He smells good. Hot and unapologetically masculine.
“Is it the lights?” he asks, voice low and gravelly.
“What?” I breathe.
“Your eyes.” He stares at me like he’s witnessing the second coming of Christ, right here in this bathroom.
I feel my cheeks roast. I’m used to the attention my mismatched peepers bring. One green, the other a brownish color—I used to think I looked like a Cabbage Patch doll that had its eyes swapped in the factory.
But the way he’s looking at me now . . . it sends my pulse into overdrive.
I blink hard. The guy must be wasted.
“I thought it was the lights, but they really are different shades,” he murmurs, his hand gently lifting my chin so I can’t look away. “It’s captivating. Never seen anything like it.”
Explaining it’s a medical thing doesn’t feel like sexy banter, so I shelve that fact for now. The moment feels too charged for a biology lesson.
His breath, tinged with whiskey, caresses my skin and sends shivers scattering everywhere.
“You got it right,” I play along. “Iaman angel. The kind with mismatched eyes and . . . wings and all.Yourangel.”
Quinn studies me with hazy intensity, seemingly in agreement.
Before I can react, he drops to his knees before me, wrapping his arms around my waist and pressing his face against my stomach.
I freeze, stunned. Um . . . what is happening?
My hand hovers over his head, unsure and clumsy, as if I’m about to bless him or something.
Yeah, he’s definitely high as a kite.
I don’t believe in fate, but it’s like the universe just dropped him in my lap.
“I’m really fucking tired,” he slurs into my waist.
My pulse spikes. This is new territory.
Suddenly, I’m back in the game—Deano’s sick challenge—but with a newfound edge. Now I’ve got angel eyes and adrenaline pumping through me. Maybe I do have a fighting chance here after all.
Should I go through with this?
Can I even?
Part of me feels bad for the guy, whether he’s drunk or high out of his mind.
My thoughts race as I try to form some kind of plan. What exactly am I supposed to do—pretend I’m an actual angel and start belting out “Ave Maria”?
Deciding to freestyle, I run my fingers through his hair. “It’s okay,” I purr, trying to sound reassuring.
He groans, tightening his grip on my ass, seemingly content to sway in this position forever.
After what feels like an eternity, I manage to haul his deadweight unsteadily upright. He blinks blearily down at me.
My tongue darts out, wetting lips dried by lies and, quite shockingly given my current predicament, lust.
Tick fucking tock. His keys must be in those jean pockets.
A wave of self-loathing crashes over me. Forgive me for this, Mom and Gracie . . . Dad up above. I wish to god we hadn’t hit such desperate straits that I got roped into shady dealings.
