Page 27 of The Road to Forever (Beaumont: Next Generation #7)

TWENTY

T he Thanksgiving table stretches across the hotel suite’s dining room, temporarily transformed from a conference space into something resembling home.

Dana has worked magic with the décor—fall-colored tablecloths, miniature pumpkins, and candles creating warm pools of light.

None of us wanted to miss the holiday, even on tour, so Elle arranged this private dinner for both bands.

Everyone’s dressed nicely but comfortably: Sinful Distraction on one side, Plum on the other, like some awkward family reunion.

I adjust my collar and survey the room. Hendrix is already halfway through his second glass of wine, engaged in animated conversation with Wynonna.

Keane and Ajay are showing Chandler how to properly fold cloth napkins into swans.

Dana’s directing the hotel staff on the exact placement of serving dishes.

No sign of Justine yet.

My phone buzzes with another photo from Peyton: the triplets dressed in matching Thanksgiving outfits. I smile and show Keane, who nods appreciatively.

The door opens, and Justine walks in. She pauses when she sees me, a small smile playing on her lips.

Her lavender hair is styled in loose waves, and she’s wearing a simple burgundy dress that makes her eyes look almost violet.

My heart does that stupid flutter thing it’s been doing around her lately.

Since that night in the dressing room, we’ve been .

. . something. Not quite a couple, but definitely more than friends.

Stolen moments between shows, late-night conversations on the bus, and kisses—so many kisses that I’ve lost count.

But we’ve been careful. Discreet. The last thing either of us needs is band drama.

“Hey,” she says, sliding into the empty seat beside me. “Sorry I’m late.”

“Worth the wait,” I reply quietly, so only she can hear.

Under the table, her hand finds mine, our fingers intertwining for just a moment before separating. These brief touches have become our language, a secret communication system that says everything we can’t say out loud.

Dana finally sits down, signaling it’s time to begin. “Before we dig in, I thought we could do that thing where we go around and say what we’re thankful for.”

Hendrix groans dramatically. “Seriously? What are we, twelve?”

“I’ll start,” Chandler volunteers, ignoring him. “I’m thankful for being on tour instead of in school right now.”

We all laugh, and the tension breaks. One by one, everyone shares something. Ajay’s thankful for FaceTime so he can see his kids daily, Keane for the opportunity to show Chandler the country, and Dana for “not killing Hendrix yet this tour.”

When it’s my turn, I clear my throat. “I’m thankful for my new niece and nephews,” I begin, “and for music that still feels like magic every night.” My eyes briefly meet Justine’s. “And for unexpected connections that make everything better.”

Her cheeks flush slightly, but her smile widens.

“I’m thankful for napkin songs,” Justine says when her turn comes, “and for people who listen when I’m not sure what I’m trying to say.” I squeeze her hand, hoping she knows how true my words are.

“I’m thankful for this tour and the name recognition,” Wynonna adds.

“I’m thankful that radio stations want to play our songs,” Priscilla says.

The meal proceeds with the comfortable chaos of a family dinner. We pass dishes, pour wine, and share stories from the road. Watching Justine with my friends—laughing at Ajay’s jokes, discussing music theory with Keane, helping Chandler with her plate—feels right in a way I wasn’t expecting.

After dessert, some of us migrate to the suite’s living area. Dana puts on music, and Hendrix challenges Wynonna to a game of cards. I find myself on the balcony, nursing a whiskey and watching the city lights below us.

“Room for one more?” Justine asks, sliding the door open.

“Always.”

She joins me at the railing, close enough that our shoulders touch. “That was nice. Thanks for including us.”

“It was Elle’s idea, but I’m glad you came.”

“Me too.” She turns to face me, her eyes searching mine. “The part about unexpected connections . . . did you mean?—”

“You,” I confirm, setting my glass down. “Definitely you.”

Her smile is radiant in the dim light. I glance through the glass doors to make sure no one’s watching, then pull her closer, my hands settling on her waist.

“This is dangerous,” she whispers, even as she leans into me.

“I like dangerous,” I murmur against her neck.

She laughs softly. “Since when?”

“Since you.”

Our lips meet, and I forget about everything else. The tour, the band, the complications. There’s only Justine, warm and real in my arms, her mouth moving against mine with increasing urgency.

Someone clears their throat, and we spring apart. Keane stands in the doorway, eyebrow raised but expression neutral.

“Dana’s looking for you,” he says to Justine. “Something about the performance schedule tomorrow.”

