I’ve been waiting for Quinn outside The Met’s employee entrance for the last half hour. I’d sent her a few texts but never got a response. I couldn’t wait—this couldn’t wait.

I’m scrolling through my unanswered emails when the door opens and Quinn walks out. I glance at my watch. Seven pm? Long day…

“Quinn!” I call out, getting up from my bench and waving.

“Archer?” she says, pausing a few steps from the door. “Um, what are you doing here?”

I begin walking toward her. “I had to speak to you.”

“Most people would text or call,” she says. “Stalk much?”

“I did both. No answer, and straight to voicemail,” I answer. I know it’s creepy that I’m waiting for her, but I haven’t been able to focus since I got the call.

“Oh right,” Quinn says slowly. “I turned my phone off for that meeting, and then I got pulled into another one… I’m sorry, Archer. What’s up?”

I sweep my eyes around the busy sidewalk. “Can we talk over dinner? I’ll drive—” I motion to my car idling at the curb.

Quinn leans around me and waves at Tom. “Can’t. Drinks with Holly tonight.”

“Quinn, please.” Am I begging? That’s a first.

“I can’t cancel,” Quinn argues, “her wedding is in a month. Why don’t you come with?”

I run my hand through my hair. “I don’t think Holly likes me.”

“She doesn’t, but only you can change that.”

I actually consider it—another first. I’ve always prided myself on not giving a shit about people’s opinions of me. If it didn’t pertain to business, what was the need? But Holly is Quinn’s best friend, and for some reason, I want to be on her good side.

“Sure,” I say. “I’ll drive, though.”

“It’s only three subway stops away.”

“We’ll drive,” I repeat.

“I’m telling you, it’s close.”

I shake my head.

“Fine,” she says.

Five minutes later, we’re idling outside The Barley Oak.

“Guess we didn’t need to drive,” I admit.

Quinn rolls her eyes and steps out onto the curb.

“You and Holly have quite the taste in bars,” I say, staring at the German draught haus we’re walking toward. “You’re not exactly the cosmo-drinking type.”

Quinn snorts. “Yeah. Not exactly.”

I motion her through the doors and follow after her. Holly jumps up from her table when she sees Quinn, but scowls after she spots me. “What is he doing here?”

Great. Just Great.

“Is it okay if he joins us?” Quinn asks, brushing by her friend’s clear distaste for me.

“He’s here, so I can’t say no.” She throws me peeved look. “Just no more about what a big mistake I’m making in a month, okay?”

Quinn orders an IPA, and I a porter—no doubt the first of many.

“I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot, Holly,” I say. “My views of marriage aside, I shouldn’t have voiced them at your engagement party.”

“But you did,” Holly answers, “and in front of my fiancé.”

“And I apologize. I like James. I think you two will be part of the fifty percent that stays together.”

Holly grunts.

Our drinks arrive, and I take a long pull on my porter, steeling myself for my confession.

“I’m not a child of divorce,” I continue, “but I’ve seen so many failed marriages, or marriages based on money or looks, that it’s hard for me to think anything real is out there.”

Holly and Quinn stare at me.

“That’s my reason, at least,” I finish uncomfortably.

“So you don’t believe in true love?” Holly asks.

I think about that for a moment. “Maybe. My parents are probably true love, but I think they’re the exception.”

“My parents are in love,” Holly argues, “and my cousins and uncles and aunts. I’d say most of the people I know are in love with their spouses.”

“Congratulations,” I say, inclining my head.

“Come on, you can’t be that jaded.”

I turn my glass around on its coaster a few times. “When you’ve grown up like I have, with incredible wealth and all the trappings that go along with it, you start to wonder. ‘Money corrupts’ isn’t as far off as you might think.”

“With that logic, poverty would be the cure,” Holly counters, “but it isn’t. Poverty breaks people; just ask your girlfriend.”

Quinn flinches.

I glance at her, furrowing my brow. I mean, I know money is tight for Quinn, but…poverty? She works at The Met, and as far as I could, she isn’t a spendthrift.

“I think it has to do with the person,” Holly continues, oblivious to her friend’s discomfort. “Their role models, how they were—”

I hold up a hand and turn to Quinn. “What does she mean, ‘just ask your girlfriend’? Are you alright, East?”

Quinn nods. “I’m fine. Sure, money’s tight by the end of the month, but that’s not what Holly meant.”

“What did she mean?” I ask.

Quinn busies herself with tearing up her napkin.

