“He loves his tiny bachelor pad far too much.”
“How tiny?”
“About the size of my room in our house.”
I gape at him. “So, it’s a shared house?”
“No. It’s a similar style of house that’s been divided into flats. His flat is a bedroom with an en suite and a chunk partitioned off to act as a hall. It’s big enough for a bit of a kitchen on one wall and a Murphy bed opposite. He pays an arm, a leg, and a kidney for it every month in rent but claims it’s worth it because of its location.”
I’m afraid to ask. “Where is it?”
“Pimlico.”
I whistle. “And he likes it?”
“He loves it. In his words, all he does is eat, sleep, and fuck there, so why does he need more space?”
“He could also get that little space for a lot less.”
“That’s what Dad and Sabella told him.” Quinn shrugs. “It’s his money, and he wants to spend it on living a stone’s throw from Soho and Covent Garden. What else do you want to know about my brother?” He gives me a cheeky smile.
“I.” I sigh. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m teasing you.”
I relax a little. “You can ask me about Beau to make up for it.”
He wrinkles his nose. “Nah, you’re good. It’s you I want to know more about.” He stops, turns his face to the sky, closes his eyes, and breathes deeply. “You could almost imagine we’re not in the middle of the city here. It’s so quiet.” He cracks an eye open. “Are you sure you didn’t bring me out here to drink my blood?”
“No. But it’s a full moon, so I might turn into a werewolf.”
Quinn arches an eyebrow. “Amazing deadpan delivery there. I almost believed you.”
“Almost?”
We start walking again.
“Werewolves don’t exist.”
“And vampires do?”
“No.”
“I asked about your family because—” I shake my head.
Quinn glances at me. When I stay silent, he squeezes my hand.
“Because my family is a mess. Is it weird to want to hear about normal, sane families?”
“No. Do you want to tell me about it?”
Do I want to? Not really. He already knows Mum left, but he doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know about Dad.
“You don’t have to.”
If we’re going to keep seeing each other, I probably should. How can he trust me if I keep such a massive part of my life a secret from him? On the other hand, a drink in a pub and a request to do it again don’t make a relationship. How quickly did Beau spill his guts to Fraser? It’s a question I’ll never know the answer to. Besides, I’m not Beau. What was right for him might not work for me.
“What about your granddad?” I ask instead. “The one who taught you to play chess?”
