“Sort of.” I blow out a breath, raking a hand through my hair and gripping the damp strands.
“Way to give a nonanswer, Superman.” Quinn winks, her playfulness returning, though it does nothing to help ease the frustration brewing in my gut.
“I don’t get it.”
“What don’t you get?” It should be a crime for Quinn to sound as calm as she does in the wake of my growly aggravation.
I wave a hand at my phone. “You utilized the writing prompts from the app in a way that has had people messaging me—”
I think she mumbles, “Great,” but since I don’t address it, I’m almost certain it was some kind of wishful-thinking hallucination on my part.
“—but those conversations never manage to last more than a few text exchanges before they peter out.”
I should probably get my ears checked with all these auditory delusions because now I’m pretty sure the squeal I just heard came from Quinn and not Herkie’s toy.
“Umm…” Once again, Quinn glances around as if avoiding any eye contact, the kitchen suddenly becoming her sole focus.
My mouth opens to ask her what she was going to say, only to have it go dry as I watch her hurry around cleaning up the mess she made while cooking.
Holy shit. Just kill me now.
Sure, I’m used to seeing Quinn in the I love cooking with wine…sometimes I even put it in the food apron Kay gifted her with this past Christmas.
But…
That was mainly in the cooler months.
Now we’re solidly into summer.
Why? Why does women’s fashion have to trend toward smaller pieces of clothing to combat the heat and humidity of the weather? How am I ever going to survive living with Quinn when her summer wardrobe sometimes makes it look like she’s naked beneath her apron?
Fuck me.
The last thing I need is anything actively making me think about Quinn naked. My imagination certainly manages that feat enough all on its own, thank you very much.
Hell, last night, I had to jerk off in the shower—twice—just to be able to lie down in my bed. It was either that or digging a hole in my mattress for my incessant boner to fit in.
Though I could do without the prickle of guilt that came from it. Why is whacking off to thoughts of your friend, your roommate, different than porn?
You might want to figure out how to get over that guilt; otherwise, you’ll end up with an ulcer by the end of the summer.
I can’t even argue with the chastising from my conscience. I thought last night’s bright green camisole—or whatever you call those silky tank tops girls wear—was bad with only skinny straps curving over Quinn’s bronzed shoulders. But today’s body-hugging strapless yellow sundress?
Like I said: fuck me.
At least yesterday I could glance at Quinn’s shoulders to snap me out of the raunchy musings my mind concocted while watching her dance around the kitchen cooking—not that it did much good. My hand still spent more time adjusting my pants to hide my unabating boner than it did lifting my fork to my mouth to eat the enchiladas Grant requested for his last night here before returning home. Talk about awkward as fuck.
Today I have no hope. Whenever Quinn turns to face me, my mind automatically forgets there’s clothing beneath the well-worn and slightly stained from being abundantly used apron.
The scrape of a chair across the tile floor has my gaze snapping up to see Quinn settling into one of the barstools next to me. I pray it’s because of her efficiency, not that I was lost inside my head so long that the kitchen is now clean.
Oh good, she took off the apron.
Because that dress is any better? my dick perks up to say.
Sonofabitch.
“You were starting to say something before,” I prompt, effectively ignoring the sometimes-you-make-me-wonder-if-it-would-be-easier-to-be-a-eunuch appendage trying to stretch the limits of my mesh shorts.
“I was.” Again Quinn’s gaze isn’t focused on me but instead on the steady drum of her fingers on the countertop. “But before I tell you, you have to promise not to judge me, because if you’re gonna judge anybody, it should be Em, because that biotch is the tequila instigator in this family.”
Ah, yes, family.
You hear that, you horny motherfucker? I ask my dick. We have a family here, one we cannot risk because you want to know what Quinn feels like on the inside.
“That’s debatable.”
Quinn’s dark eyes fly up to me, her jaw unhinged. “Oh my god, Superman.” She pushes me on the shoulder, my skin prickling from the playful touch. “Did you just joke with me?”
My cheeks heat to the point that she could use them for cooking her next meal, and I dip my chin. “We joke around.”
The flat press of Quinn’s lips tells me she’s less than impressed by my sullen teenager tone. “Not like you do with Em and Kay.” She folds her arms over her chest. “Most of the time, you treat me like I have cooties.” Her glare dares me to challenge her. “I promise you I’ve had my shot.” She uncrosses her arms and draws two circles and two dots on her forearm.
I go to speak, but she throws her hands up to stop me. She draws another set of circles on her skin, then follows it up with two squares before finally holding her arms out to the side. “There, now you know I also have it everywhere.”
I want to tell her she forgot the one with two lines that declares she’ll have it for all time, but I refrain. For as much as she gives me shit for not treating her like our other friends, I simply can’t. A close friendship with Quinn is just a slippery slope to getting my heart crushed by the inevitable rejection.
“Anyway…” She lays a hand on my forearm, leaving it there to see if I’ll allow her recently confirmed cootie-free touch to stay. I do because I’m clearly a glutton for punishment. “I don’t actually remember what I wrote in your profile.” She chews on the end of her thumbnail.
“You’re telling me I just blew my opportunity for you to forget about hounding me about putting myself out there by bringing the subject up myself?”
There’s a beat of silence as Quinn freezes before she doubles over in laughter, her long red hair whipping me both on the way down and when she straightens. “Yeah, oh-kay.” She wipes under an eye. “Because there’s not like this many”—she wiggles all ten of her fingers—“people or so who would be asking or anything.”
I concede with a nod. This is what I get for allowing Kay and everyone to force their friendship on me. Haven’t these people heard of boundaries?
Without warning, Quinn scoops my phone from the counter. “No passcode needed, bitches,” she singsongs as she thrusts my phone at my face to unlock it the same way she did the night she appointed herself as my matchmaker. I rub at the end of my nose and narrow my eyes as she throws her arms up in victory.
Jaw working side to side, lips periodically pursing, Quinn hums, wiggling around on the stool as her fingers scroll through my phone, utterly unconcerned about the invasion of privacy. See what I mean about boundaries?
After two solid minutes of perusing my phone, Quinn’s chest expands with a deep inhalation, and her shoulders release from their hitched state. I’d almost think she was nervous about what she could have said, but she’s probably the most I don’t give a fuck what you think of me lady of the trio that lives here, so I highly doubt that’s it.