Chapter One
“Brice?” I gasped.
Yes, I gasped.
And not for the normal reasons my voice got all breathy when I was in the presence of Brice Lancaster—hot guy firefighter.
No, right then my sharp inhale was caused by seeing the white bandage that started under his navy blue Station 57 t-shirt, continued down, and wrapped around Brice’s bicep.
“What happened?” I continued.
“Nothing.”
Brice walked past me to get to his apartment, which was next door to mine, and with my key still in the lock of my front door, I turned to watch him.
“Don’t look like nothing,” I pressed, noting he had soot on his forehead and some still on his cheek. Which of course made me stare at his fabulous bone structure, something I couldn’t stop myself from doing no matter how many times I’ve told myself to stop.
“Leave it, Quinn,” he barked and my body jerked.
I wouldn’t say that Brice was ever super-friendly with me, not in the six months we’d been neighbors, and not in the years since I’d met him. But he’d also never snarled at me. Not because he liked me but because he worked with my best friend, Jackson Clark, and the two of them were tight.
If I was Jackson’s female best friend, Brice was his guy best friend. So that meant Brice was always pleasant if not a little standoffish. That also meant I was off-limits—which was a crying shame. The crying shame part was not reciprocated, which was down-right disappointing.
“Righty ho,” I mumbled. “Hope you’re okay, Brice.”
I unlocked my door and scurried in. Not because Brice scared me, even if he did kinda shout at me. No, I hurried into my apartment before I could make a fool out of myself and rush to his side and help him into his apartment. Or worse, ask him if he needed any help cleaning his wounds, which would necessitate him being shirtless.
It was more than thoughtless to think about wanting to see Brice shirtless when he was injured, but there it was.
I flipped on some lights on my way to my living room and tossed my purse on the couch, needing to get out of my heels and work clothes.
I, Quinn Walker, had a desk job. Something I never in my whole life thought I’d have. But after spending the six years since high school trying to find myself and failing, I decided it was time to settle on something. Mainly because I liked my apartment and I liked to eat, which meant I needed a paycheck. Partly because I was worrying my dad. He was a hoverer and worried more than my mom that I was still wandering through life not knowing what I wanted to do with myself.
So to give my dad some peace, which I’d given him little of over the years, I accepted the job he offered me at Triple Canopy. This I knew made him extremely happy because he’d told me every day since I’d started working there three months ago. That was after I’d worked at a hair salon for three months as a receptionist-slash-wash-girl. I was trying it out in a salon to see if I wanted to go to cosmetology school to become a stylist.
I loved styling hair. I was good at it, seeing as I had long thick hair and everyone always complimented me on how I wore it. But in the three months I was at the salon, I realized that was not a job for me. It seemed fun in the beginning but then when the diva bitches came in, something I had zero patience for, I couldn’t hack it. Mean people sucked. Bitchy women who bitched just because they could and were demanding on top of that, double sucked.
No, thank you.
So Triple Canopy it was. At least I got to work with family. The downside was I sat behind a desk and worked with family. I loved my dad. Adored my uncles. My cousin Carter was the bomb. But I loved them at family gatherings, where they were always nosy and in my business but I could escape them when I needed. Now, I saw them every day, therefore they were in my business.
Uncaring it was before seven p.m. on a Friday night, I slipped on some pjs and headed for the kitchen. This was something else that had changed, I was freaking exhausted after working all week. Gone were the days of Friday and Saturday night adventures. Not that I’d ever limited them to Friday and Saturday nights, but the sentiment was the same. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d hit a bar with my girls. Hell, I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d hit the mall with my sisters.
Adulting sucked monkey balls. Big time.
I hadn’t made it to the fridge yet when there was a knock on the door and I sent up a prayer it was my mother with dinner. What could I say? I loved my mom’s cooking, one of the things that had kept me living with my parents into my twenties even though all of my friends had moved out and started their lives as soon as they could. Emily Walker spoiled her family. One of the ways she did this was through food.
It wasn’t often, though it wasn’t rare for my mom to stop over to drop off something she’d made. Sometimes it was a casserole, other times it was a cake or cookies.
My mom rocked.
Without checking who it was, I threw the door open and my smile faded.
“You okay?”
“You didn’t check the peephole,” Brice grumbled.
I didn’t say anything because he was right, I hadn’t—though I wasn’t sure why he was bitching about it.
“And you didn’t ask who it was,” he continued.
Right again, I hadn’t done that either, but I still wasn’t sure why he was pointing it out.
“You live alone. You’re the size of a ten-year-old. Don’t be an idiot. Check the peephole before you open the door.”
“I’m not the size of a ten-year-old,” I snapped, totally affronted, and not to mention humiliated, that he thought I looked like a little girl.
“Babe, you’re five-foot-nothing and weigh less than what I press.”
