“You’re thinking again,” he murmured against her stomach, blazing a trail of kisses down to the top of her jeans. His hands, splayed across her lower back, kept her in place.
“How do you know?” She ran her fingers through his hair.
He lifted his head. His eyes, dilated to dark chocolate, skimmed over her. One cocky eyebrow lifted. “It’s a gift.”
“Yeah, one that you’ve used to your cruel advantage over the years.”
“I challenged you because I knew you could take it. Because you needed someone to keep you on your toes.” His breath fanned over her skin, making her wet, needy, anxious. “Want me to stop?”
“No.” The truth was, she hadn’t wanted him to back then, either. He’d always been the one person to make her feel desirable.
“Tell me what you want, Lyric. Because this time I’m going to do it right. This time you’re going to know exactly how I feel about you.”
She shuddered. I did last time.
“I want you.” Tears pricked the backs of her eyes. She wanted her son’s father. She had since the day she found out she was pregnant. But she’d been too proud, too full of resentment to do anything about it. The truth tasted bitter in the back of her throat.
“To do this?” He cupped her breast, rubbed his thumb across her nipple.
Sensation overcame her. She swallowed her fears and doubts. Nodded.
“And this?” His other hand moved between her legs, and she let out a whimper.
“Yes, keep doing that,” she said, or quite possibly demanded, because if he stopped she’d surely wither and die.
Then everything revved up, their hands all over each other, their mouths meeting to plunder one another. She pushed up his shirt and tossed it aside. He unbuttoned her jeans, started on her zipper.
That’s when she remembered.
She turned to stone.
“What’s wrong?” He semi-froze, only his warm, strong hands moving up and down her arms.
Her scar was what was wrong. After her C-section, she hadn’t healed well, developing a keloid across her lower abdomen. Quinn would no doubt question her about the ugly, raised pink skin and be reminded of her pregnancy. She shut her eyes, trying to picture the scar from his point of view, trying to decide if he wouldn’t be repulsed.
Deciding to come clean.
“It’s just been a really long time.”
He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re doing fine by me. More than fine.” He gifted her with an impossibly sexy smile. His pointer finger raked down her arm and unbelievably, given her state of mind, her body hummed.
“There hasn’t been anyone since…” She turned her head and focused on the corner of the walls. “You.”
He stilled. “What did you say?”
“You’re the last person I slept with, Quinn.” Her gaze might be across the room, but she felt his eyes on her profile with intensity strong enough to make her blood run cold.
For what seemed like forever, neither of them moved or said anything, like the slightest motion would puncture the air and steal their breath for good.
“What are you telling me?”
She finally mustered the courage to look him in the eye. “Max is yours.”
He fell back against the couch, ran his hand through his hair. “That can’t be. He’s two.”
“Who told you that? He’s three. Almost three and a half.” The pain on Quinn’s face—evident in the tight set of his jaw, the deep crease between his eyebrows, the murky depths of his stare—almost undid her.
She had to make this right.
“He’s got your eyes, Quinn. Your hair color. Your devotion and intuition.” She laid her palm on his chest. “Your kindness. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I was—”
“Fuck, Lyric!” He pushed her off him and rose to his feet.
Her throat closed and her body shook as she scrambled to put her shirt back on.
Quinn paced around the room, every muscle in his stomach, his arms, his neck and back, clearly taut. His hands fisted, then flexed. His eyes, when they darted to her, were cruel, unforgiving.
Fear shot through Lyric with razor sharp claws, tearing her up inside. She’d never seen him so upset. Not even after Oliver’s death. He’d masked his feelings then, she knew, careful not to show too much emotion. Sabotaging closeness to others with a sharp and crude tongue to protect himself.
“Quinn?”
“Don’t say my name. Don’t. Say. Anything.”
For several agonizing minutes she watched him pace. She stayed rooted to her spot, arms wrapped around her body. Everyone is going to hate me, she thought. They’d be disappointed. Shocked. Appalled. Her family—and Quinn’s—would never understand this injustice.
“Please forgive me,” she said, when she couldn’t take the silence any longer. She’d rather he yell or scream than keep everything bundled up inside where she couldn’t reach.
He straddled the chair farthest from her at the dining room table. “Max is my son,” he whispered to the floor.
“Yes.” She dared to move closer, taking the chair next to him.
His chest rose and fell like a turbulent sea, up, down, up, down. She wished she knew the right words to say to calm the storm she’d thrown at him.
With trepidation, she touched his arm.
He flinched. “Don’t touch me. Don’t talk to me.” He jerked to his feet. “Don’t follow me.”
Glacial air filled the room when he swung the front door wide to leave.
“Quinn! Don’t go. I don’t want you to be alone.” She stood. The distance between them stretched farther than it ever had before.
All she could think about was if he walked out the door, he’d never come back. He’d leave like he did four years ago. Forget about her. Forget about Max. Forget the painful past she kept dredging up.
He spun around. “You made me alone,” he ground out.
