35. Chapter 35

Thanksgiving Day. A day to celebrate all the things that we are thankful for. I always hate getting asked at dinners what we are thankful for. And since I have no idea what to expect from Quinton's family's Thanksgiving, I start making a mental list of things I'm thankful for, just in case the topic arises.

This year I'm thankful for:

My health and spirit.

Chloe and Cody—my besties that always have my back.

The football boys for welcoming me into the crew, even more than I already was.

Going home to see Asher and Bryce.

Truth or Dare.

This year I'm so thankful for the stupid game because, if it wasn't for some girl from my past daring Quinton to kiss me, I don"t know if we would have given in to our attraction. I'd like to think that we'd have eventually woken up on our own and seen it, but I don't want to take that chance.

"You're going to hurt yourself," Quinton says from the driver's side of my Mercedes, interrupting my thoughts.

Head snapping toward him, I find him staring straight ahead. I can't help but admire how handsome he looks in his camel-colored sweater and dark-washed jeans.

"How so?"

Glancing my way, he takes his right hand and pulls my bottom lip from where I was worrying it between my teeth—I didn't realize I was nibbling on it.

"From thinking so hard. Relax, babe. It's going to be fine."

"Easy for you to say," I scoff, turning back toward the window, eyes watching the landscape pass by. "Your family doesn't hate you."

A long breath passes through his lips, his gaze burning holes in the side of my head.

"They don't hate you, Brynn," Quinton says, reaching his arm across the console and settling on my thigh.

He takes his thumb and rubs tiny circles on my exposed skin from where my skirt has ridden up.

"They might not hate me, but they certainly think I'm not good enough to breathe the same air as you."

We both know the truth. His mom can't stand me. She's never gotten to know me, but she already assumes I'm not good enough for her son. I don't know why Quinton tries to deny it when the words have actually come from her mouth. She's written me off as a gold-digging ho—her words, not mine—even though I have my own trust fund. I don't need Quinton's money. I can easily support both of us if he ever decides that a career in the NFL isn't what he wants.

My eyes slide down to where his thumb is rubbing tiny circles, the ones that always seem to calm me down. But instead of appreciating his touch, I'm questioning my outfit choice for the millionth time today.

An explosion in my room would have done less damage than what I did this morning. I think I changed my clothes twenty different times before I settled on a tweed skirt with an ivory and brown grid pattern, a golden-brown colored turtleneck, and my white Lucchese cowboy boots. When I sat down to do my makeup, I made sure to keep it very neutral, nothing too dark or too heavy, with a simple nude lip.

Quinton told me I looked beautiful when I finally emerged from the bedroom. He was waiting downstairs since he stayed over last night. Without planning, our outfits complimented each other, making us look like a cute matching couple. We'll have to take a cute picture for Instagram.

But I don't think it would matter what I picked out. Abigail Boyd will always find a fault, and I'm thinking that the skirt I picked out is too short. I forgot to check the length when I sat down. It looked fine standing, but now I'm sure it'll garner some kind of comment once I'm seated.

Up ahead, I spot their property. Quinton navigates us through the gated, paved drive that leads to the beautiful, white colonial home. Where my parents' home is warm and traditional, the Boyds' is cool and modern. Bringing us to a stop, Quinton turns off the ignition before turning to face me.

Eyes searching my face, I know he can see all the worry lines and the missing lipstick from where I've worried my lips the whole drive. He brings my hand to his lips, kissing my fingers.

"You're beautiful, Wilder. Don't let my parents get to you. I don't care what they think and neither should you. I love you, and that's all that matters."

Wait, what?! What did Quinton just say? Did he just drop the love bomb parked outside of his parents' house?

"Wha-what did you just say?" My eyes search his face for any regret.

There's none. Earnest eyes stare back at me, and a tiny smile spreads across his face. Gripping my face, he holds my head still while I stare at him.

"I said, ‘I love you and that's all that matters.' I love you, Brinley Wilder. I have since we first met. There was something about this spunky, wild girl that caught my eye, and I knew that I was going to fall in love with her."

Before I can even process what I'm doing, I'm flinging myself toward him. My body slides up on the console in a very awkward, very uncomfortable position, but I don"t care. I need his lips on mine. I need to feel his love.

Slowly, pulling away from his kiss—even though I didn't want to—we both sit there, staring at each other, goofy grins painting our faces.

"I love you too," I respond, Quinton's smile growing even wider.

Our moment is interrupted when someone knocks on Quinton's door. The two of us separate, and I reach down into my purse and pull out my lipstick. Reaching up, I pull down the visor, open the mirror, and reapply my freshly kissed lipstick. Quinton opens the door and steps out. Damien stands there, stepping back to make room for Quinton to stand up outside the car.

"Hey, Brynn." Damien waves before turning to face Quinton. "You two done sucking face?"

"Shut the fuck up."

Reaching out, Q pushes his older brother in a joking manner before the two of them are embracing each other in that handshake/hug thing guys do.

"Sup, bro?"

"Ready to get this shit show over with," Damien responds, both men making their way over to my side of the car.

I'm closing the visor, slipping my lipstick inside my purse when my door is opened for me.

"That's supposed to be my job," Quinton grumbles, hand in his pocket, while Damien opens my car door.

Grabbing my purse from the floorboard, I slip it on my shoulder as I slide out of the car, thanking Damien.

"Breathe, Brynn," both men say at the same time.

