Page 48 of Good Graces

Quinn leans back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other, dragging a fingertip through the condensation on her glass like she’s drawing circles around the moment. “Something you want to say to me?”

I exhale through my nose, push off the wall. “Not really.”

“Good,” she says, smirking. “Because if I wanted a lecture, I’d go call my mom.”

I arch a brow. “Wasn’t planning on giving you one.”

She scoffs. “You sure looked like you wanted to.”

I fold my arms and tip my chin. “You really gonna go out with him?”

“Maybe.”

Bullshit.I shake my head, turn toward the door, and let the word slip, low and clipped. “Whatever.”

“Aw.” Her voice shifts, all honeyed edges and barbed sweetness. “Are you jealous, Warren?”

I stop. For a long, stretched-out second, I don’t move. Just stare straight ahead, pulse pulsing in my throat, jaw tight. I don’t have to look to know she’s still watching me. Still locked in. Not blinking. Not wavering. And she doesn’t give me a chance to answer—not that I would.

She keeps going, voice soft enough to graze my skin. “I mean, it would be cute if you were.”

Now, I look.

She’s propped on her elbow, chin in her palm, eyes dark and gleaming. Amused, maybe. Satisfied. Daring me to bite.

I should walk away. Let her have the last word. Let her think she’s got the upper hand. But I don’t. I step back toward her.

She doesn’t move. Just watches. So, I take my time with it. Let the silence settle, stretch. Let the tension bloom into something thick and restless.

Finally, I say it. “You like getting under my skin, don’t you?”

She smiles, slow and smug. “What was it you said to me, once upon a time? You’re fun to mess with?”

I shake my head, huffing out something that isn’t quite a laugh. “Try someone less likely to bite back.”

“Oh?” she says, tilting her head. “And you think you can handle teeth?”

I lean in, just enough for my breath to stir against her cheek. “I know Zane Evans can’t.”

Her lips part slightly, just for a second. Just enough for me to see the way her breath catches. And then she pulls back. Just a fraction. Just enough to put space between us.

“Yeah, well,” she murmurs, voice light, almost airy. “Not everyone’s got your ego, Mercer.”

The moment breaks. The heat, the tension, the way she was watching me like she was waiting for me to do something—it all splinters like a thread pulled too tight.

I should be relieved. Instead, I just feel irritated.

She watches me, something unreadable flickering behind her eyes. Then she exhales, shaking her head. “For the record, you don’t have to be worried anymore.”

I arch a brow.

She shrugs. “Beckett’s dropping the whole tire thing.”

I tilt my head. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

I let that settle. Let her think I’m unbothered. Let her think this whole conversation is nothing. Because the truth is, I wasn’t worried. Not about myself, at least. Only about her.

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