21
SLOANE
I’m not the girl who calls a man repeatedly when he isn’t answering. I don’t chase. I don’t linger. I don’t wait.
Except—apparently, I do.
My phone sat heavy in my palm, screen blank, call history damning. Nine missed calls to Charlie Dane. One voicemail. And a text I deleted as soon as I sent it.
This wasn’t me.
I didn’t unravel over men. I didn’t cling or panic or sit in my childhood bedroom like a shell of the woman I’d fought like hell to become. But ever since Charlie walked out that door, all I could think about was the look in his eyes when he learned the truth about my mother and Byron Dane.
He’d looked gutted.
Maybe I felt gutted, too.
It wasn’t just the way he kissed me or held me or pulled me out of that hellscape of a country club. It was the way he saw me—past the polish, past the pedigree. It was the way he made me want to see more clearly in return.
Which was exactly why I found myself downstairs instead of hiding out upstairs like a coward.
Quentin stood in the front hall, posture impeccable, presence quiet but unmistakable. It seemed like he’d always been there. A fixture in the house.
Polished. Silent. Professional.
And invisible.
Until now.
I almost walked past him—the way I always had. A nod. A brief smile. That’s all anyone ever gave Quentin. That’s all I ever gave him.
But something about Charlie’s voice, that low rasp when he saidI didn’t realize she needed protection, stopped me cold. And so did the way Quentin had looked at him—not with deference, but with something closer to kinship.
Maybe I’d been wrong to overlook Quentin.
Maybe I’d been wrong about a lot of things.
I turned toward him.
"Quentin?"
He straightened, surprised. "Yes, Miss Carrington?"
I hesitated. Then: "Can I ask you something?"
His expression didn’t shift, but I saw it—the flicker of curiosity beneath the calm. "Of course."
I gestured toward the sitting room. "Would you sit with me? Just for a minute."
Another surprise. He followed me in, anyway, settling carefully into one of the tufted armchairs, posture still perfect.
I sat across from him. The silence stretched.
"I realized today," I said slowly, "that I don’t know your last name."
A beat. Then he smiled. Not polite. Real.
“Harris,” he said. "Quentin Harris.”
