Page 77 of Playboy For Hire

“I’m sorry,” Quinn said politely. “I don’t think I understood that. You said—”

“That you don’t have a big family,” my mom repeated, nodding. “I mean, clearly you’ve done very well for yourself, and you should be proud of that after growing up in the inner city like you did. But I just thought, with a single mother and all, you might not have too many family heirlooms of your own.”

My mouth dropped open in horror.

“Oh.” Quinn blinked. “That’s very, um, kind of you. My parents are still together, though. And I grew up in Guilford.”

“Where’s that?” my mom asked, completely unaware of the awkwardness she’d caused.

“It’s a neighborhood in north Baltimore,” he said, a slight tightness appearing at the corners of his eyes. “It’s actually quite nice.”

“Oh, that’s lovely. It must be wonderful when a neighborhood gentrifies like that. Were your parents lucky enough to own their own home?”

“Ma, I don’t think you need to give Quinn the third degree,” I said. “And I don’t think it’s relevant what kind of property his parents do or don’t own. It’s a little racist.”

“Racist? Honey, I was just asking because I know property taxes can skyrocket when a neighborhood gentrifies, so it can push out families who don’t have a cushion or enough of an income to adjust.”

It was so like her to make assumptions like this. I should have known. She assumed the worst about me all the time. Why wouldn’t she do the same thing to Quinn?

“Yeah, but you’re assuming that his family wouldn’t have that ability. His parents are professors. They’re not exactly impoverished.”

“It’s okay,” Quinn broke in. “I’m sure your mom was just curious.” He smiled at her. “And yes, my parents do own their home. I feel very fortunate to have grown up the way I did.”

“Even with the—” my mom broke off, gesturing at her cheek.

Quinn froze, and the knife and fork dropped from his hands with a clatter.

“Ma,” I hissed. “You can’t just ask people about things like that.”

“She’s only asking out of concern,” my dad said, his deep voice making me jump when he rejoined the conversation. “A child doesn’t get a scar like that without some serious abuse. Or at least neglect.”

Quinn still hadn’t moved, but he’d drawn in on himself, and I could tell that this conversation had turned into his worst nightmare. I’d worked so hard trying to convince him that no one noticed his cheek, so of course my parents had to go and undo all of that. And it was pretty ironic for my dad to assume Quinn was abused, right after telling me a good beating would fix me.

Quinn shook his head. His lips parted slightly. He swallowed, and I watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down, but still, he didn’t speak.

My right hand was on my lap. Slowly, I moved it over to Quinn’s leg and squeezed, just above his knee. Not in a sexual way. Just to tell him I was there, and I knew this was awful.

“Quinn wasn’t abused,” I said, my voice hot. “It’s a birthmark. And it’s really rude to comment on people’s appearances, and make assumptions like that.”

“That’s rich, you calling us rude,” my dad said.

“Maybe he told you it was a birthmark,” my mother chimed in. “But people don’t always feel comfortable sharing the truth about difficult childhoods.” She looked at me as she talked, like Quinn wasn’t sitting right there next to her. “It could have been a burn. Or a gunshot. Even a scar from a knife.”

“What kind of knife leaves a—”

“It’s alright,” Quinn said, his voice a croak when he finally spoke. “I know your mom was just trying to be kind.”

He smiled at me, then at my parents, but I could tell it was strained.

“Luckily, it really is just a birthmark,” he said. “So nothing to worry about.”

My mom looked back at me. “See. He’s not bothered.”

“Or he’s being ten times more polite than you are for asking him in the first place.”

“Really, it’s fine.” Quinn flashed another tense, nervous smile around the table. He let his hands fall to his lap. “I know people can be curious.”

My mom leaned over and patted his shoulder. “Thank you, dear. I appreciate that you see where I’m coming from. I just wish a little of your understanding could rub off on Ryder. He seems determined to think the worst of us all the time.”

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