Page 114 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

“Because he wanted to be, I guess.”

I didn’t tell him we’d be doing dinner, and Quinn would never. So it was either the calendar on my laptop, my pickup grocery order, or the fact that Quinn and I have done Thanksgiving together ever since her grandmother died eight years ago.

But he arrived with a casserole dish of Mama Pell’s stuffing in one hand and a sack full of beverages in the other, so I let him in, because what else is there. And now he’s followed us to the firepit.

“Why did you bring this?” Quinn scowls at her Cheerwine bottle.

“Because it’s the best soda in the South,” Pell says. “And because you’re runnin’ low. Down to the two in the back of your work fridge, behind the reagent samples.”

He lifts his glass in a toast.

She holds his gaze, extends her arm, and pours the contents of her bottle into the dead grass next to her chair.

“The only one you’re hurtin’ is yourself,” he says placidly. “And sorry, but the bourbon’s only for me and the doc.”

“I’m a doctor too,” she mutters.

“Yes, Dr. Brady.” He grins. “I was there when you got hooded. You looked real cute.”

“You’re insufferable,” she spits out. “We only met four years ago.”

“Okay.” He shrugs, and I change the subject to the only thing on my mind these days.

“This Thanksgiving,” I say, lifting my glass in my own toast, “I’m thankful to you, Pell, for the total destruction of my life.”

Cosmo chooses that moment to hop off my lap so he can patrol the perimeter of the yard, leaving me missing his warmth. Pell wasn’t wrong about body heat.

The man himself turns as serious as he’s been since he showed up today.

“You should be.” He drains the rest of his drink and sets his glass aside. “I gave you a chance at a relationship built on honesty, understanding, and what I assume is violent and deeply fulfilling sex.”

“Don’t mention Rue and sex in the same breath,” I tell him quietly.

He lifts his browns, then inclines his head a fraction of an inch as he reaches into the pocket of his hoodie to produce the world’s oldest baseball.

“I’m just saying, you’ve gotta have boundaries when you’re stalking the woman you love.” He tosses the ball from hand to hand as he talks, his fingers moving nimbly across the grimy surface. “Hell, I’ve got Quinn wired to the ears, but I respect her too much to go peepin’ into her boudoir.”

“Quit it,” she snaps. “And while you’re at it, quit talking like the hillbilly I know you’re not.”

“Quit what, now?” he asks. “Loving you, stalking you, or talking like the nice southern boy I am?”

“Quit lying,” she says flatly. “I know how to spot your cameras. There are three on the street in front of Hugo’s duplex and one in the backyard.”

He fiddles with the ball one-handed now. “Maybe.”

“But there’s not a single one at my place, inside or out.”

He shifts the ball so the seams are facing in. “Well then. You must be right on all counts.”

Quinn frowns at his easy agreement. “Well, th-that’s… that’s good,” she sputters. “Thank you.”

A smile lifts one corner of his mouth. The seams are facing out now. “Aww, you sound mad about it, Quinnie.” He flips the ball into the air and catches it with his left hand.

“Hugo.” She turns to me. “Will you please grab that filthy thing so I can beat him to death with it?”

Pell gasps and clutches the ball to his chest. “You’d kill me with my own weapon?”

“That’s not a wea… Gah!” She shrieks in frustration and stands. “I’m getting more pie.”