Page 49 of The Puck Bunny

The drinks get sorted out while the boys talk hockey with Lenny, and the server takes our dinner order. It takes me a few big gulps, trying to keep pace with Aunt Mary, who’s slogging hers back like there’s no tomorrow. And then she orders a second one.

She nods at me. “She’ll have another, too. And how about you, Natalie?” She waves without waiting for a response from Quinn’s mom. “Bring us another round of margaritas.”

“Are you sure—” Jenny starts but Quinn cuts her off.

“Don’t worry about Aunt Mary.” Quinn winks at his aunt. “She’s an original Irish drinker. Was born with a hollow leg like her dad, Gramps.” They grin at each other and raise their glasses in a toast.

His mom joins in and Quinn looks at his brother in invitation. “How about it, Chris? To the original old man.”

Chris pauses a beat, glances at his mom, then raises his glass. “To the old man’s old man.”

They clink glasses and take sips. Warmth runs through me as if I’d witnessed something special. Something sad and happy at the same time, the connection between them all wrapping around them in a reminder they all acknowledge.

I sigh.

The boys go back and forth with their mom and dad about how hungry they are, and Lenny, my new hero, engages Jenny in conversation. Natalie and Mary laugh about some memory from their childhood about their dad. That leaves Quinn to turn to me with those wicked blue devil eyes that make my panties blush and that irresistible dimple that speaks volumes, things like, You turn me on or Let’s spend the night together…

I must be in some kind of hypnotic state that makes me think in terms of campy seventies love songs. Which is ridiculous even for me so I shake myself out of it.

“What are you thinking?”

“About you and how irresistible you look.” His voice is soft.

“You can’t say that.” Which is crap since I was just thinking the same thing about his dimple.

“Why not?” He raises a brow. “I can’t wait to hear your answer.”

Me, too. “Because that would be flirting and…”

“And?”

And my mind is temporarily disheveled by those eyes that are rummaging through the drawers in my mind. Crap. I clear my throat and let the margarita ease through me.

“And we’re not on a date. We’re not… like that. We’re friends. Right?” Crap. I didn’t mean for that to be a question.

“We are supposed to be friends. You’re right. I’m out of line.” He looks at his water glass, shaking his head and drawing a circle in the frost. “You make it hard.”

I snort. “Hardly. I make it hard to take me seriously. I’m a disaster.”

He chuckles. “Funny, I was thinking the same thing earlier.” He moves his hand to mine and draws me in with his electric blue stare. “But the thing is, it doesn’t matter. I can’t pretend away the attraction.” He leans in, lowering his mouth to my ear and whispers, “Which is too weak a word for the size of my dick right now.”

My whole body seizes up in the female version of a stiff dick as I suck in a breath and grip the seat of my chair so I don’t launch myself into his lap to go for that promised ride.

“You sure know how to turn a girl’s head,” I say, dredging up a random line from an old black-and-white movie because my brain has clearly gone haywire.

Predictably, he laughs. “See? How can I resist a girl who always surprises me? Who makes me so fucking excited just anticipating what she’s going to say next?”

“That’s a rhetorical question, right?”

“No. The right answer is, ‘Why, Quinn, of course you can’t resist me so you should stop trying’.”

I laugh, a bubbly, borderline out-of-control laugh like I may need a strait jacket soon.

Since we’re in public at a restaurant, it shouldn’t be a surprise when the server returns with his minions bringing our meals and I look around as if I’ve just stepped from a movie theater into the bright daylight, blinking back to reality. Quinn’s mom is looking at me with a kind smile and I smile back, wondering if she’s overheard or can somehow read my mind.

Crap. She can probably read my face since I’m notoriously transparent, especially when I’m drinking and double-down especially when I’m flummoxed by Quinn James and all my flimsy defenses evaporate like the steam billowing from a Zamboni.

We settle into eating and talking about the meal—or the others talk and eat while I try to fork the same piece of food repeatedly while my mind spins around in a loop, repeating the same question. What the heck is going on with Quinn? Is he really flirting? What does that mean?