need the tissue any more today.
Quentin chuckled. “I’ve been accused of worse.”
“Oh, really?” Grace’s brow pulled up. “Like what?”
“That’s not a conversation for today. Eat. I don’t know about you, but I do not like cold Chinese.”
“I don’t either.” She smiled, glad she’d made the phone call.
They relaxed into an easy conversation while they ate. It didn’t take long for Grace to toss her chopsticks, however. She was done pretending to be fluent with them and dug a plastic fork out of the take-out bags. Easier to eat and easier to talk. Of course, Quentin managed to expertly wield his chopsticks, bringing his food to his mouth without dropping any. Some people are born with all the talent, she mused.
Reminiscing about Christophe with Quentin made her feel better, smoothing out some of the rough edges of her mournful heart. Some of the stories they shared between them brought out her emotions, and Grace more than once had to fight against her compulsion to reach out and touch Quentin’s arm. She knew it wouldn’t be appropriate and imagined him bolting as soon as she did, thinking she was coming on to him.
There were two things Grace knew without a doubt she couldn’t handle right now: A) his being mortified by thinking she was making a pass, and B) trying to explain the reason for the touch. She decided the best thing for both of them would be for her to keep her hands to herself, so she slid them underneath her thighs and pinned them beneath her.
It was easy talking to Quentin. As she sat with him now, she understood why her grandfather had said she could trust him. She imagined pulling out her secret and sharing it with him. The thought of being able to trust someone with something she had only shared with one other soul made her a little giddy, but also somewhat anxious.
When the shadows lengthened and the sky began to hint of twilight, Grace realized it was getting late. “Crap! Do you know what time it is?” she asked.
Quentin looked at his watch. “It’s 7:05. Do you have a date?”
“Kind of,” she said, hurrying about gathering the food and dishes from their picnic. “I’m supposed to meet Emily at Latté Da’s at seven thirty.” Her hands filled with paper containers, she paused and glanced down at Quentin, smiling with what she thought was a great idea.
“What?” he asked, his voice not quite steady. “Why are you smiling like that?”
“You wanna come with me? It’ll be fun and you get to listen to some awesome music.”
Quentin looked away as he rubbed absently at his shirtsleeve. “Hmm, awesome music, huh?”
“Actually, I can’t guarantee that, so don’t hold me to it. Em’s boyfriend is playing tonight and she said his band is great. She isn’t an unbiased spectator, though,” she said.
“You sure you want me hanging around? I won’t cramp your style?” He chuckled in an adorable self-deprecating way.
“Seriously, Quentin, my style? You dress better than any male or female at Woods Cross High.” As he stood, she let her eyes roam, taking inventory of his “style.” Not able to control the roaming, she noticed how his beige slacks fit just so, and how the ridges of muscle under his blue shirt continued stretching down the length of his forearms. “Trust me, if anything, you’ll help my style.”
Quentin was standing in the foyer when she walked out of the kitchen. Grace stopped and leaned against the doorjamb, looking anywhere but into his eyes, and hesitated, wanting desperately to ask him once again to go with her to Latté Da’s. Instead, she bit her lower lip in indecision, reluctant to appear too desperate in his eyes.
“Okay,” he said with a sigh. “I’ll go.”
Grace felt a huge smile take over her face before she could stop it. “Great!” she said too fast. Hurrying to the table next to him, she put her cell in her purse and flung it over her shoulder.
The smirk Quentin wore as she rushed past him toward the front door gave her pause, but his next words stopped her in her tracks. “On one condition.”
She pivoted and cocked her head before asking tentatively, “What’s the condition?”
He crossed his arms across his chest, tightening the shirt that hugged and defined his pecs, as his smirk widened into a Cheshire grin. “I get to drive.”
“Simple. No problem.” She lifted her shoulders in a “fine by me” shrug.
“I get to drive the Shelby,” he clarified.
Oh no! Not so simple and