I'll Take Her.

Cade

The sound of footsteps on the stairs pulls me from my eggs and the game highlights Riley's showing us on his phone.

"Well, well," Marcus grins, nudging Jeremy with his elbow. "Looks like sleeping beauty's finally awake."

I don't look up from my plate, but I can feel her presence like a fucking migraine waiting to happen. The dining room falls silent except for the scrape of my fork against the plate.

"Oh my God," Riley breathes, and I can practically hear his brain short-circuiting. "You didn't tell us she was—"

"Breathing?" I cut him off, finally glancing up.

Quinn Holloway stands in the doorway wearing what looks like pajamas designed by a retirement home—flannel pants and an oversized Harvard Law sweatshirt that somehow still manages to showcase curves I absolutely refuse to notice. Her hair is messy from sleep, and she's blinking at us like she's stumbled into an alternate dimension.

"I didn't know you all... ate together," she says carefully, her voice still rough with sleep.

"We don't usually," Marcus jumps in, already pulling out the chair directly across from me like the helpful idiot he is. "But we've got a thing tonight."

She takes the seat, and I focus very hard on not looking at her face. Not thinking about how she looked yesterday when she was watching me kiss Jess, all wide-eyed and flustered.

"I'm Marcus," he continues, sliding a plate toward her. "That's Riley, Jeremy, and the grumpy asshole who apparently forgot basic manners is Jake."

Jake waves from the corner where he's inhaling what might be his third serving of scrambled eggs.

"Quinn," she replies, and even her fucking name sounds pretentious coming out of her mouth.

"We would've called you for dinner last night," Riley says, shooting me a pointed look, "but someone couldn't be bothered to mention you'd arrived."

I shrug, taking another bite. "Didn’t realize she was asleep."

That’s a lie.

Truth is, I did know quinn had fallen asleep but I couldn’t care less instead I spent most of the past hours trying to figure out how the hell I'm supposed to survive the next nine months with Beck's self-righteous little sister sleeping down the hall. The sister who thinks she's better than everyone, who judges every decision I make, who has the audacity to look at me like I'm something below her.

"So what's your major?" Jeremy asks, because apparently we're playing twenty fucking questions now.

"Pre-law," she answers, cutting her eggs with surgical precision. "Criminal justice, specifically."

Of course it is.

"Wow, that's impressive," Riley says, and I can see him mentally calculating whether she's out of his league or just mostly out of his league. "You must be really smart."

She smiles—actually smiles—and it transforms her entire face into something that makes my chest tighten in ways I absolutely hate. "I just believe in justice. In holding people accountable for their actions."

The words hit like a targeted missile, and I know she meant them to.

"How noble," I mutter, loud enough for her to hear.

Her smile falters for just a second before she turns back to Riley with renewed sweetness. "What about you? What do you study when you're not playing hockey?"

And just like that, she's got them all eating out of her palm. Asking thoughtful questions, laughing at their stupid jokes, playing the perfect little princess who's so interested in their boring-ass lives.

It's fucking infuriating.

Because underneath all that fake sweetness and those ridiculous glasses, Quinn Holloway is beautiful. Annoyingly, frustratingly beautiful. Tall and curvy in all the right places, with legs that go on for miles and a mouth that should come with a warning label.

If she were anyone else—literally anyone else—I might be attracted to her.

But she's not anyone else. She's the uptight, judgmental prude who spent two years convincing Beck that I was a bad influence. The one who looks at me like I'm a disease she might catch. The one who thinks she's so much better than everyone else because she reads constitutional law for fun and has never made a impulsive decision in her entire sheltered life.

The thought of being attracted to her makes me want to punch something.

Or make her drink poison.

Or both.

"Earth to Cade," Riley's voice cuts through my spiral of rage. "Stop staring at Quinn and pass the orange juice."

I realize I've been fixated on her face, watching the way she lights up when Jeremy tells some story about his statistics professor. She catches me looking and rolls her eyes, that familiar expression of disdain that makes my blood pressure spike.

"Actually," Jeremy continues, apparently oblivious to the tension crackling across the table, "how are you getting to orientation? Do you need a ride?"

"I set my alarm," she says primly. "I'll figure something out."

"My cousin goes ," Jeremy offers. "I could get you her number or we could—"

"I'll take her," I hear myself say, and immediately want to kick myself.

Everyone turns to look at me like I've grown a second head. Including Quinn, whose eyebrows have disappeared into her hairline.

"Really?" Marcus grins like Christmas came early. "That's... surprisingly helpful of you."

I shrug, aiming for casual while my brain scrambles for an explanation that doesn't make me sound like a complete psychopath. "I'm going that direction anyway."

It's not entirely a lie. My house is sort of near. If you squint and ignore basic geography.

Twenty minutes later, the guys have scattered off to whatever is it they’re doing before the orientation party, leaving me alone with Quinn in the living room. She's dressed like she's heading to a corporate board meeting, black  blazer, matching skirt that hits just below her knees, and heels that make her legs look even longer than they did last night.

And to crown it all a pair of mary jane shoes.

I snort, shaking my head as I grab my leather jacket from the back of the couch.

"Something funny?" she asks, adjusting her bag strap.

"Just wondering if you own anything that wasn't designed by someone's grandmother."

She frowns, looking down at her outfit like she's trying to figure out what's wrong with it. "What's wrong with professional attire?"

I don't answer, heading for the front door. She follows.

Outside, I swing my leg over Roxie and kick her to life. The engine purrs beneath me, and I take a moment to appreciate the one thing in my life that never disappoints me.

"What are you doing?" Quinn's voice is sharp with panic.

I look back at her, standing on the front steps like she's watching me commit a felony. "Taking you to orientation. Like I said."

"On that?" She gestures at Roxie like my bike personally insulted her mother.

"Her name's Roxie," I correct, patting the gas tank affectionately. "And yes, on her. Problem?"

"I can't... I don't..." She's actually stuttering, and I have to admit it's kind of amusing. "I can't ride a motorcycle!"

"Good thing you don't have to ride it," I say, revving the engine just to watch her flinch. "I'll be doing all the riding."

The double meaning isn't lost on either of us, and her cheeks flame red in that way that shouldn't be as satisfying as it is.

"You said you'd take me," she says, her voice tight with barely controlled anger.

I grin, pulling my helmet on. "Oops. Guess I lied."

"Cade—"

But I'm already pulling out of the driveway, leaving her standing there in her perfect little business suit with her perfect little moral outrage.

In the rearview mirror, I watch her pull out her phone, probably calling Jeremy's cousin or an Uber or her daddy to come rescue her from the big bad hockey player who dared to inconvenience her morning.

Phase one of Operation Make Quinn Holloway's Life Unbearable: complete.

She wants to judge me? Fine. I'll give her plenty to judge.

She wants to act like she's too good for this house, these guys, this life? Perfect. I'll make sure she remembers exactly why we can't stand each other.

Beck might have strong-armed me into letting his precious sister stay here, but he never said I had to make it comfortable for her.

By the time I'm done, Quinn Holloway will be begging to find somewhere else to live.

And I'll finally be free of those brown eyes and that disapproving frown and the way she makes me feel like I'm seventeen again and stupid enough to think she might actually see something worth salvaging underneath all my darkness.

Not fucking likely.