Page 16 of Good Graces

Something inside me—something I thought I buried a long time ago—snaps. “You think I’mmad?”

Quinn blinks, just once, like she’s bracing herself.

I shake my head, a hollow laugh slipping past my lips. “I stopped being mad a long time ago.” Then I look her straight in the eye and say the biggest lie I’ve ever told. “Now I just really don’t fucking care about you.”

The words leave my mouth, sharp, flat, final. And I wish—God, I wish—they were true. But the second they land, the second I see something fractured flicker across her face, I know I fucked up.

She tilts her head, arms still crossed. “Did you forget that I know exactly what it looks like when you don’t care?” she murmurs. “This? This is not that.”

“We hooked up for a while, and then ... whatever.” I shrug, work my way through a heavy swallow. “It was three years ago. What else do you want me to say?”

“Hooked up?” Her voice is sharp, low. Not loud, but enough to make my chest tighten. “You loved me, Warren. I know you did.”

“And you fucked me over,” I snap. “So, what’s that say aboutyou?”

She doesn’t back down. She never does. She just stands there, too close, the sunset throwing golden halos across her sharp cheekbones, the familiar glint of pride in her eyes. Even as she holds herself steady, unflinching, like she’s testing me.

Daring me to shrink first.

But I won’t. Not with her looking at me like that. Like she still knows me. Like she still knows exactly how to wreck me. And maybe—for some inane, self-destructive reason—I still want her to.

Even if I know exactly how it ends.

Even if I’d already lived through the wreckage once before.

Even if, deep down, I know this girl will always be my downfall.

6

WARREN

THAT FIRST SUMMER

This job was handedto me. Arranged. A favor from my new stepdad to help me get on my feet, to keep me occupied before starting college. He called it a good opportunity. A way to earn my own money, to get used to responsibility.

As if I haven’t been responsible for as long as I can remember. For my deadbeat dad and his endless money-spending habits, for my mom when she finally fell apart, for myself when it became obvious no one else was going to be.

I’ve been managing shit on my own for years.

But I took it because there wasn’t a good reason not to. Lifeguarding at a country club? Easy hours, decent pay. Beats hauling bricks or sweating through a landscaping job in the middle of July.

It’s only my second week, and I’m still figuring things out. Who’s in charge, who slacks off, which members to avoid, which coworkers to actually acknowledge. I don’t care much either way. Just keep my head down, do the job, go home.

That is, until a voice slices through the heat, clear and furious.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

I turn my head toward the sound. There’s a girl about my age standing by the cart path. She’s tall, athletic. A long dark braid swings over one shoulder. Her skin is sun-warmed, her frame all lean lines and sharp edges. Really fucking gorgeous.

She doesn’t notice me. Just storms off, steps clipped and shoulders tight like she’s ready to shatter something. Or someone. She stops at the staff shed, yanks a clipboard off the hook, and stares it down like it just insulted her entire family.

I should keep moving. Whatever she’s pissed about isn’t my problem. Definitely not my business. But for some reason, I don’t. I stand there like an idiot, watching her flip through the pages, muttering curses under her breath.

She’s mad—not the kind of mad that fades fast. It’s rooted. Wound tight and deep. I can’t see what’s on the clipboard. Don’t know what she’s looking for. But it clearly wasn’t there.

I’m not the type to start small talk. Especially not with someone mid-rage spiral. But for some reason, my mouth moves before my brain catches up.

“Rough day?”

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