Holly glances between the two of us. “I’m picking up on some tension.”

“It’s nothing,” Quinn says, forcing a smile. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Talk about what? Growing up?” Holly asks. Her eyebrows go jagged. “It’s nothing to be ashamed about. Archer’s technically your boyfriend, so he shouldn’t care.”

“Technically?” I repeat, throwing Quinn a look.

She shrugs. “What? She’s my best friend. I had to tell her.”

“Quinn!” I snap.

Holly shakes her head at us like we’re quarreling schoolchildren. “Archer, cool down. I’m not going to tell anyone. And Quinny, stop being embarrassed of your past.”

I clear my throat. “Sorry,” I mumble.

Quinn shifts in her seat. “Me too. Honestly, there’s nothing to say about growing up. You’ve seen GAC, so you know I didn’t grow up on Park Avenue.”

“So what’s the big deal?” I ask.

The table grows quiet. Holly looks at us both and sighs. “I’m doing this for your own good, Quinny.” She faces me. “Do you know how Quinn and I met?”

“Holly…” Quinn warns.

Holly ignores her. “Do you?”

“You met in high school,” I answer, remembering that detail from the engagement party.

“True, but we met outside of school. My parents are Quinn’s foster parents.”

“I had no idea,” I say softly.

“Quinn’s mom was an alcoholic and drug abuser,” Holly explains.

I glance at Quinn. She’s glaring at Holly.

“One day in eighth grade,” Holly continues, “Quinn came home from school, and found—”

“That’s enough,” Quinn snarls. “I don’t want to talk about this. Fake boyfriend or no, Archer doesn’t need to hear about this.”

“But, Quinny—” Holly sputters.

“Don’t. This night is about you and your wedding, not my sordid, pathetic past.”

“That’s what I’m trying to say! Don’t be embarrassed about—”

“This conversation is over!” Quinn interrupts. She glances at me before turning back to her friend. “Now, why don’t we talk about the receiving line? What order do you want everyone in?”

Holly opens her mouth to argue, but the look on Quinn’s face stops her.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” she grumbles, climbing down from her stool. “Then we can talk about really important things like receiving lines.”

An unsettling silence clings to the table after Holly stalks off.

“I’m sorry you had to witness that,” Quinn says quietly. “Sometimes Holly and I fight, and with work stress and the wedding—” She bites her lip. “Well, tempers are strained.”

“Don’t apologize,” I say. “You should see Zach and me fight, although we’d probably have to take it outside. And this was tame compared to a fight with my father.”

Quinn gives me a weak smile. “Still, I feel bad that you had to hear about my sorry childhood.”

I clench my jaw, wishing she would stop apologizing for something she couldn’t fix. Doesn’t she know that I couldn’t care less where or how she grew up?

I reach out and tuck a strand of chocolate-colored hair behind her ear. “You’re my girl, East. You could tell me anything, and that won’t change.”

Quinn shrinks from my touch and glances away. The sight hurts more than I thought it would.

“We’re back to you hating my touch?” I ask, pulling my hand back.

“No…it’s not that.”

“Then what?”

Quinn’s fingers begin tugging at her sleeve. “It’s…nothing. But thanks for trying to win over Holly.”

I frown. “Oh. Don’t mention it.”

She takes a deep breath. “So, what did you want to talk about?”

Oh right.

I look down at my beer. “My father is having a Labor Day weekend fundraiser at our summer home in Newport with family and a hundred of his ‘closest friends’ to raise money and support for his campaign.”

Quinn nods. “I’m guessing I’m one of those hundred?”

“You are correct.”

“You don’t seem thrilled, Stratton.”

I sigh. “It’s like attending an event for seventy-two hours. Parties, dinners, scheduled outings for media exposure.”

“Oh boy.” Quinn picks up her glass and gulps down the rest of her beer. She raises her hand to wave the bartender over.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like? I’m getting another beer.”

I laugh. “The thought of spending three days with my family is driving you to drink?”

“Oh, it’s not them.”

“Then what?”

“Another IPA, please,” Quinn orders before turning back to me. “‘Closest friends?’ How much you wanna bet the Cliftons will be included in that intimate group?”

I choke on my beer.

“Christ,” I mutter. I slam down my glass, pull out my wallet, and pluck out a few twenties.

“What are you doing?”

I wave the bills in the air, instantly winning the bartender’s attention. “Getting prepared for the weekend from hell.”