Page 56 of Good Graces

She shrugs, a casual tilt of her shoulder. “Not as much of a mess as usual.”

I huff out a sound caught between a laugh and a scoff. “High praise, Rose.”

She waves a hand like it costs her nothing. “I’m feeling generous tonight.”

The bartender finally slides her order across the counter—a fresh tray of whatever overly sweet martinis are trending this week. Quinn grabs it with ease, but I catch the way her fingers tighten just slightly, the sharp inhale she tries to bury before lifting the tray from the bar.

I don’t mean to say anything else. I shouldn’t. But the words come anyway. “You need a hand?”

She scoffs, shifting the tray like she’s debating whether to carry it or throw it at my head. “What, you think I can’t handle a few drinks?”

“I think you’re a little off your game,” I say, smirking as I lean in.

Her glare sharpens, jaw tight. “I could carry three of these with one hand while balancing on a barstool.”

My voice drops, low and steady. “And yet, you’re gripping that tray like it might bite.”

She exhales sharply through her nose. I can tell I’ve landed somewhere close to a nerve, and before she can fire something back, I reach out. Just a little. Just enough to press my thumb to the inside of her wrist.

The touch is light, almost nothing. But her breath hitches, and I feel the thud of her pulse against my skin. Her eyes flick up to mine, and something in them shifts—electric, unguarded, on the edge of unraveling.

I should let go. I should pull back, step away, pretend none of this is still lingering between us. Instead, I let my thumb draw slow, quiet circles against her skin, not a question, not quite a promise, just something steady in the space between us.

Her fingers tighten around the tray, but she still doesn’t pull away.

“You always do this,” she says, voice soft now. Not a whisper, but close. “You get in my head.”

I tilt my head, brush the edge of her sleeve with the pad of my thumb. “Do I?”

She swallows, breath uneven. “You make it impossible to think straight.”

It isn’t quite a confession. But it’s real. And it’s enough.

I let my fingers shift slightly, just enough to skim the inside of her palm. Just enough to make her blink like she’s snapping out of a trance, like she’s suddenly realizing how close we are, how much weight is pressed into this tiny, stolen moment.

Her throat bobs, lips parting slightly.

I should step back. I should let go.

But then she exhales, so quiet I barely hear it, and it’s like a fuse catching fire.

I lean in, close enough for my breath to ghost over her cheek, my voice a whisper against her skin. “Say the word, Quinn.”

Her fingers flex against the tray. She doesn’t move.

I press my palm fully over hers, feel the way her breath stutters, the way her pulse hammers against her wrist. And then she yanks herself free. Both hands return to the tray, steady, controlled. A fraction of a second, and it’s like nothing happened at all.

Except for the way she won’t look at me. Except for the way her chest rises and falls just a little too fast.

I exhale, dragging my hand through my hair. “Quinny?”

Her fingers tighten around the tray, and then—just like that—she’s gone, slipping back into the crowd, disappearing into the hum of conversation, into the careful, curated spectacle of the night.

Leaving me standing there, my skin still burning from where it met hers.

18

WARREN

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