Justine nods, her cheeks flushed. “Thanks. I’ll be right there.” She squeezes my hand once before slipping past Keane.

He waits until the door closes behind her. “Careful, Quinn.”

“I know what I’m doing,” I tell him, though I’m not entirely convinced myself.

“Do you?” He leans against the railing beside me. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re diving headfirst into something that could blow up in both your faces.”

I sigh, running a hand through my hair. “It’s not what you think.”

“I know back in Boston, I told you I thought Justine liked you, but I didn’t think your feelings for her would escalate so quickly. Because, I’ll be honest, Quinn, it looks like you’re falling for her.”

I’ve fallen for her .

I don’t answer, which is answer enough. I don’t know if I can admit how I feel to anyone but her.

“Look,” Keane says, his voice softening, “I like Justine. We all do. But you’re both part of bands that need to function together for months. If this goes sideways . . .”

“I know the risks,” I say. “We both do.”

Keane studies me for a moment. “All right. Just be smart about it.”

I clap him on the shoulder. “Appreciated.”

Later that night, when we’re back on the bus, cruising down the highway, and after everyone has gone back to their bunks, I find myself unable to sleep. The bus feels too quiet after the evening’s festivities. I head to the lounge with my guitar, thinking I might work on some new ideas.

I’m midway through a chord progression when I hear the door slide open. Justine stands there in sweatpants and a tank top, her hair pulled up in a messy bun.

“Can’t sleep either?” she asks.

I shake my head. “Too much pie, probably.”

She sits beside me on the couch, closer than necessary. “Play me something?”

I strum softly, letting the music fill the silence between us. Justine watches my fingers, her head tilted slightly.

“New song?” she asks.

“Maybe. Still figuring it out.”

She hums along, finding the melody with ease. It’s one of the things I admire most about her—the way music flows through her so naturally, as if she’s connected to some frequency the rest of us can only glimpse.

I set the guitar aside. “I’ve been thinking about something Keane said.”

“Oh, and what was that?”

“He told me to be careful. About my feelings for you. Specifically, about me falling for you.”

Her breath catches. “Oh.”

“He’s not wrong.”

Justine shifts to face me fully. “Quinn . . .”

“I know it’s complicated,” I continue. “I know the timing is all wrong, and we work together, and there are a million reasons to keep this casual. But I’m not good at casual, Justine. Not with you.”

She reaches up, her fingers tracing the line of my jaw. “I’m not good at casual either,” she admits. “Not with you.”

The simple honesty of her words breaks something open inside me. I lean in, capturing her lips with mine. This kiss is different from our others—deeper, more certain. Her hands slide into my hair as she moves closer, eliminating what little space remains between us.

“Quinn,” she whispers against my mouth, and my name has never sounded so right.

I pull her onto my lap, her legs straddling mine as the kiss intensifies. Her skin is warm beneath my palms as my hands slip under her tank top, exploring the gentle curve of her spine. She arches into my touch, a soft sound escaping her throat.

“God, I want you,” I murmur against her neck, trailing kisses down to her collarbone.

“You have me,” she breathes, rolling her hips against mine.

The friction sends electricity down my spine. My hands grip her waist, guiding her movements as her fingers work at the buttons of my shirt. When she finally pushes it off my shoulders, her hands explore the bare skin with reverence.

“You’re so beautiful,” she whispers, trailing her fingers over my chest and down my stomach, making my muscles tense with anticipation.

I capture her mouth again, swallowing her gasp as my hands move higher under her tank top, cupping her breasts. Through the thin fabric of her bra, I can feel her nipples harden at my touch.

“Is this okay?” I ask, needing to hear her say it.

“More than okay,” she assures me, then pulls her tank top over her head, revealing a simple black bra that contrasts beautifully with her pale skin.

I take in the sight of her, illuminated by the dim lights of the lounge. “You are absolutely perfect,” I tell her, meaning every word.

Her smile is shy but eager as she guides my hands back to her body. I unclasp her bra with practiced ease, letting it fall away. The first touch of my hands on her bare breasts draws a sigh from both of us.

“Quinn,” she moans as my thumbs brush over her nipples.

I lean in, replacing my fingers with my mouth, and her back arches as she clutches at my shoulders. My name becomes a chant on her lips as I worship every inch of newly exposed skin.

Her hands fumble with the button of my jeans, her intent clear. As much as I want this—want her—I catch her wrists gently.