Page 104 of Good Graces

“Gage is kind of a dick,” I say finally.

Quinn barks out a laugh. “Oh my God. Are you really that jealous?”

“No.”

“You totally are.”

“I’m not.” I pause. Scratch my ear, shift in my seat like the pleather’s suddenly too hot. “I just don’t like the guy.”

She grins, that smug little smile that makes me want to kiss her just to shut her up. “You sure about that?”

“Positive.”

“Riiight. So, you’re not jealous . . . but you turned up at the gym unannounced, nearly stabbed Gage with your eyes, and now you’re sulking in the driver’s seat.”

“He had his fucking hands on you.”

“He was fixing my stance,” she says. “That’s what trainers do.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t like it.”

“You know what?” she says, voice low and playful now. “Maybe I should text him, let him know I’m suddenly available for one-on-one sessions.”

I shoot her a look. “Don’t mess with me right now.”

“Oh no, I’m serious.” She grins wider. “I mean . . . now you mention it, Gageiskinda cute. He’s got that bad boy thing going on. I wonder if he’s single?”

“Quinn,” I warn.

“I mean, maybe I should—”

I’m on her before she can finish, hand sliding to the back of her neck, practically hauling her over the center console for a kiss. She’s still grinning when I meet her mouth, smug and amused, but I don’t care. Because she’s mine. And no one else—not Gage, not the guys at the club, not anyone—is touching her ever again.

“Still not jealous?” she teases when I finally pull back.

I drag my thumb along her bottom lip. Her breath hitches, and I feel it everywhere. “I don’t share well.”

“Good,” she murmurs. “Because I wasn’t offering.”

32

QUINN

Warren’s placeis nice and quiet. An intentional sort of stillness. It’s like he’s built his own little fortress here, tucked away from the constant noise of campus.

If he lived alone, I’m sure the place would be spotless. But it’s obvious he doesn’t. The living room’s cluttered with soccer gear, cleats piled by the door, a couple of half-empty Gatorade bottles sweating on the coffee table.

His cousin, Liam, is sprawled across the couch, one sock on, one sock missing, scrolling through his phone like he’s got nowhere better to be. He’s got that rangy, golden boy look about him. Messy blond hair, broad shoulders, the kind of easy grin that probably works on anyone who isn’t paying close enough attention.

I remember him from the summer before college started. We met briefly, just once, at an event hosted by Warren’s parents. I was freshly eighteen then, and he was a little shorter, a little softer around the edges. Now, he’s sharper, more defined, like life’s started to shape him into who he’s going to be.

But still just as clueless, apparently, because he barely looks up when Warren and I walk in.

His girlfriend’s curled up beside him, legs tucked under her, a sketchbook balanced on her knees. She’s on the taller side and sharp-featured, with a cute, cropped bob and an artsy, mean-looking edge that I respect on sight.

Her eyes flick up from her drawing, landing on me like she’s assessing something. From the slight tilt of her head, I’m pretty sure she knows exactly what I’m doing here.

“Hey, you two,” she says, all curious and friendly. “This is the ex, huh?”

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