—”

“Quinn.” His voice sharpens, not with anger, just certainty. “That’s not going to fix anything. It’ll only dig up something they already let go of.” His fingers tighten slightly around my knee. “Besides, I have everything I want right here. I have you. I’m not losing that just so you can carry the guilt instead.”

“I should be carrying it,” I whisper.

“It’s done now.” His hand slips up to my face, fingers curling gently at my jaw. “Let’s leave the bad where it belongs and take the good with us. Okay?”

I lean into his touch, pressing my cheek against his palm. His thumb traces along my skin, light and slow, and I let my eyes close.

“Okay,” I murmur.

His forehead touches mine, his breath warm against my face.

“I can’t let the girl that I love worry about something that’s already behind us.”

My eyes snap open. “What did you say?”

His fingers flex gently along my jaw.

“I said I love you. You know that, right?”

I blink hard, my breath catching somewhere between my ribs and my throat. “I thought ...” I shake my head. “I mean, yeah. I hoped.”

“Always,” Warren says, like it’s a truth he never had to question. “I’ve loved you since I was eighteen, Quinn. Since you let me read your notebook in the break room and tried to act like it wasn’t a big deal. Since you kissed me in the cart garage and laughed when I nearly tripped trying to leave.”

“I love you, too. I never stopped.”

“I know.” His thumb brushes softly across my cheek, like he’s memorizing me by touch. “I know.”

It feels good, knowing that we both held on. That even after everything, we’re still here. Still choosing this. Still choosing each other.

Now, I don’t know how I’m supposed to step back into that dining room without my heart trying to climb out of my chest.

“You ready to go back out there?”

“Not really,” I mumble.

He laughs quietly and presses a kiss to my hair. “Yeah, me neither.”

I close my eyes for a moment longer, breathing him in. Then I sit up, and his hand finds mine again—soft, steady, sure.

“We’ve got this,” he says, and somehow, I believe him.