The door slammed behind him a second later. She crumpled to the floor. He was right.
She’d always made him alone.
Chapter Nine
Quinn pushed aside another box in the attic. He had no fucking idea what had led him there or what he was looking for, except that his entire past surrounded him and he needed some answers. He needed to know what had happened between him and Lyric, to make her keep a secret this big from him.
His heart hadn’t stopped racing since he’d left her last night. Sleep had eluded him. Three shots of whisky, and he’d finally dozed for an hour or two.
He trudged around the dust-filled room. There had to be a clue in all this crap.
There were two more boxes labeled Quinn, but before he got to them, he slid out the one labeled Oliver – 11th/12th grade. At least his mom had organized the crap.
The morning sunlight slanted in through the window just below the roofline and cut a nasty glare, so he dragged the box over to the corner. The first thing he pulled out was his brother’s diploma and tassel.
Memories slammed into him. His brother’s valedictorian speech, grad night, breakfast at Denny’s, Lyric in a pale green dress. She’d looked amazing.
He sat against the wall, extended his legs, and shut his eyes.
Max is my son.
That tugged his heart in ways he couldn’t comprehend yet.
“Here you are!”
Quinn bit down on his tongue, then cursed under his breath at the sudden pain.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” Caroline said. She inhaled, coughed, waved away a cobweb, and took the spot next to him on the wood planked floor.
She sat close enough to put the usual hand on his arm. When she clasped her hands in her lap, he gave silent thanks. Every nerve in his body vibrated with tension. Her intrusion didn’t help.
“What are you doing here?” A
t least he managed to keep his voice civil.
“We always talk on this day. This time you get me in person instead of over the phone.”
New Year’s fucking Eve.
Out of the corner of his eye, Quinn watched her canvas the room. Her motherly sixth sense must be in tune with his leave-me-alone disposition, or she’d have looked right at him like she always did. Caroline gave her attention, and expected it in return.
“I’m not really up for conversation today.”
“No problem. I’ll just sit with you for a while, then.” She stretched her legs out, crossed them at the ankles, and wiggled her back against the wall to settle in.
He let out a deep breath. They sat in silence long enough for the sun to cast its rays from one end of a small painted wood bench to the other.
“Your uncle passed away this morning.”
“I know. I got my mom’s message. Two Sobels on the same day four years apart. Sucks.” He pulled his legs up and laid his arms across his knees.
“I’d like to think your brother’s got family with him now.”
“Okay.”
“You’ve got family here, you know. You don’t have to be alone today.”
There was that damn word again. Alone. Once upon a time, it never bothered him. But as it happened now, the word damaged something inside him.
He knew Caroline meant her family, but the truth was he did have family—his son. He thought back to what Lyric had said about not telling anyone who Max’s dad was. How would Caroline feel if he told her right now?
“In fact,” she continued, “I made my famous cinnamon rolls from scratch this morning, and you’re coming over to eat some.”
“I’ll think about it,” he lied. If he said no she’d badger him into accompanying her home. This answer bought him some time.
Because in truth, he didn’t know what the hell he was going to do when he walked out of the attic. His first instinct—to flee, to leave the hard stuff behind him—weighed strong. To let Lyric continue with her secret, continue to live the life she’d made for herself and Max.
Quinn had no idea how to be a dad. Hell, he was out of the country more than he was in it. There were other guys out there. Guys better than him who could make Lyric and Max happy. Lyric didn’t love him. He’d be doing her a favor if he left.
“I wish you’d tell me what happened,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I know today is hard for you, but the Quinn from the last few days had finally moved past it. Something else is going on this morning, and I think it concerns my daughter.”
He turned his head to look at her for the first time. The truth begged to be set free. But it wasn’t for him to tell. He’d never break Lyric’s trust or use his pain to turn her family against her. Caroline’s pale blue eyes looked back at him without judgment, and he had some vague recollection of being in this situation before.
The letters.
He’d written Lyric letters when they were younger. Signed them “your secret admirer.” His love of foreign language made him a word nerd and the best way he thought to get through to Lyric was with heartfelt prose. He was much more comfortable writing than talking. Speaking to Lyric only ever got him in trouble.
Every Friday he’d left a note for her in her mailbox. On the fourth Friday, he’d found his last letter returned with a note from Lyric: Thank you for your nice words but I am in love with someone else.
Quinn had refused to give up, though. He’d left her more letters. She’d replied the exact same way each and every time.
One Friday Caroline caught him at the mailbox.
“I know you love my daughter,” she’d said. “But Quinn, she’s only going to break your heart. And you deserve someone who cherishes your words.”
She’d handed him the last letter he’d written to Lyric, hugged him, and turned to walk up the driveway.
“You still love her, don’t you?” Caroline’s voice broke into his memories and brought him back to the present.
His head fell into his hands. It didn’t matter if he did. He couldn’t forgive what she’d done.
Caroline rested her hand on his arm. “I’ll see you at the party tonight. If you want to talk beforehand, I’ll be around.”
