Losing It
Picture perfect California boy.
It’s intoxicating. It really is.
He offers me his hand. When I take it, he leads me to the main room.
Wes steps into his shoes.
I scoop my keys into my hand.
“You still want tacos?” he asks.
“Are you gonna tell me what’s funny about that?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
“What I get out of it?”
I swat him playfully.
He smiles.
My heart jumps. He’s just so…
God, I really like him.
“Look in the mirror,” he says.
“The mirror is in the bedroom.”
“Damn, angel, if you want a second round, you can just ask.”
I flip him off.
“Now? Well, if you really insist.”
I push him.
He wraps his arms around me. “I tell you how much I like you?”
“Not in the last few minutes.”
“I do.” He presses his lips to mine. And it’s there. That he means more than like.
But how much more?
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Wes
Quinn gathers her skirt as she slides into the booth. She crosses one leg over the other. Shoots me that same what is this about look.
God, it’s an adorable look.
And those thick frames of hers make it ten times cuter.
“Yeah?” I ask.
She arches a brow really.
I nod really and slide into the both next to her.
The hostess giggles. “Your server will be right with you.” She hands us two menus, then takes her leave.
Quinn scoots to the end of the booth, giving me room.
But I don’t want room.
I want to stay pressed against her.
I want to fill every minute of the next nine days with her.
I want her to stay.
But there’s no way I can ask. Not now. Not with my heart torn in half.
Yeah, I’m moving on from that.
In theory.
Eventually.
Right now, it’s too fucking fresh.
“Are you going to torture me with this all day?” Quinn asks.
“Are you going to come to work with me and observe?”
“Why would I do that?”
“Maybe you’re thinking about learning to apprentice.”
Quinn’s eyes light up as she laughs. “Am I?”
“You could do it.”
“I can’t draw a stick figure.”
“Let’s test that.” I hail a passing server.
He stops by our table with a friendly smile. “Do you need something?”
“Coffee,” I say.
“Water please,” Quinn adds.
“And kids menus. With crayons,” I say.
He looks at me like I’m crazy, but he still nods. “Of course.”
After the server leaves, Quinn turns to me and shakes her head. “You have a sudden desire for mac and cheese?”
“They serve mac and cheese at a Mexican restaurant?”
“A quesadilla?” Her brow furrows with concentration.
Which is also fucking adorable.
“Oh my God, Westley Keating, if you don’t explain that look, I’ll leave.” She unwraps her napkin.
“Grabbing the knife to stab me?”
“If that’s what it takes.”
“Shit, everything you know about medicine—you could probably kill me with a single gesture.”
“Not yet. But I’ll get there. I mean, if I stay on the path—” She lays her napkin in her lap. “You’re not distracting me.”
“I think I am.”
She shakes her head.
I slide my arm around her shoulders. “How about now?”
She looks up at me with a coy smile. “Still not.”
“Damn, I’ve lost the magic.”
“Just tell me.”
“You gonna beg for it?”
“No.” Her eyes meet mine. “You can handle me begging for it.”
She’s right about that. But my cock isn’t interested in practicalities. “Go on…”
“If you tell me.”
“Dirty trick.”
“Learned from the best.” She smiles as she rests her hand on my thigh. “Tell me.”
“Look.” I motion to the mirrored wall across from us.
Her brow furrows huh. She takes in our reflection slowly.
We look good together. Hell, we match.
But—”You’re a little overdressed, angel.”
“So?”
“You don’t seem like the type of girl who gets her hands dirty.”
“We both know I do.” She nods to my crotch.
My cock stirs. Where the fuck did this confidence come from? How can I convince her to talk like this every fucking day forever? “What was that, angel?”
“Doesn’t seem fair, does it?” She drags her fingertips up my thigh. “You torture me nonstop, but I don’t get a chance to torture you.”
I nod.
“You got me off this morning, but I don’t—”
“Your coffee, sir.” The server drops off our drinks. His eyes dart to the action, but he says nothing. “Do you need another minute to order?”
“I’m ready.” Quinn pulls her hand into her lap. She blushes as she scoots away from me. “Huevos rancheros.”
“Steak and eggs,” I say. “Medium rare.”
“Anything to drink for you, miss?” the server asks.
“Iced tea if you have it.” She collects our menus and hands them to him. “And salsa with the food. Thanks.”
“Sure.” He takes his leave.
She turns to me. “I’m overdressed?”
I nod.
“You didn’t even order carne asada.”
I can’t help but laugh. “And?”
“And, that’s what it is.”
“It’s steak, isn’t it?”
“Carne asada is more specific.”
I intertwine my fingers with hers. “When did you get all picky about labels?”
She squeezes my hand. “Not picky. Just think it’s odd the guy who’s lived in southern California his whole life doesn’t call Mexican dishes by their proper names.”
“Oh?”
She nods.
“You’re the defender of this fine cuisine?”
“Hell yes.”
“Really?”
She nods.
I rub the space between her thumb and forefinger with my thumb. It feels right. Intimate. Loving. “You really do love it.”