For the first time in I don’t remember how long, I stayed home last night. I fought the urge to go to my parents’ house in Malibu where I stupidly wanted to be because it was the last place Quinn and I were together.

I know she’s only putting up with me because she’s a good person and because she’s nice. Isn’t that the whole reason she didn’t cut off my dick and superglue it to my forehead all those years ago? Instead, she quietly snuck out of my house, hiding her tears until there were no witnesses. She might be too good for me, but seeing her again sparked that burning craving to feel her in my arms again.

I never forgot her. Never stopped thinking about where she was and what she might be doing. Who she might be spending her life with. I never bothered to look her up because I knew that one glance at a Facebook profile pic or an Instagram photo and the weight of regret would threaten to bury me. I did what I did, and I can’t change it.

Sucking in a deep breath, I knock on her front door rather than letting myself in, not risking a concussion by dildo.

She opens the door, and either seeing me has sparked something inside of her or she has somewhere to go, because she looks phenomenal.

“I got you a coffee.” I hold it out for her.

She glances down, our fingertips brushing as we pass it between us. “Thanks.” She widens the door, allowing me to step in with Marisol’s bucket of cleaning supplies. I can tell she’s still not comfortable with my presence here, which, I can’t lie, is like a punch to the balls.

“I see you’re a little more prepared today.” Her gaze roams up and down my body.

“I have a change of clothes in my car.” I thumb in the direction of my Spyder. I’m not going into the office after, but I’m not showing up to the hospital in running shorts and my Stanford t-shirt.

“No doubt a suit.” She sips her coffee and walks up two stairs before glancing behind her. “I’ll show you the way.”

I follow her, admiring the way her shorts cling to her ass as it sways in front of me. She’s not trying to be sexy, unlike the girls I take home with me—the ones who bend at the waist, purposely showing me the edges of their lace bras or the fact that they’re not wearing bras at all. Quinn is reserved and has no fucking idea how sexy she is. She doesn’t know that the slight curve of her hips makes my dick chub with the thought of what it would feel like to have my hands on them again, or that her slender, long legs practically leave me panting when I think of them around my waist, or that the soft curve of her neck makes my mouth water for a taste.

“Jagger.” She’s standing at the top of the stairs, shaking her head like a displeased mom.

I snap my gaze to her, placing the bucket down on the ground.

“This is my room. I’ve already made the bed, if you just want to dust and then clean the bathroom.” She points down the hall. “That room is my office and a clusterfuck that I’m not ready to touch, so don’t bother in there. There’s another bathroom over here, but honestly, no one has used it since I moved in, so you don’t really need to do that either.”

“I’ll clean it.”

A long breath leaves her pink lips. “You don’t—”

“Marisol would, so I will.”

She presses her lips together and nods.

“You look ten times better today.” Other than the redness of her nose, her cheeks hold a tint of pink again, her body moving with ease.

“I feel better. Thanks for the citrus tea you left behind yesterday.” A sheepish smile crosses her face and I realize it took a lot for her to thank me. “I drank about ten cups last night before bed.”

“I’m glad it helped.”

We stand there silently for a moment and I hate every second of unease between us. There was a time when we couldn’t stop talking to one another. Of course, that came with touching as well. From her body language, touching is out of the question.

“I’ll let you get started,” Quinn says. “I’m sure you have other things to do.”

“Just the medical offices with Marisol. Isa said she’s having some tests today, so I want to get over there before they tell her the results.”

“I hope she’s okay.” Her lips turn down. “She’s a great woman. You better hurry then.”

She slides by me and the scent of her perfume overtakes the entire area. Damn, I want her in my bed. I want her under me.

Then she’s gone, down the stairs with her coffee in her hand.

I enter her bedroom and that craving for her intensifies. This is her space. Where she gets dressed and sleeps every night. Where she probably masturbates.

Shit, this is getting a little stalkerish. I push a hand through my hair and will myself to push all thoughts of Quinn masturbating with that vibrator I was assaulted with yesterday from my mind. Not going to lie—that image was front and center in the spank bank last night and this morning when I showered.

I grab the duster from the bucket and run it over her dresser, examining the pictures of her dad she has there. He looks a bit older than I remember. A few other picture frames dot the surface with pictures of who I assume are her friends. There’s another where Quinn is decked out in a blue sequin dress that lands mid-thigh. My insides constrict with irritation that anyone else had the opportunity to see her looking like that.