“I won’t be there,” he said. Slowly he lifted to meet Caroline’s gaze. “I’ve booked a flight back to New York tonight.”
“I see.”
“What do you see?”
“Not the person I thought you were.” She squeezed him close, then stood. “Quinn?”
He looked up.
“Don’t repeat the same mistakes.” And then she was gone, leaving him to wonder what she meant by that.
He’d planned to leave and come back in a few weeks. He needed space. He needed to sort through his feelings. He’d come home to make things right, and he’d done that. The long phone conversations with his parents the past few days didn’t replace a face-to-face, but he’d finally gotten off his chest what needed to be said.
And he’d apologized to Lyric.
Only to have her turn around and pummel his heart.
Again.
…
Lyric let go of the last black helium balloon. It floated to the high ceiling in the living room, joining the hundreds of other black, red, and white balloons. Matching streamers fanned out from the chandelier. Posters of Elvis, Marilyn Monroe, James Dean, and nineteen fifties cars decorated the walls.
“It’s perfect!” Mom said, stepping into the room and joining Lyric on the rented dance floor. “Just like a high school gym in the fifties.”
“How would you know? You were a baby,” Lyric said, a little on the surly side. She’d gotten zero sleep last night. Couldn’t stop thinking about Quinn. Hated herself more than she ever had before. She’d never forgive herself for the hurt she saw in his eyes last night.
Her mom stiffened. “Follow me,” she ordered. Lyric did, past the photo booth her parents had rented and set up in the entryway, past the “soda fountain” set up in the kitchen, and all the way to the guesthouse. Away from the rest of the family and all the craziness having to do with party preparations.
“Sit,” she instructed.
Lyric sat on the couch, her back straight, hands twisting in her lap. Her mom sat on the coffee table. Their knees bumped. “I know,” Mom said.
“You know what?”
She took Lyric’s nervous hands. “I know Quinn is Max’s father.”
Lyric pulled her hands back and buried them under her thighs. Her vocal cords shriveled. Her heart, too. Everything good she thought she might have inside her staled. Whatever came out of her mother’s mouth next she deserved. Tears streamed down Lyric’s cheeks.
Her mom stayed silent and let her collect herself. Several short, shallow breaths later, Lyric managed to find her voice. “How did you know?”
“I’m not as clueless as you think I am. And I saw Quinn leave the guesthouse the night of Oliver’s funeral. That combined with Max’s perfect brown eyes, light brown hair and strong jaw, and I figured it out. What I can’t figure out is why you never told anyone.”
Lyric buried her face in her hands. She could so easily put the blame on Quinn. He’d left her without a word. Made it clear he didn’t want her. Only that wasn’t really true. He’d wanted her his whole life, hadn’t he? The night they’d shared was far more than just physical. Something deep inside her had shifted, and it had scared the shit of her. He’d loved her more thoroughly and more passionately than any other man ever had.
And she’d loved him back. She’d kept her heart from him for so long, her pride and infatuation with Oliver preventing her from seeing the perfect man was right in front of her the whole time.
Until that night.
But when he took off, the rejection stung bone deep. She’d brist
led with shame and disappointment. She’d rejected him their whole lives, and she’d believed he was paying her back.
The moment she’d discovered she was pregnant, though, she should have had more faith in him. And that she could never take back, no matter how hard she wished she could.
“I don’t know,” she said lifting her head. “I guess I was afraid you’d want to tell Viv and William, which meant I’d have to tell Quinn—and I was mad at Quinn. I was so mad at him.”
“For loving you?” Her mom’s wise eyes never left hers and even though it was hard, Lyric forced herself not to look away.
“For leaving me right after Oliver did.”
“Oh, sweetie.”
“Things with Quinn have always confused me.” Lyric collapsed into the couch.
“How so?”
Lyric had thought a lot about the past last night. She’d dug deep into her feelings and stopped hiding from the truth. “I never knew what to expect with him. One minute he’d look at me like I was the girl of his dreams and the next minute he’d cut me down. I always knew what I was getting with Oliver. As much as I wished he wanted more than friendship, I knew he’d never intentionally hurt me. My heart and head were pretty safe with him.
“Quinn messed me up inside, Mom. He made me feel things I didn’t understand or like, so I pushed him away. But I realize now I loved him. That I’ve always loved him.”
Her mom moved beside her and put an arm around her shoulders. Lyric settled against her side. “Why didn’t you talk to me about this?”
“What teenager talks to her mom?”
“True.”
Lyric sighed. “I remember the first day I met him and Oliver. We were seven and it was a week or two before Christmas. I knocked on their door and they both answered, fighting over who got to hold the handle. Oliver immediately claimed me as his, even though I fell instantly in like with Quinn because his eyes had widened when they saw me, like I was something special. When Quinn didn’t stop his brother, though, I thought he didn’t like me back. That day set the tone for the rest of our relationship.”
Yours at Midnight Page 9
