Page 49 of Good Graces

There are no cameras in the back lot. No witnesses. No real proof. Just a clean slash to an expensive tire and a guy with too many enemies to know where to point fingers.

Nothing will come of it. There were never going to be any real consequences—unless Beckett made some ridiculous accusation against Quinn. And even if he did ... well. I have a feeling the rest of the club would take her side.

Still, I nod. “Good to know.”

She exhales, eyes flicking down to her drink, then back up. Her lashes are thick and dark, framing amber eyes. Her pupils are blown just slightly, lips parted, a hint of color high on her cheeks. She looks flushed. Warm. The same way she used to look after hours tangled up in my sheets, breathless and wrecked, her hands in my hair.

I feel it like a muscle twitch. Like instinct. Like remembering something I haven’t let myself think about in too long.

She tilts her head, watching me in that way she does when she’s trying to stay in control. When she’s waiting to see if I’ll cave first.

“You gonna keep standing there,” she murmurs, “or are you gonna go be useful somewhere?”

I lean in and knock my knuckles against the table. Slow. Deliberate. Close enough to catch the shift in her breath. Close enough to watch her throat move when she swallows.

“Careful, Rose.”

She blinks. Feigns innocence. “Of what?”

I let my gaze drag over her. Let the silence stretch. Let her feel it.

“You keep looking at me like that, I might start thinking you want something from me.”

Quinn scoffs, rolls her eyes, but the flush at her ears is impossible to miss.

I push away from the table and step back, finally walking out of the break room. I don’t look back, but I don’t need to.

I already know she’s watching me go.

16

QUINN

The knock comeswhen I’m least expecting it.

I’m lying on the couch, one sock on, one off, staring at the ceiling, contemplating whether or not I have the energy to start a movie. I already know I’ll abandon it halfway through, so what’s the point?

And there’s that knock again. Sharper this time.

I groan, roll onto my side, and shout, “Did you forget your key?”

Jordan left half an hour ago, something about meeting Alyssa at the farmer’s market to “gather seasonal inspiration”—which sounded suspiciously like an excuse to go people-watching and make up stories about strangers.

One last impatient knock and I’m officially annoyed.

I sigh, push myself up, and shuffle to the door. To my complete surprise, it’s my brother, Wesley, standing there. He’s all bright-eyed and restless, like he’s been up for hours just waiting for an excuse to bother me.

I don’t get the chance to ask what he wants because right beside him, looking way too pleased with himself, is our dad. “We’re stealing you for the day,” he says, like this has already been decided.

I blink. “Are you?”

Wesley shoves past me into the apartment. He surveys the space, frowns. “Yeah. You’re coming.”

Dad leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Mom’s at work. Wes and I are bored. You’re free. No excuses.”

Mom’s a nurse at the outpatient facility on Maple Grove. She’s been at the same place for nearly two decades, working twelve-hour shifts that stretch into fourteen more often than not. She never complains about it. Not out loud, anyway.

Dad, on the other hand, took a more flexible job a few years back. Remote consulting, mostly, which let him be there for Wes whenever he needed it. All the doctors’ visits, the therapies, the unpredictable bad days. And even though Wes is better now, even though he’s stronger, healthier, steadier, they still watch him like he could break at any moment.

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