“Yes.”
He puffs out a breath. “During the day might be better than an evening date. Maybe something a bit more active and somewhere with better lighting?” He clenches his teeth. “I don’t want to sound ungrateful.”
“You don’t.”
“I had a wonderful time.” His eyebrows knot together. “I hope you did too.”
“Yes.”
“Managing my sleep can be so frustrating sometimes.” Tension floods into his grip. “I want to enjoy everything everyone else does—cinema trips, going to the theatre, nightclubs.” He grins at me. “Figuring out whodunnit over a five-course meal on a posh steam train.” His smile fades. “But I can’t, not without missing a chunk of the event. Sometimes.” He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Tell me.”
“I wish I could turn back the clock before I started having symptoms. I wish I could find a way to move into a different timeline where I never got sick.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry. I’m feeling sorry for myself. I’m normally a lot more positive.”
“I know.”
“I’ll stop moaning now, I promise.”
“You weren’t moaning.”
“And I’ll stop hogging the conversation.”
I laugh. “You’re not doing that either.”
He wrinkles his nose most adorably. “I kinda am. Thank you.”
“What for?”
“Being patient and understanding. For letting me babble. For everything you’ve done this evening.” He stops and tugs me toward him. “For looking sexy in that suit.”
I cup his cheek and kiss him, not caring that the flow of pedestrians has to divert around us like we’re a rock in the middle of a fast-flowing stream. I wrap my other arm around his waist in case he needs support and because I want to feel him close. My pulse quickens, and I get an irresistible urge to smile as our lips part.
“Take me home?” Quinn’s voice is quiet, and his eyes are wide with hope and fear.
“I’d love to.” I kiss him again, more fiercely than before. A quivering sensation takes root in my chest and travels down to my groin. I break the kiss with a laugh and rub the tip of my nose against his. “Home.”
* * *
Quinn’s room used to be Beau’s, and I haven’t been into it since they swapped. Not much has changed, except there’s a drafting desk by the window with a half-finished drawing on it, and the bookshelves have art books rather than law ones on them. The bed is in the same place. Unlike Beau’s plain bedding, Quinn’s quilt and pillow set is a bright abstract art design, adding a splash of colour to the room. There’s a second desk, which is covered in art supplies and Quinn’s chess set. I doubt he uses the desk. Why bother when he has a much better-quality drafting desk? There’s artwork on the walls. I recognise some of it as Quinn’s style, but most appear to be by other people. I recognise prints such as Van Gogh’sStarry, Starry, Night, but most are new to me.
He takes his jacket and tie off and hangs them over the back of his chair. He unfastens the two top buttons of his shirt as he turns to face me.
“I’m not used to wearing a suit.”
“When was the last time you wore one?” I close the gap between us and slide my hands into the back pockets of his trousers.
“For a book release party a few months ago.”
“A book you illustrated?” I apply a little pressure with my hands to tell him I want him to move closer without pushing him.
Quinn takes the half step I want him to, bringing our bodies together. “Yes. The parties are normally in the evening, so I don’t go. But this one was over lunchtime.” He smiles. “Rubin came with me. It was fun.” He plays with my cravat. “Do you wear a suit for work?”
“Sometimes. Not this one.”
He looks up, eyebrow arched. “Should I feel honoured?”
“Very.” I ghost my lips over his.
