Any time there’s a lull in the conversation or a topic has the merest connection to Quinn, I’m looking her way. And when I do? That’s when my own obsessing starts.
Despite her occasional—okay, constant—glances this way, she’s still fully engaged with Grady.
Except…
Whenever I’ve looked over—which is way more often than I should be doing—she isn’t doing any of the things she told me a girl would do if she liked a guy.
There’s no touching of Grady’s forearm like Kristy’s doing to mine.
She’s not playing with her hair like Kristy has done.
She’s not leaning in close to Grady. Instead, she’s sitting back in her chair, whereas Kristy has constantly had her forearm on the tabletop to eliminate some of the distance between us.
What is she doing?
And what’s with all the texting? Keeping my arm angled in a way that has my wrist dangling over the edge of the table is annoying.
What kind of game is she playing?
Is she studying me? Making sure I’m following the tips she gave me throughout her “coaching”?
Though…
Except for helping me craft a few of my earlier text messages and that why-can’t-I-stop-thinking-about-it-when-we-didn’t-even-kiss lesson on how to not headbutt my date in the face, how much of what she’s been doing can be even classified as love coaching?
My intelligence has always been something I’ve prided myself on. It’s because I fostered it and nurtured it until it became the thing to save me from the unhappy life I was stuck living in my small town. Without it, I would never have earned a scholarship to the U of J. I would never have met Kay or gotten the chance to be a part of the kind of family I never knew existed.
So, not knowing something? Not understanding it? It slips under my skin like a splinter, and the longer I go on without getting answers, the worse it’s going to fester.
Quinn stands from her table, and I watch until she disappears from view down the long hallway that leads to the restrooms.
Indecision wars inside me, but as soon as I see Grady pull his phone out, I’m reminded of how his date has been on her own phone most of the night texting me. Something inside me snaps, and I’m excusing myself before I even realize the words are out of my mouth.
The few people I pass on the way issue nods of acknowledgment, but I barely pay them any mind.
The ladies’ room is the last door at the end of the hall, the rest of the sounds of Jonah’s muted this far away. There’s only the occasional whir of a hand dryer or flush of a toilet to break up the silence as I wait for Quinn to finish.
The bathroom door opens with a squeak, the shock of red peeking through the opening alerting me it’s Quinn making her appearance and not another patron. She startles, jumping high enough that both her feet leave the ground when she spots me lurking in the shadows.
“CK!” She smacks a hand to her chest, massaging the area over her heart.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Well, hello to you too, CK. Fancy seeing you here. Small world, huh?”
Her teasing tone only ramps up my blood pressure.
“Don’t try to be cute. Answer the question, Quinn.”
She jerks at my harsh tone before she takes a step back and twists inside the opening of the door as if to say Going to the bathroom.
“Remember what you said about literal answers, Quinn.”
“Ay dios mío.” Her dark eyes widen before they narrow at my continued attitude. “What the hell crawled up your butt and died?” She folds her arms over her chest. Since I’ve already been racking up the points in the Worst Date Partner Ever category, I don’t bother stopping my gaze from taking in the way the move props up her cleavage.
“My butt?” I stab a thumb at my chest. “Maybe if you were a little less worried about my butt and a little more focused on your date”—I spit out the word—“we wouldn’t be standing here right now.”
She nods, and I toss my arms up. “Geez, someone’s in a mood.”
“And I wonder why that is?” I hum before we’re interrupted by a pair of ladies in search of the restroom.
What is it with girls going to the bathroom in groups?
Quinn finally steps out of the doorway, and we move until we’re tucked farther into the back corner. “Do you want to tell me what your problem is? Or would you rather I guess?”
“That shouldn’t be too difficult for you since you’ve been watching me like you’re a source for the UofJ411.”
She sucks in a harsh breath, all the color draining from her face.
“Wow.” She takes a step back, betrayed hurt turning her dark eyes flat. “I’m not even going to dignify that with a response.”
“Shit.” I automatically reach for her. I know that’s a low blow considering everything that went down this past school year. “I’m sorry, Red.”
“Mmmhmm.” That hummed response does not sound good. It does not sound good at all. The way she pokes my sternum is not a great sign either. “Plus, don’t pretend like you weren’t constantly looking over at Grady and me.”
“Ha.” I bark out a laugh, the sound harsh and echoing down the long hall. “I love how you’re conveniently neglecting to mention how you only know that because you were already looking at Kristy and me.”
Quinn bristles, her shoulders rolling back. “I was just trying to see how things were going.”
“Uh-huh, sure.” I grip the back of my neck, the muscles knotted under my hold.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“I—” Whatever I was about to say dies on my tongue, my frustration with this inexplicable situation choking me.
Quinn shifts closer, bringing both her body heat and that sweet scent of coconut with her. “CK.” I hate how softly she says my name. All I hear is pity floating beneath the surface.
I bat away the hand reaching toward my face. “And what was with all the texting?”
“Wha—”
“Didn’t Grady find it rude you were texting another dude during your date?”
“Uh…he knows we’re friends.”
“Friends,” I scoff, having never hated the word more than I do at this moment.
Quinn’s entire body deflates like a balloon slowly letting its air out. “Are you saying we’re not friends?”
“I don’t know, Quinn.” I fold my arms to stop myself from reaching for her. “You tell me?”
“Stop calling me Quinn.”
“Why? It’s your name.” Geez, if my gramps were here, he’d smack me upside the head for how petulant I sound.
“It is.” She brings her hands to her hips, getting into that power pose of hers that never fails to make my dick twitch. Not the time, buddy. "But unlike how you’re trying to pretend otherwise”—she pokes my stomach—“we are friends. And we’re not the type of friends”—another poke—“who use formal names for each other, Chris-to-pher.”
Dammit. Despite my best efforts, my lips twitch before I can smother the impulse.
Quinn rolls her eyes as if I’m the one being ridiculous when she’s the one responsible for setting me off with her barrage of text messages.