"Last night never happened," Hadlee croaked, sitting bolt upright and staring at the man across the bed.
"You mean that literally?" Quinn Brennan said, voice flat and careful. He folded the duvet back and set the room in order with small, exact movements. Nothing about him looked startled.
"I mean—get out of my apartment," she said. Her voice was smaller than she wanted. She reached for yesterday's jeans on the chair and her hand found the waistband of the wrong dress instead.
Quinn lifted a hand. "Apartment?"
"You know what I mean. This—" She shoved the dress over her head and grabbed her shirt. "It was a mistake."
Silence, measured and patient. Quinn's mouth barely moved. "Was it?"
Hadlee pressed her palms to her temples. "Don't make this weird. You have your life. I have mine."
"I left," he said quietly. "That was the agreement."
The words landed like a slap and she reacted before thinking. Her hand hit his face.
It was a clean, hard sound. The room went real for a second—no gentled edges, no slow motion. Quinn blinked once, then touched his cheek where her palm had stung him.
"You hit me," he observed, without heat.
"You deserved it," she said. She was surprised that her voice didn't shake.
Quinn didn't raise his hand. He took off the cufflinks he'd been wearing, put them on the bedside tray, and slid them toward her. "You always did."
Hadlee's grip
