When he’s tipped the last of it into his mouth, he breathes out, the tension in his shoulders deflating just enough to let me know we might survive this.
“Jake had some interesting things to tell me about your relationship after you left,” Doug says, making my legs feel rubbery. He points a finger at Lucas and me. “The less I know aboutthis business, the better.”
We nod.
He watches us nod like he’s wondering if it’s enough. “Here’s the thing: I hate losing talent even more than I hate drama.”
“Jake’s not going to cause a single moment of drama,” Mom says in that sharp teacher voice she’s mastered. “I can promise you that much.”
Doug straightens up just hearing her tone. “Good. Good.” He looks at me, and his eyes soften. But they sharpen the moment he looks at Lucas. “Fischer, you’re smart enough to fall for a woman worth going to bat for. Maybe you’re smart enough to handle the Show. Don’t pack.”
He grabs another drink, and this one, he sips. He glances at the cup, like he’s memorizing the drink name, then looks at me. “Scottie, I think I have a different talent you’d be better suited to manage than Fischer. You up for a change?”
“Uh, yes. Yes, sir. Thank you.”
“We’ll talk soon.”
With that, he nods and walks to the door.
I watch him in shock.
He gives us one final look, and I can’t tell if it’s frustration or... affection? It couldn’t be affection.
But he exits for his meeting before I can figure it out, and my parents follow, Mom giving me one last, watery smile that promises a long, real conversation later.
The door clicks shut.
And Lucas and I stare at each other, mouths open in astonishment, relief, excitement all mingling in a torrent of feeling I can’t name or deny.
“Is that it?” Lucas asks, his chest heaving again, his damp shirt sticking to his shoulders. He reaches for me, but right before his hands touch my waist, he pulls back.
“Wait,” he says, his blue eyes narrowing.
“If you ask me where the line is, so help me—” I start, but he shakes his head.
“No. You threw yourself in front of my train back there, Quinn. You started to step in front of me when Doug was yelling. And you did it in his office, too. You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to hurt yourself to protect me, ever. If I didn’t love you so much, I’d be BIG mad.”
I snort at the reference to Jake’s horrible agent, but the humor is quickly eclipsed by the weight of his words. I bite back a smile, while my insides swirl.
“You love me?”
“Yeah,” he says, his voice dropping to that low, rough frequency that makes the rest of the world vanish. “And I’m never letting you disappear again, Quinn.”
Then he stops talking, because he’s finally, officially, erasing the line.
He doesn’t knock or wait politely. He just closes the distance, his hands coming up to cup my face, his thumbs brushing my cheekbones with a hunger that makes my knees weak and a reverence that strengthens them.
When his mouth melts into mine, there’s nothing more to setup for. This is the explosive quiet of the stadium when the ball hits the mitt at a hundred and two miles per hour for the final out.
And the roar of the fans that follows.
Lucas is all heat and salt and minty breath. After every drink he’s ever brought me—every combination of cream and roast and syrup—nothing has ever tasted as good as this.
I’ve been followed. I’ve been found. I’ve been chosen.
And I’m not disappearing again.
***
