Page 46 of Good Graces

I hang back. Not for any particular reason, just because it’s cooler in here. The AC cuts through the heat that’s been baked into my skin all afternoon.

Quinn hangs back, too. Coincidence, maybe. Or not. She lingers near the table, one hand wrapped around a paper plate, picking at the last bite of cake like she’s in no rush to leave.

Zane, still planted in his seat, tips his chair back and grins up at her. “So, Rose. Now that I’m officially legal, how about I take you out for a real drink?”

Quinn arches a brow. “Oh yeah? You think you can keep up with me?”

Zane smirks, tilting his head. “I know I can.”

She laughs. Not mean, not dismissive. Just humoring him.

My jaw tightens.

He isn’t touching her. He isn’t crowding her space. But he wants to. It’s obvious in the way his knee edges closer to hers, the way his voice dips low like he’s trying to carve out something private between them.

And she’s letting him. Maybe just for fun. Maybe because she knows I’m still here, leaning against the wall like I don’t care, watching them. Maybe because she wants to piss me off.

If that’s the case, she’s doing a damn good job.

Quinn tilts her head, studying Zane like she’s actually considering it. “What’s your drink of choice, birthday boy?”

Zane grins. “Rum and Coke.”

Quinn wrinkles her nose. “Figures.”

“Figures?”

“Yeah,” she says, smirking. “You seem like the type to order a drink with training wheels.”

Zane lifts his hands, flashing a lazy grin. “Hey, I like my alcohol masked by soda. Nothing wrong with that.”

“Mmm, sure,” Quinn says. “But if we’re going out, you’re drinking what I drink.”

“And what’s that?”

She leans back in her chair, all slow, deliberate confidence. “Whiskey, neat.”

I watch as Zane swallows, his bravado slipping just slightly. “Damn. Straight to the point, huh?”

Quinn smiles without showing her teeth. The kind of smile that dares you to underestimate her. Her skin glows under the harsh break room lighting, a sheen of sweat catching on her collarbones, on the curve of her neck where a stray curl sticks to her skin.

The ugly Sycamore polo does nothing to hide the slope of her waist, the way her hips rest easy in those cutoff shorts. She looks sun-drenched and unbothered, like heat itself, and I can’t stop looking at her.

“Only way worth drinking it,” she murmurs.

Zane clears his throat and recovers fast. I don’t know how he does it. Maybe he’s too stubborn to flinch, or maybe he just hasn’t figured out what kind of fire he’s playing with.

“Alright, fine. Whiskey neat it is,” he says. “But only if you promise to let me drive you home afterward.”

My teeth grind.

Of course he said that. Of course he’s trying to be charming, responsible, whatever. I know his type—boyish smiles and big talk with nothing solid under it.

Quinn’s fingers tap against the table, calm and easy. “Oh, you’d drive me home, too? That’s cute, Zane. But I don’t need anyone taking care of me.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Zane says, still grinning. “But you know. Just in case.”

I could leave. I should. This is getting ridiculous, and the heat under my skin is only getting worse.

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