“Red, just stop. You’re giving me whiplash with all your buzzing around. Come here,” Quinn demands from where he sits on the edge of the bed.
Finding my missing shoe, I back out from under the bed, puffing my hair off my brow.
“We don’t have time.”
As I attempt to move to the dresser, Quinn halts my movements by wrapping a hand around my waist and ensnaring me onto his lap.
“Stop,” he says, inches from my face, his breath fanning my cheeks. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
After we left the gallery, I pretty much remained mute, patting Lucky, lost in my own world. I grunted out bits and pieces of what happened to Quinn so he had an idea of what happened. But I had to be careful because I knew Justin was listening.
We found a vet who took one look at Lucky and confirmed that his front
