Page 90 of Stirring Up Love
“Ding-ding-ding,” he said, his vocal chords protesting. Simone’s grandpa had said something last night about Alisha’s fiancé, Quentin, sleeping upstairs. “So I’m guessing you’re the groom?”
“The fiancé.” He gave a stiff smile. “Wouldn’t want to jinx things.”
Finn’s brows pulled together, and he eyed the dude, who looked dead serious about the superstition. “Right.” He peered around the room for evidence of the grandparents, then whispered, “Are you by chance also my watchdog?”
Quentin smiled. “More like a bouncer,” he said. “For them, not you. I didn’t want Wayne’s to be the face you woke up to.”
That was unexpectedly decent. And probably more than he deserved, considering he’d gone andcurtsiedto the man last night. “Thanks for that. So my first impression of him was correct?”
“Um, yeah. I’m sure you’ll be getting twenty questions at breakfast, but I figured you should at least have some coffee in you first.” He lifted his chin toward the end table, where a steaming mug of what looked like a fifty-fifty blend of cream and coffee sat. Salvation in a cup.
Finn raised it to his lips, slurping down the liquid antidote. “I’m beginning to see why you’re marriage material.” Quentin laughed as he swallowed down another burning gulp of coffee. “No partying for you?”
“Last night?” Quentin shook his head. “I spent the evening going over table numbers and ironing my nieces’ flower girl dresses, because my brother is clueless. My bachelor party was last week in the city.” Like Alisha’s would’ve been, if Finn hadn’t screwed things up.
“Chicago?”
“Yeah. Forgot it’s notthecity around here. You from St.Louis, then?”
He shook his head. “Springfield.”
“But now you’re here?” Quentin’s brows rose in a clear older-brother move that Finn didn’t need to have a sibling to recognize.
“Are you asking what my intentions with your future sister-in-law are?”
Quentin laughed again. “If Simone didn’t leave you stranded in the desert, I figure she wants you here.” Did she? In the cold light of day, he wasn’t so sure. “But I saw you on the show. She and you were at eachother’s throats.” The question went unasked, but he needed to answer. For himself as much as for Quentin.
“I went into survival mode, and I think she did too. I thought I was fighting for my life, but it didn’t take long for me to realize we aren’t on opposite sides.”
“And Simone?”
His exhale rippled across the murky surface of his coffee. “She’s been sort of a lifeline, actually.”
Quentin’s brows shot up. “She know that? ’Cause Sim doesn’t need to be anyone’s life preserver.”
She had been, though, literally. Saving him from the canyon stream. Taking the time to listen, to do what mattered to him. What had he done, besides slow her down? Take away her chance at the investment she’d worked so hard for?
“That’s the last thing I want. I—” His words caught on each other and ground to a halt. He winced out a smile. “I thought you were here to save me from the inquisition.”
“Save you?” A deep voice came from over his shoulder, and he turned on the cushion to find a muscled guy with perfectly styled dark hair leaning against the cutaway doorframe. “Nah, man. Q is the inquisition.”
“Hardly.” Quentin stuck out a long leg toward the fireplace. “I’m just watching out for my family.”
“Which you, my man ...” The guy who looked like he lived in the gym sat down next to Finn on the couch. Close. He clapped him on the shoulder. “Are not.”
“Cut the crap, Hector.” Quentin shot his brother a glare. “Finn, meet my macho-wannabe older brother, Hector.”
Ah, the brother of the groom. A whole welcoming committee.
Finn took another gulp of his coffee and eased away from Hector. “Did you sleep over too?” This place was basically a boardinghouse.
But Hector shook his head, finally leaning back and removing his arm from Finn’s shoulder. “Nah. Most of the guests are staying at a hotel in the next town over, but my brother put me up at some crappy motel here in Hawksburg. Insisted I stay close to the venue.”
Quentin grinned widely. “The Hawk’s Nest.”
Hector glared at him. “You suck. You promised me thousand-thread-count sheets.”
“Did I? I must’ve misspoken. I meant flea-infested prison blankets.” Quentin turned toward Finn. “I had to spend a summer in that hellhole when I was here working on the dig. The perfect payback for a meddling big brother.”
