“No.” I’d stake my life on it. “They’re good guys.”
I should just tell them what happened and get it over with. The best defense is a good offense and the longer I keep it a secret, the longer they’ll bust my balls trying to get to the bottom of it.
She relaxes. “Trust me, I don’t want my identity getting out any more than you do.”
“Good. Then you understand why I prefer not to be included in any future articles.”
She makes a noncommittal sound—which is probably the best I can hope for since it’s all anonymous—as I pick up the paper, looking at the article more closely.
A. Ginger.
“Nice byline. But if you’re so worried about people learning your identity, why write the articles in the first place?”
I can’t imagine documenting the private details of my sex life—or lack thereof—for forty thousand strangers.
“I’m a writer.” Quinn fiddles with her empty coffee mug, not meeting my eyes. “It’s what I do.”
Maybe. But there’s got to be more to it. Otherwise, why not write about—Fuck. I don’t know,anythingelse.
“But why these stories? They’re pretty damn personal.”
I shouldn’t press—I hate it when people get into my business—but I can’t help myself. Everything I know about Quinn is surface level.
I didn’t even know she was a writer before today.
Now? Now I want to know everything there is to know about her.
“I share my story,” she says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, “because maybe there are other girls like me who need to see it to know they aren’t alone.”
Her words land like a helmet to the groin.
“Girls like you?” I shake my head. “What does that even mean?”
She shifts, still toying with her hair. “You know, girls of the hot mess variety.”
Is that all she sees when she looks in the mirror? Just the thought of it chafes.
“Quinn, I’ve met a lot of women, and trust me, none of them are quite like you.”
Her head jerks up and from her wide-eyed expression, it’s clear I’ve said the wrong thing.
No surprise there. I’m not exactly great with words and I don’t have a lot of experience in this area. When it comes to women, my strengths are flirting and meaningless sex, not sincere confessions of the heart.
Not that this is a confession of the heart.
Fuck. What am I even saying?
“That was supposed to be a compliment.” The tips of my ears grow hot, but I forge ahead. “I just meant that you’re incredible. Smart. Funny. Sexy.”
The corner of her mouth lifts. “You think I’m sexy?”
Relief washes over me like a Gatorade shower.
This, at least, is familiar territory.
“You know I do.” How could she not after Saturday night? “Which brings us around to the other reason I wanted to talk to you.”
She lifts a brow, but says nothing.
