Chapter Fifteen
KINSEY
Two weeks.
That’s how long I’d lived with Quinton Miller.
And in the entire time we’ve lived together it had turned into a terrifyingly normal thing to not only see him in nothing but a towel at least ninety-nine percent of the time, but get flashes of naked ass when he forgot—right, forgot—to do laundry.
In the mornings, he drank milk shirtless, I know because I almost always ran into those muscles every morning in the kitchen.
He made his coffee strong enough that I was worried that one day I’d wake up with chest hair.
And he bought a special mug for mine.
It was pink.
It had a K on it.
In short, Quinton Miller was slowly killing me.
He made protein shakes like a boss, always kept fruit snacks in storage just in case the zombie apocalypse happened and there was a shortage, his words not mine, and he was the perfect gentleman.
I’m talking perfect.
One night after a double practice, I’d come home to him not only drawing me a bubble bath but asking if I’d like champagne to go with it.
It wasn’t until day fifteen that I snapped, completely lost it and nearly rammed my fist through his perfect face, because how the hell dare he! It wasn’t his job to make me happy, or cook me eggs, or make sure that I had my own ceramic coffee cup! We weren’t really dating and all he was doing was making me wish we were, which was really unfair since he was like an emotional terrorist who bombed your heart only to tell you that you’d have to leave the country to find a hospital big enough to fix it!
By the time I got home that night, I was fuming, fuming! He’d left a note in my bag to have a good day.
Right. It said Have a good day.
That’s it.
I was still irritated that I was upset over something so small, something so nice, something that for some damn reason brought tears to my eyes at least four times during practice.
Jax had given me a wide berth the past few weeks, and knowing that I was this pissed was probably killing him as much as it was me.
And then there were the phone calls and visits with the parents, where I pretended to be brave, then cried myself to sleep after.
“Miller!” I slammed the note on the kitchen counter of his immaculate penthouse apartment.
He was nowhere to be seen.
“QUINTON MILLER, YOU GET YOUR ASS IN HERE NOW!” I was full-on squeezing my hands into little fists and getting ready to start throwing dishware all over the kitchen when he rounded the corner.
In a freaking towel.
Again.
“That’s it!” I charged toward him. “This is the last straw!” I tugged the towel free, not really thinking about anything other than how irritated I was that he was basically naked again. I had the towel in one hand and the note scrunched up in my other hand.
And Quinton Miller, sexiest tight end God ever created, was looming over me with a confident grin and little water droplets sliding off his abs onto the floor by his feet. “Kins, you okay?”
“Y-yes.” Look away, just look away. “I mean no, no.” God bless football, and God bless the V, it was so deep I wanted to reach out and touch the valley between his lower abs until my hands grazed his ever impressive—
“Kins?”
“Hmm?” I jerked to attention. “Yes?”
“You were yelling.”
“I was.”
His eyebrows shot up. “And you stole my towel. I’m kind of at an impasse here, little Waffle, did you just want to see me naked, or what? Because I’ve got a date in a few.”
“A date?” Deflated, I let the word hang in the air like a complete idiot. “Of course you do.”
Jealousy slammed into me. Heart weak, I felt like I needed to sit down. Why was I upset again? Oh, right, because he was making me like him more than I already did, he was being nice, and now? Now the rug was getting pulled out from underneath me. Of freaking course. A date.
“You can join me if you want.” He grinned that stupid grin that had elderly women everywhere grabbing their chests and either fainting or going to the ER for heart attack symptoms.
Damn it. “No, um, I wouldn’t want to intrude.”
“It’s not really that kind of date, Kins.”
“Oh.” I shifted on my feet, and then handed him his towel, all done in jerky movements like I was the one in the wrong when he was the one running around treating me like the best friend he’d never had. I gulped, “I should probably change.”
What was I saying?
Was I actually thinking of going with him?
Seriously?
“Great.” The guy pissed me off further by patting my head like I was a child, and then he mussed my hair. “Just wear what you normally wear, jeans, leggings, nothing too sexy.”
My eyes narrowed into tiny slits.
“What?” He looked genuinely confused as to why that last statement had me ready to rip his eyeballs out. “You do want to go, right? We have to be there in fifteen minutes. Come on, you’ve been moping for two weeks. It’s time to get out, Kins, live your life, and stop being sad.”
“I’m not sad,” I argued like a child, even going as far as to cross my arms.
“You’re right,” he whispered. “You’re angry. Which is almost worse. Because at least when you’re sad you can mourn. Sadness you can battle. But anger? Anger we just justify until we’re miserable as hell. The last time I saw you smile was in your brother’s kitchen, you’re losing weight, and you forgot to shower yesterday.”
“I did not!” Embarrassed, I wanted to crawl under the couch and let it suffocate me to death. “I’ve been busy with practice!”
“You’re working out too much.” His fingers grazed my chin. “You’ve been crying yourself to sleep, and we’re out of ibuprofen. How many headaches have you had?”
I jerked away from him. The psycho actually counted the ibuprofen tablets? Who the hell was I living with? “You’re not my brother.”
“You’re right.” He flinched as if I’d just smacked him, and then a smile brightened his features. “I’m your pretend boyfriend, so you may as well go out with me. Hell, I’m even willing to face the wrath of Jax in order to get that smile back on your face.”
“You forget, I’ve been living with you. I’m immune to your charms.” I was such a liar, but it was all I had, he clearly saw all the little things I’d been trying to hide. The headaches, the exhaustion, the dark circles under my eyes. It was bad enough that Jax was suspicious, but Miller wasn’t even supposed to know me that well.
“Clock’s ticking, Waffle, go change.”
I looked down at my athletic shorts and Nike shoes. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
“I can see you’re going to be difficult.” He tossed me over his shoulder, carrying me into the guest bedroom and depositing me on the mattress. I bounced up, my head nearly connecting with his chin while he rummaged through one of my bags. Soon a pair of jeans was sailing by my head, followed by one of my favorite tops, how did he even know that? Was it a coincidence? He found a pair of Gucci boots and added them to the pile of crap getting thrown in my direction. He paused and then walked over to the dresser where I kept my jewelry. His massive hand grabbed something and then he was walking over to me.
With a sigh, he grabbed my hand and pressed a pair of diamond studs into the palm. The studs my dad had given me when I graduated college. The same ones I hadn’t worn for two weeks, out of fear, irrational anger, sadness.
“You have two minutes.”
He shut the door behind him.
And rather than give him attitude or argue, I stood on wobbly feet, and changed.