Her bed is neatly made, throw pillows and all. You’d never know she was on her deathbed yesterday—there’s no tissues strewn around, no vomit bowls or water bottles littered.

Grabbing the supplies, I clean her most personal space without searching out her personal drawer. I wonder if she’s still a cotton bikini briefs girl or if she’s ventured into lace and satin now. I don’t know which I’d prefer.

Two hours later, I’m done with both of her bathrooms and the floors. The television sounds from downstairs, so I walk to the second door and try the doorknob, curiosity getting the better of me, but it doesn’t budge.

Quinn peers over the back of the couch when she hears me coming down the stairs. There’s some reality show on the television where a woman is yelling.

“I’m done.” I thumb to the door. “Do you mind if I grab my clothes and change really quick?”

She throws the blanket off her lap and stands up, setting her coffee cup on the table. “No, that’s fine.”

“Thanks.”

I head to my car, putting the bucket in and grabbing my duffle bag of clothes.

When I walk back into her house, she’s in the kitchen, pouring another cup of coffee. “Caffeine addict, huh?” I ask.

She swivels on her feet, the coffee mug tucked between her hands. “Job hazard, I suppose.” The cup touches the edge of her lips and I nod toward the bathroom door.

My phone rings while I’m in the bathroom changing and I press the green button, then the speaker one right after. “Isa?” I answer.

“Jag, they’re admitting her.” I don’t miss the quiver in her voice. “They saw something in the scan and they say her potassium levels are high.”

“I’m just changing, I’ll be right there.” I pull my jeans on and throw my shirt over my head.

“I don’t understand. I thought this would be routine or that maybe she had an infection of some kind that could be treated with antibiotics,” she carries on.

“I know. I know. I’ll be right there.”

“Okay.”

The lines dies and I thread my fingers through my hair, put on some deodorant and open the door.

Quinn leans against the back of her couch facing me. “I overheard,” she says, embarrassment tinting her cheeks red.

“Yeah, I gotta go.” I push my bag over my arm and head to the door to put on my shoes. At the door, the realization that I have no other reason to speak with Quinn again hits me and prevents me from leaving. “Can I have your number?” I take my life in my hands by asking.

She stands there motionless and mute for what seems like minutes but is only truly seconds. “Can I come with you?”

“To the hospital?” I clarify.

“Yeah. I want to be there for Isa. We’ve kept in touch over the years.” She shrugs, slipping on her Converse and grabbing her purse before I even agree.

“You’ve kept in touch?” What the fuck does she mean they’re friends?

“Yeah.”

“You and Isa?” I ask with stunned disbelief.

She looks up at me, holding her keys in her hand. “Yes. We’re friends.”

What the fuck does she mean they’re friends?

A smile forms on her lips.

If I didn’t know better, I’d say she’s enjoying having one up on me.

* * *

I walk into the room and my stomach tightens when I spot Marisol in the bed, her skin ashen, her eyes tired.

“How are you?” I take her hand in mine at the bedside.

She pats it with her free hand. “Just watching Judge Judy. She’s really digging in to this guy.” She doesn’t shift her gaze from the television.

“Hey, I brought your new client with me,” I say.

Now I have her full attention. Her eyes widen, and she slides up in the bed, her hands immediately moving to her curly black hair. “Jagger, no.”

Isa’s crinkled forehead smooths when she looks at the door. Her gaze shoots to me, her mouth slightly ajar.

I nod.

“Oh, my God.” She runs around the bed, disappearing past the closed curtain.

“Who? What?” Marisol tries to fix herself up while silently yelling at me with her eyes. She’s always been good at that.

“Mama.” Isa appears with her arm tight around Quinn. “It’s—”

“Quinn?” A smile spreads on Marisol’s lips.

Quinn nods, the shyness I remember resurfacing.

“Eres tan bella,” Marisol coos, patting the spot beside her on the bed. “Come.”

Isa lets her go, her gaze laser-focused on me as Quinn slowly lowers herself onto the bed.

Marisol takes Quinn’s hands in hers, and then one hand moves up, cradling Quinn’s cheek like she’s thirteen again. “So beautiful. Isn’t she, Jagger?” She never looks over to me and neither does Quinn. But Isa’s eyes won’t leave me.

“Mmhm.”

Marisol swivels her head in my direction, raising her eyebrows.

“Yes. She is,” I say.