He was right, again. I was the shortest out of my sisters, and maybe a little under-average than most women, something that pissed me off. But still, I did not look ten.
“Press?”
“Bench press.” My confusion must have been clear because Brice sighed and explained. “Weights, Quinn. I can bench press two of you and still not break a sweat.”
That was true, by the looks of him he could. Not that I knew that for a hundred percent fact, but his arms and shoulders were huge so I figured even if he was exaggerating it wasn’t by much. Which made me glance at the bandage.
“Did you need something?” I asked.
“Yeah. Wanted to come over and apologize for acting like a dick.”
“And you thought you’d do that by gettin’ in my face about not checkin’ the peephole?”
His lips pinched together before they twitched and I tried to remember the last time I’d seen him smile. I couldn’t remember, but what I could and did remember was that Brice had never smiled at me.
“And not asking who was at the door,” he reminded me.
“Right. We can’t forget that.”
He didn’t miss my sarcastic reply. “You always a pain in the ass?”
“Friend, if you think this is me being a pain in the ass, then you don’t know me. This is me wondering why after I’ve lived next door to you for six months—you never once knocking on my door—decided to do it tonight, and you do it to give me shit about not checking the peephole. Or shouting down my house asking who’s standing outside.”
“Told you why.”
“No, you didn’t. You told me not to be an idiot. And you insulted me by saying I looked like a ten-year-old. Maybe that barb will be appreciated when I’m say, sixty-five. But I can assure you no woman my age wants to be told she looks like a little girl.”
“Wasn’t trying to insult you, Quinn.”
“Whatever. I’m tired. I’m hungry. And now I need to muster up some energy to cook dinner. So, if you’re all right and don’t need anything…”
“I could eat.”
Yes, that was what Brice Lancaster said before he pushed his very large body through my door, making me step to the side or risk bodily injury as he mowed me over.
This was not good. I’d never tested this theory because I’d never been alone in a room with Brice, but I didn’t think it was in my best interest to share space with a man I’d crushed on for years. Not because he knew I had said crush and not because I was afraid he’d make a play—which incidentally I would catch and enjoy every second of. No, because I was Quinn Walker and I had zero filter. Shit flew out of my mouth that should not be said.
I’d been that way my whole life and everyone said I got it from my mom. Though I cannot see sweet Emily Walker blurting shit out willy-nilly.
“Um. Brice?”
“Yeah?” he asked. Though it’s worth pointing out he didn’t stop his progression to my couch.
I watched as he settled his ass on my brand-new sofa. I did this for a long time thinking I liked the way he looked in my space. So much so, I knew he could not stay.
“Quinn?”
“Brice—”
“Pizza, Chinese, or Thai?”
“I don’t—”
“Fuckin’ starved, babe. Spent the last three hours in the ER. Help me out here.”
Belatedly I noticed his phone in his hand as he waited on me to make a decision so he could order food. Still, this couldn’t happen.
“Maybe—”
“Chinese it is,” he decided. “Anything you don’t eat?”
“What’s happening?”
“I’m ordering dinner. But to do that I need to know if there’s something you don’t eat.”
“Brice—”
“As much as I like hearing you say my name, babe, that’s not helping me order dinner.”
Did he just say he liked hearing me say his name? Oh, boy.
“I eat anything,” I stupidly told him.
“Right. You got beer in your fridge?”
“No.”
“Here.” He tossed his keys in my direction which I proudly nabbed out of the air. “Do me a favor, yeah? Go to my place and grab a few.”
“Your legs broken?” I snapped.
“No. But my fucking arm is on fire and sitting up feels like I got something piercing my gut. Would appreciate it if you could do me the favor so I don’t have to get up, drag my carcass next door, then come back.”
Shit, I felt like a bitch. He was hurt.
“Is it a good idea to drink while you’re on pain meds?” I asked softly.
“Not on any.”
“What? That’s crazy. You need to take something.”
“Not gonna happen. Have a family full of addicts that have taught me if your last name is Lancaster you should not ever take a pain pill.”
Holy, holy, shit. I didn’t know this about Brice’s family. I didn’t know anything about Brice really, other than he preferred hot blondes and he liked his women tall. Which was a double bummer for me because I was short and dark.
“I’ll be back.”
I turned to leave, and before I had my front door open, I heard the rumble of his voice ordering us dinner. I liked that a whole lot, too.
All of this was a bad idea.
I didn’t need to share a meal with Brice.
I didn’t need to know he had a family full of addicts.
And I really didn’t need to know that he shared something personal with me straight out without prompting, telling me he was honest and easy.
Well, I knew Brice was easy, considering Jackson had told me a million times he was a man-whore.
It’s just dinner, I reminded myself.
It seemed like mistake number five-million-sixty-two was getting ready to be scratched onto Quinn’s List of Stupidity.
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