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QUINN

Kiss of Death

There are approximately three hundred people at this charity carnival, and somehow my eyes find Wyatt Larkin within thirty seconds.

Why, oh why, can’t I just ignore him?

Even more annoying is the fact that I spent an hour on my hair before coming here, changed my shirt twice, and actually put highlighter on my cheekbones despite having previously gone on record as being firmly against unnecessary shimmer.

None of that has anything to do with Wyatt.

Obviously.

I look away from where he's standing near one of the game booths with a few of his teammates and focus instead on my best friend, currently weaving through the crowd toward me, lemonade in hand and not even attempting to look apologetic about being twenty minutes late.

"About time. I was starting to think you'd been abducted by the clown with the giant shoes."

Nadia rolls her eyes, her gorgeous twists bouncing as she sidesteps a toddler running in chaotic circles with a light-up wand. "Please. I would never be abducted by a clown." She takes a long sip of her lemonade. "That's so beneath me."

Her gaze slides past me toward the game booths. Then back to me, and I know exactly who she’s looking at.

Oh no. Matchmaking Nadia is no joke, and I’m terrified of her.

I grab her arm and steer us deeper into the carnival before she can turn around and get another look at him.

The street is packed, strings of lights glowing overhead while music competes with the noise from the rides and game booths. Somewhere behind us, Darth Vader appears to be losing a lightsaber fight against a man wearing a giant marshmallow helmet.

Under normal circumstances, I would be completely in my element.

Tonight, however, I can feel something in the air.

Nadia seems to sense it too. "You bought a new jacket," she says.

"It's cold."

"You spent an hour on your hair."

"My hair gets frizzy."

"Quinn."

I sigh. "What?"

She gives me a look that suggests she's known me for far too long to tolerate this level of bullshit.

Unfortunately, she's right.

I glance back before I can stop myself.

Wyatt has moved away from the booth and is talking to Cole Pruitt now, one hand shoved into the pocket of his jeans. He's wearing an Apex Kinetic polo, electric cyan and matte charcoal, and the sleeves fit tightly enough around his arms that I immediately regret looking.

His copper-blond hair is a little messy, like he ran his hand through it on the way here, and he's laughing at something Cole says.

Then he looks up.

Straight at me.