The Good Girl's Second Chance

His smirk vanished. “So you’re admitting that your mother’s not gonna like it, you and me spending time together?”

“What I’m telling you is that she doesn’t have a say, so it doesn’t matter whether she likes it or not.”

He reached out his hand between their chairs. She put hers in it, and he lifted it to that wonderful mouth of his. Hot shivers cascaded down her arm and straight to the core of her, just at the feel of his soft lips against her skin. Then he rubbed his chin where his lips had been, teasing her with the rough brush of beard stubble, reminding her of their one night together, making her long to jump up and drag him inside.

But she didn’t.

A moment later, he let go of her hand. He started talking again—about his plans for Prime Sports. She told him how much she appreciated the chance to rework the interiors at his house and then she shared with him some of the ideas she and Manny had discussed for upgrading the kitchen and opening up the living-room space.

A couple of hours passed as they sat there talking quietly under the waning moon. She even told him a little about her failed marriage—no, not about the flowers, and not about the times Ted had struck her. This thing with Quinn was so new and sweet and heady. Sharing ugly stories about her ex would definitely dim the romantic glow. Instead, she tried to explain how disappointed she was in the way things had turned out.

“It hurts so much,” she confessed, “when something that should have been so right somehow goes all wrong. And I feel... I don’t know, less, I guess. Shamed, that I didn’t make better choices.”

He regarded her for several seconds in that steady way he had. “You said the other night that the guy was abusive...”

She held his gaze as she shook her head.

He frowned. “I’ll need more than a head shake to get what you’re trying to tell me.”

She let out a hard sigh. “Oh, Quinn. It’s a beautiful night. And you’re here beside me. It’s good, you and me, talking like this.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“I probably shouldn’t even have brought up my divorce.”

“Yeah, you should. Whatever you want to tell me, that’s what I want to hear.”

“That’s just it. I really don’t want to go into any of that old garbage right now.”

He gave her another of those long, thoughtful looks. And then, “All right.”

And just like that, he let it go.

How amazing. He let it go. She’d grown up with a mother who never let anything go. And Ted? He would hound a person to hell and back to find out something he wanted to know.

But not Quinn. She said she didn’t want to talk about it—and he just let it go. He said, “Whatever that story is, whatever happened in the past, you’re going to be fine.”

She made a low, rueful sound. “You’re sure about that, huh?”

And he nodded. “You’re brave and beautiful, Chloe—and not only on the outside. You’re beautiful in your heart, where it matters. I admire the hell out of you.”

Tears burned in her eyes at such praise. She blinked them away and whispered a soft, sincere “Thank you...”

By then, she really wanted to take him inside and spend a few more thrilling hours in his arms. But she felt somehow shyer now than that other night—shy and tentative.

And other than kissing her hand that one time, he’d made no move on her.

It was two in the morning when he said good-night. She stood at the railing watching him jog down the hill to his house, and felt disappointed in herself that she’d let him go without so much as a single shared kiss.

But then, he had asked her out. She would see him again on Friday night...

* * *

Friday evening, Quinn arrived five minutes early. “Better grab a scarf,” he warned.

She ran and got one, then followed him out across the breezeway and around the garage to the side parking space, where a gorgeous old convertible Buick coupe waited—top down, of course. With sidewalls so white they were blinding even in the shade.

“Wow.” She couldn’t resist gliding her palm over the glossy maroon paint. “It looks brand-new.” The bright chrome gleamed in the fading early-evening light. It had round vents on the front fenders and an enormous, toothy grille.

“It’s one of Carter’s rebuilds. A ’49 Buick Roadmaster.” Carter, Quinn’s oldest brother, designed and built custom cars. “I saw it at his shop a couple of weeks ago. Don’t know what came over me, but I wanted it. So I bought it.” He opened the door for her. She slid in onto the snow-white, tuck-and-roll bench seat. “Had him put seat belts in it, along with a decent sound system and power windows.” He was leaning on the open door, bending close to her, his gray suit jacket already off and slung over his shoulder, hanging by a finger.

She got a hint of his aftershave, which was manly and fresh. He looked so good, in a white shirt and gray slacks, with a dark blue tie. She thought about kissing him, and turned away to run her hand over the leather seat in an effort to distract herself from a sudden, vivid memory of how pliant and hot his lips felt pressed to hers. “It’s gorgeous,” she said, altogether too breathlessly.