“No, tell me.”
She laughs, but the sound is brittle. “Come on, you know me better than anyone. I have more trust issues than Rome has ruins. Relationships just end up being stressful and annoying.”
“So… what?” I ask. “You’re going to stay alone for the rest of your life?”
“Not alone.It sounds like you’re committing to the bachelor life. How do his and her rooms at the old folks home sound?”
She laughs, but I can’t force one out myself. I don’t want that life for her. She shows more love in a single day than most people show in a lifetime, and she deserves every bit of happiness this life offers. “You deserve more than my grumpy ass next door.”
“True. If you’re this grumpy at thirty-two, imagine what you’re going to be like at eighty.” I nudge her shoulder, and she giggles. “Kidding! Your friendship is plenty. I don’t need the flowers and candles and romance to feel fulfilled. And there are ways to scratch that itch without having to deal with the inevitable drama of dating.”
An unexpected fire lights my veins at the thought of herscratching the itch. I hate the idea of her picking up some random person who won’t care enough about her to make sure it’s everything she deserves. She should be with someone who’ll worship her, who’ll stop at nothing to have her writhing and screaming their name to the exposed beams of our apartment. Someone like me.
The devil on my shoulder is back, whispering filthy things about the way she watched me when I got out of the pool. The spark of heat in her eyes and the way her sweet, pink tongue peeked out to swipe across her full bottom lip. She isn’t completely unaffected. If me being the one to touch her is an option, I don’t want to give her space for anyone else.
My hand closes around a leg of her stool and I tug it an inchcloser to mine. I lean forward, catching her gaze. Her eyes flick down to my lips, and I go molten.
“And who exactly,” I say, my voice dropping to an octave I didn’t know I could produce, “do you plan to scratch the itch with this summer?”
Quinn’s eyes go wide, then she twirls to the table, grabbing the second glass in her tasting row and throwing it back like the first. She coughs a couple times like some of the liquid went down the wrong pipe. “I’ll figure it out. Maybe Tomasso can introduce me to someone.”
My stomach drops. What the fuck am I doing? If she was interested in me, even physically, she wouldn’t be trying to set me up with half of Boston.
“Good idea,” I say, clearing my throat as I shift my stool away. “He introduced me to someone a few years ago.”
“Oh, yeah?” she squeaks out.
“Yeah, it was a perfect setup. Exactly what I wanted.”
A breath gusts out of her. “Great.”
“Great,” I parrot back.
Fuck.I’m being an asshole. I have no right to be upset about who she does or doesn’t scratch her itch with.
The man from before claps his hands, drawing everyone’s attention again as the next course of our lunch comes out, along with another set of wines to taste. Quinn chugs the last of our first round drinks before the waiter can sweep it away, giving me an awkward smile.
When he finishes his next round of explanations about these wines and why they’re paired with these dishes, Quinn turns back to me. “I’m sorry. I made it weird with all the dating stuff.”
“I’m sorry, too,” I say. “Your concern is sweet, but I don’t want a relationship.”
Her eyes are serious and maybe a bit sad. “I hope you reconsider that, because you have so much to offer someone.”
I hear the message underneath. She wants me to findsomeone to be happy with, but it won’t be her. If I want to keep the most important relationship in my life, I need to accept that. So instead of moping, I turn my attention to having as much fun with my best friend as I can.
Three wineries later,we stumble back to our AirBnB. Quinn’s singing an old Giusy Ferreri song that was on the radio constantly when we studied here. It had poured out of every restaurant and shop for months. I haven’t thought about it in years, but hearing her sing it hurtles me back to those precious days with Quinn.
She tries to pull off a spin on the dramatic chorus, but gets tripped up at the last second. I grab her biceps, yanking her back against my front as I stumble myself, my body losing all sense of control after the influence of so much wine. Quinn drops her head against my chest before tilting it to look up at me.
“My savior,” she says.
So fucking beautiful.
“Thank you,” she giggles, and I realize I said those words out loud.
Her cheeks are flushed from the wine and her eyes are back to their full brilliance, and holy shit, I love this woman more than anything in this world. I sway toward her on instinct. Or maybe that’s the wine, because we both stumble forward, my arms wrapped around her waist as we devolve into laughter again.
When we reach the door, Quinn has to bend down and put her face inches from the keypad to type in the code, just like the winery tour guide joked we’d need to.
