Holy shit.
Wes: You can’t come in with an itinerary.
Quinn: Why not?
Wes: You have to be there, in the moment.
Quinn: That’s not my strong suit.
Wes: That’s okay.
Quinn: What if it’s not?
Wes: It will be. I promise.
Quinn: You’ll be patient with me?
Wes: Yeah.
Quinn: You promise?
Wes: On my love of Mission Impossible movies.
Quinn: Really?
Wes: What’s better than Tom Cruise saving the world?
Quinn: Literally anything.
Wes: That’s where you’re wrong.
Quinn: Do you want a list?
Wes: Yeah.
Quinn: Casablanca for starters.
Wes: It’s still your favorite?
Quinn: It’s the greatest movie of all time.
Wes: Can I let you in on a secret?
My lips curl into a smile. My heartbeat picks up.
He’s teasing. It’s not a real secret. But it still feels good.
My best friend moved to New York three days after graduation. Then promptly got too busy working to respond to my texts.
Owen is the only person who really talks to me. Or trusts me.
He’s the only person I really trust.
I don’t get secrets.
I want them.
I want more from Wes.
It’s too much, already. This is a physical arrangement. It’s about our bodies, not our minds or our hearts.
But, God, my heart is racing.
It’s singing.
It’s completely desperate to flirt.
Quinn: My lips are sealed.
Wes: I’ve never seen it.
Quinn: No!
Wes: Yes.
Quinn: You know the premise?
Wes: Something about black and white and Nazis and Paris.
Quinn: Oh my God, Wes Keating! You are so close to blowing this.
Wes: Go on…
Quinn: Not in a good way.
Wes: Still want to hear you talk about blowing.
Quinn: I’ve never done that.
Wes: I know.
Quinn: What if I’m bad at it?
Wes: You’ve had boyfriends?
Quinn: A few, but we always moved glacially.
Wes: Your choice or theirs?
Quinn: Combination.
Wes: You made out?
Quinn: And a lot of second base.
Wes: You liked that?
My body buzzes.
It’s like he’s here. Like he’s pushing my tank top off my shoulders to play with my chest.
Quinn: Yes.
Wes: We’ll start there.
Quinn: Then?
Wes: What did I tell you, angel? We have to play it by ear.
Quinn: Angel?
Wes: You like it?
Quinn: Maybe.
Wes: Will you like it when you’re coming on my hand?
My sex clenches. I stare at my cell, trying and failing to type a coherent response.
Wes: I’ll take that as a yes.
Quinn: Yes.
Wes: Good. You’re free all day Monday?
Quinn: You want the whole day?
Wes: Yes. I want all your Mondays.
Quinn: For sex?
Wes: I’m not going to send you home hungry.
Quinn: So it’s like a date?
Wes: No, it’s like I’m going to make you come and feed you.
Jesus Christ. How does he talk like this?
Quinn: Oh.
Wes: That a problem?
Quinn: Not at all.
Wes: Good.
Quinn: Are we going somewhere?
Wes: You want to go somewhere?
Quinn: Maybe. I only have four weeks left in California. There’s a lot I want to do.
Wes: Anything specific?
Quinn: Well…
Wes: Well?
Quinn: It’s stupid.
Wes: Does it matter to you?
Quinn: Yeah.
Wes: Then it’s not stupid.
Quinn: I have a summer bucket list.
Wes: What is it?
Quinn: Some stuff I want to do.
My teeth sink into my lip. Wes is fun. And he’s a doer. He could help with my list.
Maybe he’ll think I’m a weirdo for orchestrating my fun.
But if I want his help…
Learn to paddle board.
Learn to rollerblade.
Hike in Malibu.
See the Hollywood sign.
Visit Las Vegas
Lose my virginity.
I can’t send it.
Not yet.
But I can tell him a little.
Quinn: Normal stuff. Like seeing the Hollywood sign and losing my virginity.
Wes: I like the last part especially.
Quinn: I thought you would.
Wes: I can help with this. If you want help.
Quinn: Maybe. One thing at a time. Like you tell me what we’re doing tomorrow.
Wes: Don’t know yet.
Quinn: I need to know the dress code.
Wes: You always look perfect.
Quinn: At least tell me the necessary footwear.
Wes: Comfortable.
Quinn: I can do that.
Wes: Good. Come to my place. At seven. Keep the rest of your Mondays free.
Quinn: All day?
Wes: All day, all summer.
Quinn: You drive a hard bargain.
Wes: You haven’t seen anything yet, angel.
Chapter Eight
Quinn
For the third time, I smooth my dress.
The skirt still falls to just below my knees. The top still hugs me in all the right places. The adorable polka dot pattern still screams innocent virgin.
It’s a cute dress. A thick cotton sateen. The perfect weight for a warm summer night.
But is it the dress?
Does this dress really say hey, Wes, I’m ready to touch your penis?
I reach for my turquoise cardigan and slide it over my shoulders. It’s the perfect subtle contrast to the mint pattern.
It’s candy-colored cute.
Too cute.
I don’t want to stroll into Wes’s apartment in a dress that screams I have no idea what I’m doing.
I don’t.
But I need my dress to say I’m going to figure this out.
I strip. Hang the dress in its spot in the closet—between a teal dress and a Kelley-green one. (Everything is arranged by color, from red to orange to yellow to green to blue to purple, then white, grey, black).
This needs to be more. It needs to be sexy.
I’m capable of being sexy.
I scan my drawers for something that says Quinn Thorn is a sexual being, but none of my underwear does the trick. It’s all nylon bras and cotton bikinis.