Page 47 of How to Play the Player

“She couldn’t have been in two places at once,” I mutter to myself, the implications slowly sinking in. Either she had an accomplice or there’s more going on here than I initially thought.

I think back to our confrontation in the garden today, to the absolute conviction in her voice when she said,I never betrayed you.Could she be innocent? Is it possible I’ve spent a year punishing the love of my life for something she never did?

The now bigger possibility is devastating, a sucker punch that leaves me breathless.

I’ll need more information than what I have before I can be certain. I need to know exactly what happened, who accessed what, and how information that only Quinn should have known ended up public knowledge.

Who would set her up like this? Assuming this was a setup.

I pull up my calendar, checking when my next meeting with the blond bombshell is scheduled. Tomorrow morning at her office—discussing social media post division and comparing notes on security for the wedding. Less than twelve hours to gather more evidence, to build a stronger case before potentially upending everything I’ve believed for the past year.

Setting my laptop aside, I reach for my bourbon again, but it brings no comfort tonight. The memory of Quinn in my arms, her body responding to mine with the same desperate hunger, replays in my mind.

Despite everything, I find myself smiling slightly. I underestimated the little minx. It’s one of the many things I loved about…

I cut the thought off before it can form completely. I can’t go there, not yet. Not until I know the truth.

The truth. Whatever that might be.

Chapter Sixteen

Wednesday

Nathan

Ilet the scalding water pound against my shoulders, hoping to wash away the restlessness of another sleepless night. Steam fills the shower stall, but the heat does nothing to clear my mind. Every time I closed my eyes last night, I saw Quinn against that rose trellis, felt her body respond to my touch, heard her gasps of pleasure as she came undone in my arms.

“Fuck,” I mutter, turning my face directly into the spray.

My cock is hard as fuck at the memory, betraying me just like it did yesterday at the vineyard. I grip myself, hissing at the contact. How easy it would be to let out the frustration, the constant throbbing need that’s followed me since I touched her again. Just a few strokes and I could get some relief, maybe even a bit of shuteye. But I drop my hand instead. I refuse to give in to these urges again—to let Quinn have this power over me even in her absence.

The water sluices down my body as I press my forehead against the cool tile. I should hate her. I’ve spent a year convincing myself I do. After what she did, I had every right to cut her out of my life completely.

So why can’t I stop thinking about the softness of her skin? The way her eyes lit up when she saw me before suspicion clouded them? The familiar curves of her body under my hands?

The memory of yesterday is haunting me—how quickly I lost control, how desperately I wanted her. And then she walked away, leaving me filled with sexual frustration and blue-balled. I spent the entire drive home vacillating between anger and desire. I’d nearly pulled over twice, fighting the urge to turn around and finish what we started.

I turn the water temperature down; the sudden cold is a shock against my skin. But it gets the job done and forces my erection to subside under the icy spray. But no amount of time in the shower will wash away the want.

I can’t deny this anymore, no matter how much I want to. To be honest, I think the truth has been staring me in the face from the moment I saw her at the convention, lurking beneath my anger and fueling my intense responses to her.

I still love her.

The realization isn’t pleasant yet, at the same time, it’s undeniable. I brace myself against the shower wall, letting the cold water numb my skin while my mind races. Despite the betrayal, the year of building walls between us, the women I’ve used to try to forget her—my feelings remain. Buried but not destroyed.

“Goddamn it,” I whisper, bracing my hands against the tile wall.

Loving Quinn had been easy the first time—she was like sunshine breaking through an overcast sky I hadn’t even realized was there. Her youth, her optimism, her unflinching belief in me—all of it had been intoxicating. I’d fallen hard and fast, letting her see parts of me I’d never shown anyone else.

But loving her now? Loving her now is complicated. It’s messy. It’s dangerous. It makes me vulnerable in ways I can’t afford to be. It makes me doubt myself, my own judgment.

And yet I can’t stop. Can’t pretend anymore that what I feel is just lingering physical attraction or wounded pride. The truth is much more terrifying—Quinn Sanders still has my heart.

I shut off the water and step out, grabbing a towel to dry off. For a moment, I catch my reflection in the mirror and pause, wiping away the condensation. The man looking back at me seems older than he was a year ago. This version of me looks haggard, as though he’s been carrying the weight of the world for three hundred sixty-five days straight. There are shadows under my eyes now that weren’t there before Quinn. Evidence of too many nights trying to forget her in the bottom of a glass or in a stranger’s bed.

“You’re a fucking mess, Knight,” I mutter to my reflection.

And I’m supposed to see her again later today. Somehow, I need to face her with this new self-awareness while maintaining my professional boundaries, regardless of how much my body still craves her or how empty my life has felt without her in it.

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