Page 50 of Final Drive

The project is due in under two weeks and we still have the presentation to finish, and that’s the only reason I’m walking into the library instead of staying at the house where eight Alphas would happily build a wall around me. I’m not letting my GPA go down with everything else.

Quinton’s already at our table in the back corner with his laptop open and two coffees waiting. He looks up when I get close and his smile is the same one he’s had for weeks.

“Wasn’t sure you’d show.” He slides one of the cups over. “Vanilla latte, extra shot.”

“Thanks.” I take the chair across from him and keep the table where it is. “Sorry I’ve been a ghost. Things have been a lot.”

“I saw the articles.” He tilts his head. “That reporter did a number on you.”

My stomach turns over. Of course he saw. Everybody’s seen.

Two pieces have run so far and both of them are about the photograph. A crew that’s unusually close, a coxswain who transferred mid-year and won’t comment. Kowalski said the word out loud in our boathouse on Thursday, but she hasn’t printed it, and until she does it’s one reporter’s theory that nobody is obliged to believe.

“It’s being handled,” I say, which is the nearest thing to true I’ve got.

“I’m sure it is.” He picks at the lid of his cup. “Your guys seem pretty protective.”

“It has its moments.”

We work in quiet for a while, which is a relief. Quinton’s always been good at knowing when I need the room. It’s one of the things I liked about him back when I thought he was a nice guy offering friendship with nothing attached to it.

“Hey.” His voice brings me back. “You okay? You’ve been on the same paragraph for ten minutes.”

“Distracted.” I make myself look at the screen. “Where were we on the market analysis?”

“Almost done.” He turns the laptop toward me. “I finished the competitor breakdown while you were dealing with everything. Figured you had enough going on.”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to.” He shrugs. “We’re partners. Partners help each other out.”

There’s a little weight on the word, or maybe I’m looking for it now. Quinton has been nothing but decent to me, and everything the guys said about him sounds paranoid in a quiet library on a Friday afternoon with a vanilla latte sitting beside my hand.

“So we need the conclusion and the slides,” I say, scrolling through his work. It’s thorough. “We could finish the draft today if we push.”

“Or we could take a break. You look like you haven’t slept this week.”

“I’m fine.”

“You keep saying that.” His eyes stay on mine. “You don’t have to perform for me, Reese. I’m not going to judge you and I’m not reporting back to anybody. I’m here if you want to talk.”

It’s more tempting than it should be, because he’s right that I haven’t slept, and I’m tired all the way through from holding my face still in front of the pack.

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Okay. No pressure.” He holds up his hands. “The offer stands.”

We work another hour. The conclusion comes together faster than I expect, his writing folding into mine without either of us fighting for it, and by the time we save the file I’ve forgotten to be nervous.

“That’s a solid draft,” he says. “Polish the slides this weekend and we’re done.”

“Thank God.” I stretch until my back cracks. “One less thing.”

“You know what you need?” He closes the laptop and stands. “Food. Real food, not whatever protein bars your guys keep putting in front of you.”

“I should get back.”

“Come on. There’s a tapas place around the corner with patatas bravas worth crossing town for. My treat, for finishing the hard part.”