“You might not like it.”
“Is it Mission Impossible Two?”
I can’t help but laugh. “Less bad than that.”
“Well, obviously.”
“You didn’t hate the first one.”
“I didn’t like it.”
“You kinda liked it.”
She holds out her thumb and forefinger a little.
“You even really liked it.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe.”
“Definitely.” She wraps her lips around her straw. Sucks in a sip of water.
There’s no booze here.
Which was a conscious thing.
I should probably tell her why.
I am running out of time.
I unzip my backpack, pull out my sketchbook, flip to the right page.
The design I’ve been working on all week. A locked heart, made out of bottle shards, filled halfway with bourbon.
“Wes.” Her hand goes to her mouth. “That’s gorgeous.”
I nod. It’s all I can do. Nod.
“You… what does that mean?”
“I’m gonna get it.”
Her eyes go wide as she takes it in. “You should. It’s perfect.”
“Not too much?”
“Exactly enough.”
“I was thinking.” Fuck, this is a big ask. As big as asking her to stay. “I designed this too.” I point to the ornate skeleton key on the other page.
It’s a thick bronze thing with a curving, heart shaped handle.
“It’s a couples tattoo.” My heart thuds against my chest. “It could be. If you’re into it.”
She blinks twice. “You want to get a tattoo with me?”
“Yeah.” I swallow hard. “If you’re into it. I have this too.” I turn the page to show off her pinup. Which is just as perfect for her. Or even more. “It won’t hurt my feelings if you’d rather get this. Or something else. Or nothing.”
Her fingers trace the paper.
She studies the pinup, turns the page, studies the lock and key.
Her eyes meet mine. “I think I’m going crazy—” She swallows hard. “But yes. I want to.”
“Are you sure?”
“I am. I really am.”
Quinn holds my hand through her ink.
Then I take over for the artist. (I had to pull a lot of strings to make that happen). Outline her key in black. Fill it in bronze.
She’s nervous as hell, but she takes it like a champ.
When we’re finished, she stares at the design like it’s the greatest thing she’s ever seen.
It is.
My art on her body.
Our love on her body.
That’s what it is.
It’s so fucking obvious.
We go back to the hotel. Fuck. Order room service.
Watch Casablanca.
It’s perfect because it’s her.
I love it, but I don’t agree with the message.
Yeah, it’s beautiful that Rick and Ilsa reunited in Morocco. That they’ll always have their time together in Paris.
But it’s bullshit that he sends her to America with Victor Laszlo.
So what if Victor needs her?
Sometimes duty wins over love, but only if it comes from love.
I want what’s best for Quinn, whatever that means.
Fuck, I hope I’m right about what it means.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Quinn
Sunlight streams through the curtains.
It falls over the Strip.
Las Vegas is faded in the day. The kitschiness is more obvious.
I mean, it’s plenty kitschy at night, but there’s something about watching the neon fight the bright sun.
I don’t have time to take in the city. Or to reflect. Or to think, period.
My flight leaves in three hours.
That’s it.
Three hours.
Not even. With security and early arrival, it’s more like two.
It’s…
I suck a breath through my teeth. Exhale slowly.
There’s time. All I need to do is dress and finish packing.
I rise, move into the bathroom, go through my morning routine, empty the dressers.
There isn’t much. I only packed for a few days. Everything else is in boxes on the way to my parents’ house. No matter what I do, I have to stop in Chicago. I have to talk to them. To explain…
Well, to explain the rest of my life.
If Wes doesn’t want me, I’ll be lost.
But I need to face facts.
I’m not going to find myself in med school.
I don’t want to go to med school.
I don’t want to be a doctor.
No matter what, I go to Chicago and I tell them.
Deep breath.
Slow exhale.
The oxygen does nothing to clear my head. There’s too much racing through my mind. His touch. His kiss. His smile. His laugh. His arms.
God, I love his arms.
They’re so strong and safe and warm.
It feels good being next to him.
Being with him.
I pack my last pair of panties. Move to the bathroom. Go through my makeup as quickly as possible—concealer, lipstick, mascara (waterproof, of course), eyeshadow.
Owen might take this well, but my parents?
They’re going to freak about me pulling out of med school.
It’s still the right call.
But that doesn’t make telling them any easier.
And, well… I’m not sure I’ll have the strength to get through that if this is a sendoff.
If Wes says it’s been fun, enjoy Chicago—
Ahem.
I’m not getting lost in that.
I’m getting ready.
I bring my makeup to my suitcase, arrange it in the bottom corner, pull the zipper.
There.
I’m ready to leave.
Practically speaking.
I go to wake Wes, but I can’t bring myself to rouse him from his slumber. He looks so peaceful lying in bed, sandy hair falling over his closed eyes, sheets pressed against his bare chest.