Joining in on that auction wasn’tjustfor a night of freedom. It was a stupid idea, a chance that someone else might buy my dinner plans but I was hoping.
I guess the hoping worked.
quentin
Thereceiptfromthehome goods store is forty-seven dollars longer than I planned, and Milo is carrying bags with both arms like we just robbed the place.
"This is the softest blanket I've ever touched in my life," he says for the third time, his face half-buried in a cream-colored throw that he pulled from the bag before we even reached the car. "Feel it, Q. Feel it with your hands."
"I felt it in the store. Twice. Because you made me."
"And you liked it. I saw your face. You had a feeling."
"I had a thought. Thoughts and feelings are different things."
"Not when you're touching cashmere, they're not."
Iris starts laughing when we come through her apartment door, the bags rustling against the doorframe as Milo tries to fit through without putting anything down. She's leaning against the kitchen counter in a sweater and jeans, watching us haul sixbags of home goods across her living room like we're staging an invasion.
"What is all of this?" She picks up a throw pillow that escaped from one of Milo's bags and landed on the floor. "Did you buy out the entire store?"
"We bought strategically," I say, setting my bags on the couch.
"He sketched a floor plan on a napkin," Milo adds. "There was a color-coded system. It was the most romantic thing I've ever witnessed."
"It wasn't romantic. It wasefficient."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive, Q."
Iris shakes her head, still smiling, and reaches for me. Her hand finds the front of my hoodie and she pulls me toward her, tipping her chin up. I lean down and kiss her, her mouth warm against mine, her fingers curling into the fabric at my chest. Milo makes a soft approving sound from somewhere behind the bags as I melt intoour Alpha,something I started saying in my head since a few days ago.
The front door opens and I jump back to see our coach at the door.
"It's fine." Coach Delacroix steps inside carrying a casserole dish covered in foil, his keys in his other hand. He doesn't break stride, walking past us to the kitchen like he didn't just witness his daughter kissing one of his players in her living room. "I have to get used to this. At least you're vertical."
Iris pulls back farther from me, her cheeks flushed. "Dad."
"What? I said it's fine." He sets the casserole dish on the counter and starts opening cabinets like he knows exactly where everything is. "I brought lasagna. Your mother's recipe. Figured if I'm breaking bread with the men who are dating my daughter, I should at least make something that'll shut everyone up for twenty minutes."
The lasagna does shut everyone up. It's extraordinary, the kind of food that makes conversation physically impossible because your mouth refuses to stop chewing long enough to form words. Milo is three bites in before he makes a sound that borders on indecent, and Coach shoots him a glare that renders Milo back into his box.
"This shouldn't get in the way of school," Coach says, pointing his fork between Milo and me. "Or the team. Or your careers. I'm happy for my daughter, but I'm still your coach and I expect the same output on that field regardless of who you're going home to."
"Yes, sir," I say.
"And grades. Milo, where are you sitting in Sports Medicine?"
"Three-point-seven," Milo says through a mouthful of lasagna.
"Keep it there." Coach turns to me. "Pre-med?"
"Three-point-nine."
He nods, satisfied, then sets his fork down and leans back in his chair. "So where are you going to live after graduation? All three of you in this apartment? Because I've seen the square footage and I have concerns."
"Dad," Iris says.
"I'm asking practical questions. Someone has to." He picks his fork back up. "And when does this become official? Are we talking timeline here? Because I'd like to plan accordingly."