I chuckle.

As chaotic as Quinton's family dynamic is, Damien and Quinton are the closest. There was a time when envy toward his brother ran through Q's veins, but they've both been working on their relationship. It's really good to see both of them smiling and joking with each other.

Look at us. Both growing up and dealing with our shit.

There was a time when Damien just stood back, quiet and broody, standing outside the group. The outsider of the family, he never pursued any type of football after high school. There was a lot of damage done between Mr. Boyd and Damien because of that decision, but as a true outsider of the family, it was the best decision Damien could've made.

The three of us head toward the house. Damien led the way, with us right behind him, walking hand-in-hand into the lion's den. Or should I say lioness' den? Damien presses the doorbell while Quinton leans down and gives me a kiss on the cheek. My eyes stay straight ahead, waiting for the door to open. The burnt-orange door slowly opens, and there stands Abigail.

A wide smile touches her lips as she looks from Damien to Quinton, and then her eyes find mine, her smile dropping, her lips curling down at the corners, before she quickly pastes a fake smile on her face. But it was too late. We all saw it. Tension radiates from all of us as Abigail opens the door wider for us to enter.

Delicious scents filter in from the kitchen, welcoming us with more warmth than the mother of the two boys in front of me. I stand there, feeling incredibly awkward, as I watch the exchange between mother and sons. She reaches up, kissing each boy on their cheek and wrapping them in her arms for long hugs.

Someone who doesn't know the Boyds would think this is a sweet loving family. But I know the truth.

"Don't let her get to you," a voice says next to me, making me jump.

I didn't see anyone slide up next to me. Removing my eyes from Quinton, I look to my side and see an adorable older lady. She's dressed in purple trousers, a silky, black top, and an oversized, matching, purple button-up. Her eyes aren't watching the exchange, but looking right at me.

"Excuse me?" I ask the lady.

I'm assuming she's Quinton's grandma, but I'm not positive.

She laughs. "I'm the old one who's supposed to be hard of hearing, not you. Maybe you should stop listening to so much live music and get your ears checked."

I'm taken aback by the old woman who has jokes.

"Grandma Cleo?" I ask, trying to figure out who she is.

I'm assuming she's Q's Grandma Boyd. He's the closest with her. Her frail arm slides under the crook of mine as she escorts me away from the entryway.

"Come, we need a drink if we're going to make it through this dinner. And call me Grams."

I do as I'm told, letting Grams lead me down the hallway toward the living room. As I'm walking, I glance over my shoulder. Quinton is staring at us with a smile of adoration on his face. I smile back.

Before long, we are gathering around the dining table. It's an elegant table that has been lengthened with leaves to accommodate most of us. Some of the younger kids are seated at the table in the eat-in kitchen. Quinton pulls out my chair for me to sit, both of us looking at each other with hearts in our eyes. He loves me. Quinton Boyd told me he loves me. I still can't figure out how I got so lucky.

Grandma Boyd—I learned I guessed correctly—hasn't left my side. She's hilarious and a terrible influence. I'm already on my way to a really strong buzz, and we've only been here an hour. Grams, on the other hand, is heading straight toward drunk. She's a tequila drinker, which means I love her even more. She's been making us Palomas, which I didn't think I would like since it's grapefruit, and the only grapefruit I like is a grapefruit hard seltzer. But I've learned, if Grandma Boyd wants you to do it, you do it.

Speaking of Grams, she slides into the seat next to me, giving me a wink. Internally, I chuckle. Here I thought this little old lady was some frail thing, but it just turns out she's a tiny enabler.

I feel his breath against my skin before he says anything.

"I see you've hit it off well with Grams." I smile, dragging my glass up to my lips for a small sip.

"She's freaking awesome. Why haven't you introduced us sooner?" I asked quietly. Well, I thought it was quiet, but Grams hears us.

The woman doesn't miss anything.

"Yeah, why haven't you brought me around her before, Quinton?" Grandma chimes in, interrupting us. "You ashamed of me? Or is the honey pot too sweet to leave?"

Choking on my drink, I begin coughing as Quinton's face turns bright red.

"Christ, Grams," he barks out.

"Cleo, for god's sake," Abigail tsks in disgust.

"Oh, lighten up, Abigail. He's a grown-ass man in college. He's having sex. Maybe you need to remove that stick from up your ass and get laid every once in a while," Grams retorts.

The whole table goes silent, watching the two women stare down.

I'm doing everything in my power to not burst out laughing, my eyes staying fixed on my place setting. I know if I look up at Damien, who is seated right across from me, we're all going to lose it. I see from the corner of my eye that Quinton is trying his damnedest not to laugh too.

But Quinton makes the mistake and looks at Damien. They erupt in laughter, and I follow suit with Marcus, Quinton's uncle, following along.

"That's enough," Mr. Boyd barks out. "Mom, enough."

Her eyes leave Abigail's as she turns to her son. "Mind your manners. Don't forget who raised your wild ass. There was a time I was chasing hoes out of your room. At least Quinton took the time to find a good one."

Clearing her throat, the caterer stands in the doorway. Abigail turns to her, nodding her head.

"Lunch is ready, let's just eat."

She ignores the dig Cleo slipped in.

I might not have Abigail's stamp of approval, but I have Grandma Boyd's, and that's like winning the lottery.

Grams means the world to Quinton.

So if she approves, then I can rest easy.