Page 122 of When Wrecked Meets Ruined
“You’ve got a boyfriend?”
He was a persistent asshole. I’d give him that. Just as I opened my mouth to tell him to fuck off, someone called my name.
“Evie!” Quinn called again.
“A girlfriend,” I told the guy. “We’re getting married on Saturday.”
“Well, damn. That’s hot,” I heard him say as Quinn and I ran to each other.
It felt like a scene from a movie.
She had a big smile on her face, and she looked like a California surfer girl—tanned skin, blonde hair with natural waves streaked lighter from the sun and saltwater. She was wearing a washed-out blue Surf School T-shirt with wide-legged tie-dyed cotton pants and a stack of beaded bracelets on her wrist.
We threw our arms around each other and held on tight, swaying back and forth. “I’m so happy you’re here,” she said.
“Missed you too, baby.” I briefly entertained kissing Quinn on the lips to seal the deal but settled for a kiss on the cheek.
“Baby?” Quinn pulled back and lifted her brows.
I slung my arm over her shoulder. “We’re getting married on Saturday, lover.”
Her gaze darted to the guy watching us. He gave us a thumbs-up before exiting the baggage claim, and Quinn and I laughed.
“Only you would get hit on in an airport,” she said.
I sighed. “Good thing the bitch is back. I handled him.” I blew on a finger gun and holstered it in my faded denim flares.
Quinn laughed.
“How was your flight?” she asked as we walked out of the airport and into the hazy California sunshine.
“My flight was good. But why are you here? I told you I’d take an Uber.”
“Like I’d let you do that. Traffic’s not bad. We should be home in twenty minutes,” she said as we crossed the parking lot. We stopped next to a white Jeep Wrangler with a camel-colored top and interior, and I stowed my bag in the back and climbed into the passenger seat.
“God, I’ve missed you,” Quinn said as we drove out of the airport. “I feel like we never get to talk anymore.”
“I know. I’m sorry. It’s been so crazy.” I slipped on a pair of oversized black sunglasses to ward off the glare and settled back in my seat. “And they say the first year is supposed to be the easiest. What a joke.”
“I don’t know how you do it,” she said. “I might need your help with some research, though.”
Quinn was a romance author. Not only did she write happily ever afters, but she was also living one. Quinn had gotten the man of her dreams and the life she’d always wanted, and I couldn’t be happier for her.
“Medical school leaves no time for romance. And none of the guys are as hot as they are on TV.”
“None of them?”
I shrugged. “There might be some cute ones, but I haven’t really noticed.”
Quinn sighed. “Luckily, I write fiction. In my world, they all look like Dr. McSteamy.”
We both laughed.
When we got off the expressway and into Santa Monica, we rolled down our windows and let in the sea air. I could taste the salt on my lips. I gawked at the palm trees and the wide white-sand beach, the Santa Monica Pier, and the Pacific Ocean, all on Quinn’s doorstep. The temperature was in the seventies, at least ten degrees cooler than in Dallas, and it was all blue skies and sunshine.
California was a dream, and Quinn’s life was beautiful.
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