Page 52 of Final Drive

“I’m not.”

“I believe you.”

The fact that he doesn’t argue makes me want to.

“They’re my team.”

“I know.”

“They’re more than that.”

His eyes hold mine. “I know that too.”

I should leave it there. Instead I hear myself ask, “Then what exactly are you trying to say?”

Quinton looks down at his plate before he answers.

“I like you.”

I don’t know why hearing him say it feels different from already knowing.

“I have for a while. I didn’t say anything because you had enough going on, and I figured if you were interested, you’d let me know.” He gives a small shrug. “Maybe I read that wrong.”

“I didn’t know.”

“That’s sort of the point.” His mouth pulls sideways. “I wasn’t trying to make it your problem.”

For some reason that makes this harder, not easier.

“Quinton—”

“I’m not asking you for anything.” He leans back. “You asked what I was trying to say, so I’m telling you. I like you. I think you’re funny and smart and terrifying when somebody puts bad data in front of you. I like working with you. I like having coffee with you. That’s it.”

“That’s not nothing.”

“No.” His eyes stay on mine. “It’s not.”

For a few seconds neither of us says anything. Then he reaches across the table and takes my hand.

I should pull away.

I don’t, not immediately.

His thumb moves across my knuckles, gentle enough that I hate how much worse that makes the confusion.

“You don’t have to keep being whatever they need you to be,” he says.

The words catch somewhere strange.

“I’m not.”

“I hope not.” His thumb passes over my knuckles again. “I just think you deserve somebody who cares about Reese before they care about what Reese can do for a crew.”

“They do.”

“Then I’m glad.”

I study his face, looking for the angle. “You don’t sound glad.”