Maybe. She was teasing me now.
I was going to kiss the hell out of that maybe.
Pop rubbed his head and gave her a sheepish look. “You used to break the hearts of every boy your age in this place. You and your sister both, always causing trouble.”
“Only because my parents were causing trouble up on stage.” She laughed. “Max probably doesn’t remember, but when Roxy was in her early twenties and I was still in college, she started a massive fistfight here because she’d been dating three guys at once and they all found out about it during a pretty ragey punk show.”
Pop chuckled softly. He’d already laughed and smiled more today around Fiona than he had in the past week. I forgot, sometimes, how close he was to Fiona and her family, all the threads of this community and how we were connected.
“Max might have been moved out by then, but I remember. Your parents and your sister stayed late with me to clean up.”
“And Roxy broke up with all three of them.” Fiona spun slightly in the chair, foot tapping to the music, of course. “That was one time I can claim total innocence. It was finals week, and I was holed up in the library at NYU for ten straight days.”
“How’d you do on those finals?” I asked.
“Straight A’s, naturally,” she said.
“Thank god for Fi or none of us would know what we were doing,” Pop said. The lines of her mouth tightened, and I thought about what she said yesterday. The ways she kept her family going when they were too busy living their lives like, well, me.
“Speaking of, let me read you what I wrote. You tell me if it sounds like you, okay?” she said.
“The less it sounds like me the better, probably,” Pop said.
I punched his arm. “Hey. Go easy. That’s my dad you’re talking about.”
“Dear Angela,” Fiona read. “Thank you for your email. You got it. I am nervous. It’s been a while since I went on a date. But I would like to meet with you, maybe for a walk at Central Park? Your family and your garden both seem really nice, and I would like to hear more and get to know you better.”
As Fiona read an email that sounded straight out of Pop’s mouth, his body language loosened.
“You made me sound like a gentleman,” he said.
She beamed. “I’ve known you since I was ten years old,” she said. “I have an idea of how you communicate. Should I hit send?”
Pop looked over at me.
“Do it,” I said. “I know it’s scary. But it sounds like this love stuff is pretty scary.”
My dad leaned down and hit send. And then exhaled a long, ragged-sounding breath. “Do you think I’ll need to find my suit?”
She shook her head. “Go as you are. It’s more authentic. If she’s the one, she’ll like you for you.”
Our delivery buzzer tore through the air, and he sighed again. “Brody’s back with the next delivery. Help me unload?”
“Absolutely,” I said. I followed him out the door, stopping first to turn back toward Fiona.
“Thank you,” I said. “That meant a lot to him. And to me.”
“Anytime.” Her smile was shy. She pointed at the various stacks of chaos that filled the office. “Is this stressing you out”
I ran a hand through my hair. “It’s stressing me out a whole fuck-ton,”
She popped up from the chair and grabbed a pen. “I can help.”
“You really don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
I gripped both sides of the door, nervous again. “You’ll be here when I get back, right?”
“Right.”
I lowered my voice. “So we can talk?”
“Please.” That word—repeated from our intense moment on the bike—felt purposeful. Another sign. “How’s your crush by the way?”
I rubbed my palm across my mouth. Stared hungrily at the smooth, pale skin exposed by her dress. “Bigger than ever.”
“Then you should hurry back.”
I didn’t need to be told twice.
24
Fiona
I was officially in the hurricane now. That much was obvious.
As I methodically organized Pop’s messy system into something easier to understand, I noted my shaking hands and shaky breath. My roaring pulse and jumpy stomach. I brought Max those flowers on purpose. Added that note on purpose.
Because I was Fiona Quinn, and I didn’t fucking give in to fear.
This morning, as I lay awake thinking about Max for the hundredth time, I’d stared at that picture of me and Roxy backstage at The Red Room. Remembered diving off that stage into a crowd of outstretched arms. Multiple times. The aching thrill of it, the almost absurd joy of doing something just to do it. No goals.
Max was moving away in nine days.
He was not the marrying kind and never wanted to be.
Being hurt by him was an extremely real possibility.
But what if he was my actual soul mate—and I missed out on a lifetime of happiness due to fear? Roxy had almost let Edward walk away before they both faced their fears and mistakes and made things right again.
What I felt for him wasn’t tidy. It didn’t fit into a spreadsheet, and it voided my contract.
It did, however, feel really, really, really good. Good as in right.
I needed to reclaim some of that Quinn bravery that had sent me leaping off that stage while graduating with honors, all at the same time.
“Hey.”
I turned around from my work to find Max shutting the office door behind him.
Every ounce of my newly reclaimed bravery vanished.
I realized now how deeply he’d been restraining his attraction, how clipped and controlled he’d kept his reactions to me. The cocky bad boy sauntering toward me was sex and danger and charisma cranked all the way up. I was literally helpless to resist him.
“Hey,” I croaked out. “Do you want to see these piles of bills? I can show you my—”
He didn’t halt his stride, backing me against that desk until I was forced to sit on it. He took the mess of envelopes from my hands and placed them behind me. Leaned his body in close until our faces were barely six inches apart.
“Tell me about this big crush, princess.” He reached forward and brushed the hair off my shoulder. Slid his palm around the back of my neck and squeezed, gently. His thumb stroked across my pulse point.
It was not a friendly touch.
It was not even a silly, flirtatious, fun touch.
And neither was the look on his face.
I pressed my palm against his hard, flat stomach. Swallowed a few times. Forced myself to hold his dark gaze. “I like you. And not just as a friend.”
His smile was a slow, sexy reveal of white teeth and sinful intentions. “Here’s the thing. I don’t think we’re friends anymore, do you?”
I slid my palm up, to his chest. His heart beat beneath my fingers. “I’ve heard friendship is overrated.”
His palm left the back of my neck but only so he could brush the hair from my face. Work his fingers through the strands. It was so tender I could have cried.
“I’m sorry I left yesterday,” I whispered. “I got a little scared and a lot overwhelmed.”