The pinkness in Quinn’s cheeks tells me she liked that. I shift my stance to hide the chub trying to make itself known in my pants. It always did turn me on—how easily I could make her blush.

“What are you doing here?” Marisol asks, and Isa rounds the bed, standing by my side. To look at the two of us you’d think we were a united front against the girl I pushed out of our lives years ago, but Isa has betrayed me, having kept in touch with Quinn this whole time and never spoken of it.

Traitor.

“I moved to L.A. a couple months ago to be closer to my dad.”

Marisol’s lips turn up into a sweet smile. She loves the fact Quinn’s always been a girl who puts family first. Marisol’s philosophy is that if a girl isn’t close to her family, it’s a neon warning sign.

“Come,” I instruct Isa, nodding my head toward the hallway.

She rolls her eyes, not looking at all surprised that this was coming.

I shut the door behind us when we’re both in the hallway and Isa leans her shoulder against the wall, arms crossed over her chest. The nurses’ station is down the hall, so other than a man with a walker and his wife wheeling a pole with bags hanging off it, we’re alone.

“What is it?” Isa asks sweetly.

“You’ve been talking to Quinn all these years?”

That smile turns to a smirk and I cross my own arms, widening my stance to show that I’m serious.

“May I remind you why she left?” Isa widens her stance to match my own. Fucking smartass.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

She huffs a laugh. “It’s not like you cared. You acted like if I said her name you’d wash my mouth out with soap.” Her black eyebrows lift, daring me to argue with her.

I run my hand down my face. She’s right. Quinn, Belle and the entire Ryan name was taboo around me for a long time. “Maybe the first few years, but—”

She puts her hand in the air. “Jagger, what were you going to do? Apologize? Seek her out to live some fairy-tale happily ever after? You’re not a prince on a white horse. You’re the villain in the black Spyder.”

I grip my heart, her words cutting me. She’s taking the pseudo-sibling rivalry thing way too far. “Harsh.”

Her features soften. “Quinn’s not like the girls you…date, Jagger. She’s sweet, innocent…naive. You get what you want when you want it. You’ve never had to fight for anything in your life.”

“I fight for my clients every day. If I had no fight I wouldn’t have a house on the ocean, five cars that each cost as much as the average Joe’s retirement fund, and a position at the top of my field. You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

Rage flares to life in my veins and if Isa was a guy, I’d have hauled off and hit her by now. I hate when people think they know me.

“Listen.” She places her hand on my chest to calm me. “I know you liked Quinn, probably more than any of the bunnies who hang off you like you’re Hugh Hefner, but you showed her all those years ago that no one is special enough to hold your attention for long. She left because you destroyed her, Jagger.”

I stare at the old sign posted on the wall about getting a flu shot instead of into her eyes. There are a lot of regrets in my life, but what happened with Quinn is…

“What did you want me to tell you?” She inches closer, her voice lower. “That she reached out to check on you? To see if you went to college? That the entire year when you were partying it up at Stanford, she was barely holding it together back in Ohio? That when she returned home, she…” She shakes her head. “Let’s just leave it that you went to college and probably fucked half the female population while she pined away for you. You guys felt very different about each other and it was just best—”

“For her, you mean? That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it? That it was best if Quinn was far from my reach?”

With her eyes still soft and pleading, she nods. “I’m sorry, Jag. I love you like a brother, you know that, but when it comes to romantic feelings, you’re kind of an asshole.”

My fist slams into the wall. I grab the paper and yank it from the wall. Maybe someone should do their damn job—no one is getting flu shots in the summer.

“Calm down.” She inches up on her tiptoes, still not coming close to my height. When that fails, she wraps her arms around my waist. “It’s okay, Jagger, everyone is different. So, you’re not the settling-down type.” She shrugs in my arms. “It’s okay. I’m a coward. Too scared to fall for someone. We all have things about us we probably don’t like.”

“You’re not a coward.” I wrap my arms around her. She only speaks the truth and from the example I’ve set with the rotating door of women coming in and out of my life, she has a point. “Just a mama’s girl.”

She hits me in the stomach, but I tighten my hold for a second.

“Thanks,” I say.

She stares up at me. “For telling you you’re an asshole? Anytime.” That smile reappears on her lips and she slides out of my hold, disappearing into the hospital room.

Now I have to go back in there with my tail between my legs and apologize. Damn, I fucking hate when this happens.