Page 43 of Home Coming

“Quinn.”

He turned back. “Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

That heart melting smile was back. “You’re welcome. Now finish your eggs and go get dressed…so there are a few less clothes to pack.”

Two hours later her apartment was empty of her stuff, except for the furniture. There was no way that was going to fit in Quinn’s rental but he had actually managed to get all the bags of clothes inside. Plus the smaller boxes filled with products from the brands who sponsored her—which was considerable and earned her a few eye rolls when he saw how much makeup she was bringing with her.

“You don’t need this stuff,” he’d said.

“Thisstuffearns me thousands of dollars per post,” she’d replied.

“I’ll make it fit,” he’d agreed, unable to argue with that.

And he had. Made it fit.

She was going to have to list her furniture for sale. Most of it—the chairs, the sofa, the cocktail table—were old used stuff she’d bought second hand.

The rest—her nightstand and the desk she used as a dressing table—was cheap pressboard she’d had shipped to her from Walmart and assembled herself.

It was nothing she’d thought she was too attached to. Everything had seen better days. She should just give it all away. Free to the first person to respond to the listing. Even so, she was feeling a bit sentimental about leaving it all, even if it was clear they couldn’t take it with them.

They couldn’t see out the back window of the vehicle, but after he maneuvered out of the parking space, they’d only be looking forward, right?

A text came through from Xander and she reevaluated that plan.

Xander

Please tell me you’re still in the city.

Quinn had just started the engine and as nostalgic as she was feeling about leaving her apartment, she was looking forward to getting back upstate. But Xander’s text had her laying a hand on Quinn’s arm.

“Hang on a second. Xander just texted. We might not be out of here yet.”

He cut the engine and leaned back in his seat. “Go on. Call him.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Bailey,” Quinn said, his tone flat. No nonsense. Quinn was starting to sound like Xander sometimes.

Great.

“Yeah?” she asked.

“Stop being sorry. And I don’t mean stop saying it. I mean stop feeling it. Your apartment getting broken into so it’s not safe for you to be here alone isnotyour fault. Xander texting—notyour fault.”

“You spending your leave driving me around and helping me moveismy fault,” she countered.

His gaze met hers. Intense. Sincere. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be.”

Her cheeks heated. “Okay.”

He tipped his chin toward her cell. “Make your call. I’ll wait.”

She tapped the screen to call Xander, who answered not withhellobut with, “Where are you?”

“Sitting in front of my almost empty apartment.”

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