Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

QUINN

When I wanted to get together to talk with Layla tonight, I was not expecting her driver to bring me here—Declan's home.

It looks nothing like what I expected or what I had imagined his place would be like. With the clean-cut way he dresses and his gruff demeanor, I expected his place to mimic that—leather, dark wood, and minimalist. Instead, the massive open floor plan is warm and welcoming.

Two things he is not.

My fingers dust over the back of the soft, oatmeal tweed couch. It's an odd design choice for someone with a preschooler, clearly evidenced by the squiggly, bright green trail of marker beneath my fingertips. I round the sofa with my glass of Pinot Noir and take a seat, sinking into the softness of the cushion as I adjust the navy throw pillow beside me. Waiting for Layla to join me with her glass, my gaze roams over the room.

The soft brown walls are adorned with floral art in various muted tones to accent the soft coziness of the space; and black and white family photographs spanning as far back as pictures of the Evans brothers younger than when I first met them. Tucked in the corner not far from the couch is an adorable midnight-blue, Fiona-sized armchair and a small bookshelf packed full of childhood favorites. Other toys are scattered haphazardly around the living area, and Layla gathers a handful of them before dropping them into a small wicker basket as she makes her way to the couch and takes a seat beside me.

Even though I only met Declan's late wife, Sarah, a handful of times before she fell ill, everything about this space reminds me of her. She was always so warm, welcoming, and down to earth.

"I know you don't want it," Layla continues our conversation from the kitchen, "but you know the boys will take care of you."

Swallowing my sip of red wine, I exhale. "I know." The Evans brothers have been footing my bills since that night at the bar, each of them letting me know countless times that there is no expiration for their offers to take care of me. All of them harbor an element of guilt for what happened to me—something that was clearly not their fault. "But you're right. I don't want it. I just can't keep taking their money for nothing."

"It's not for nothing," Layla corrects. "You're family to all of them, and they are merely taking care of someone they love."

I'm not their family…

Her words both warm and break my heart. I've always wanted to be a part of this family, but not like this. I don't want to be the charity case they all feel they need to take care of.

It wasn't always like this between us. We were all thick as thieves when we were younger, and for the longest time, the Evans brothers were like my actual brothers. The five of them would do anything to protect me. Other kids. My mother's many boyfriends. No one stood a chance against the boys who had practically adopted me as their sister.

At least until we all went and fucked it up.

"It feels wrong, like I'm taking advantage. I would feel better about it if I were actually earning my keep." Unfortunately, I'm basically useless being hired for any kind of job that would be worthwhile for them. Crowds, loud noises, and sometimes simply being out in public often result in a panic attack. Sweaty and hyperventilating isn't exactly a good look on me. "I can't go back to the bar. And while I know it's quieter and has more security, I don't think I'm at a place where I could handle the atmosphere of the club either."

"I get that, Quinn. I really do. But you also know these boys aren't exactly capable of taking ‘no' for an answer, right?" Layla slaps her hand over her mouth. "Shit! That was insensitive as fuck. I didn't mean it like that. I'm so sorry."

"You don't need to apologize. I'm not that broken." I force a slight smile because I am still that broken. But Layla is the one person who doesn't walk on eggshells with me, and I'm determined to keep it that way. "I've known them my whole life. They might be assholes at times, but not one of them would ever?—"

My thoughts are cut short when the door opening to the apartment startles me, nearly causing me to spill my wine over the light cushion of the couch beneath me. My fingers tighten around the stem of my glass—with enough force that I'm surprised it doesn't snap in my fist—as my heart begins to race. Seeing my distress, Layla leans forward and lightly wraps her hand around mine, clutching the wine stem. "It's okay." Her tone is soft and comforting. "It's just Tris and Declan."

Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and count backward— five, four, three, two, one— unsuccessfully trying to calm myself and slow my speeding heart before I spiral into a full-blown panic attack. Opening my eyes, I suddenly find myself locked with Declan's slightly bewildered gaze from across the room. My sudden panic might be dissipating, but my heart still thumps a little harder.

"Quinn." My name slowly rolls over Declan's lips with his rich, deep tone as he acknowledges my unexpected presence, his deep-blue eyes not once wavering from our locked stare.

"I hope you don't mind." Layla's words draw Declan's attention from me. "She needed to talk, and I knew you guys would be awhile taking care of…um…business."

"Subtle, mo chuisle ," Tristan chuckles as he slips his fingers under Layla's chin and tips her face toward his before lightly kissing her lips. Standing against the back of the couch, Tristan's hand lingers over Layla's shoulder as he continues, "I've told you; Quinn knows what we do for business."

Removing his black zip-up hoodie, Declan drapes it over the back of the barstool at the island. Crossing his arms over his chest, he leans back against the island. "Quinn is like a sister to all of us. There are no secrets between any of us."

Well, except that one…

… and then the many that stemmed from it.