The Fiction Between Us (Honeywood, #2)

by Julie Olivia

“Good news first,” Fred says. “People loved protective Randy.”

“The bad news,” Fred continues, “is that Hugh is attempting to press charges.”

“Because”—Fred moves closer so that it’s only the four of us in a huddle—“if my daughter has taught me anything about journalism, it’s that even bad publicity is good publicity.”

“And …” I press. “And,” Honey chimes in, “now, we have a buyer interested in the park.”

Me: No. Landon: Don’t be weird. You can come over to my house. Me: I absolutely do not want to. Landon: I’m sure hell isn’t as bad as you think it is, Barbie.

He chuckles. “Where we fake hold hands. And you fake like me.” “You fake like me too,” I say. His eyes dart to me, and he squints with a grin. “Do I though?”

I pick one off the shelf that has a bookmark and open it. I don’t know what I expected the bookmark to lead to. Probably a highlight of his football career. Him on the shoulders of his teammates. But when I open it, it isn’t football. It’s … me.

“What?” he asks. “Are you worried I might have liked you at some point?” “I didn’t even consider that.” His, “Not a chance,” rings through my head, an echo of a memory. “I don’t see why you wouldn’t,” he says. “You’re very likable. You might even say I real like you instead of fake like you.”

Sleeping Beauty? Kiss. Snow White? Kiss. Cinderella? Shoe, then marriage, then kiss. It was never-ending.

“I always liked when you read those,” Landon says, breaking me from my thoughts.

“Did you really enjoy reading over my shoulder?” I ask. “Lived for it,” he says with a laugh.

“Landon,” I say. “Quinn.” And my name on his lips—my real name, not Queen Bee or Barbie—sends a chill down my spine.

When we hold hands, nerves zip up my arm. When he laughs, tingles rise through my chest. And when he traces his thumb over the back of my elbow, I am two seconds away from melting into the floorboards.

“Fine,” I say. “You wanna get into it? Let’s get into it. What are your thoughts on Quinn Sauer?” He barks out a laugh. “Why? Interested in your sister’s best friend?”

Either way: “Oh, whoa. You are.” “It’s …” I want to say not like that, but it absolutely is. “Complicated.”

“They were awful to Quinn,” Orson says. “She’s told me over the years what happened …”

What rational guy would continue pining for a woman who doesn’t like him?

Quinn: What’s for dinner?

Quinn: So, we’ll have dinner at seven and a fight at eight? Me: Try seven thirty. Quinn: I’ll pencil it in.

“Are we practicing lines?” he asks, washing his hands in the sink. “Why else would I be here?” I ask. “Friendship?” He smiles. “Of course not.”

“You are … so interesting, Quinn Sauer,” he says with a sigh. “Just go outside.”

“Come on,” he says. “You were my sister’s mysterious best friend. And there I was, just being an idiot with my equally stupid friends.”

“I’m sorry about that,” he finally says. “I am. Please …” He closes his eyes. “Please tell me what happened after that.” His plea is odd. Does he really not know?

“You didn’t leave the notes?” “I didn’t know there were notes. And I can’t … I can’t imagine how horrible that must have been for you.”

“I’d redo it all if I could,” he finally says. “In a heartbeat.”

“Might be easier to forgive you if you got on your knees.”

“Quinn,” he says, his tone raspy and low, “if you want me on my knees, I can get on my knees.”

I can’t tell if he’s talking about the taste of vanilla or the taste of him.

“Just curious … why’d you come over tonight?” “To practice lines,” I say without skipping a beat. With a downward turn of his chin and a subtle smile, he adds, “Be honest.”

“Friends hang out together, don’t they?” It’s like I can see a light spark in his eyes. “Yes,” he says, “I suppose they do.”

“So, we kiss?” I whisper. Stiffly, she nods. “We kiss. Made the most sense for the ending.”

“Am I nervous?” she echoes with a scoff. “No. Are you?” I smile. “Terrified.”

Except, as each day passes, I swear our glances linger even longer after that final line. And a million questions cross my mind each time.

How will we kiss? Will it be fast? Lingering? Tongue? No tongue? A full-on lipstick-smearing make-out with one leg mounted on his hip? Is Landon even good at kissing? I stop myself before I get too far down that rabbit hole.

Me: Got any strawberries? Landon: If I didn’t know better, I’d say you want to be around me. Me: *Your kitchen. I’d like to be around your kitchen.

“Quinn?” Theo asks. “Hmm?” She smirks. “Are you thinking about kissing Landon tomorrow?”

Quinn Sauer tastes like honey and berries and heaven.

“With milkshakes,” she says. It’s not a question; it’s a demand. “Of course with milkshakes,” I say. “Who am I, Satan?”

It was fight or flight, and normally, I’d pride myself on the fact that I am an all fight, fists up kinda gal.

I’ve never realized how low his laugh is. Okay, I have, but I’ve never really registered how the sound steeps like a tea bag into the water of your soul, letting loose leaves of comfort.

He chuckles, and my heart aches.

This backyard couldn’t be more tense if we tried. And we’re trying damn hard.

I wanted her. I wanted her so bad that I could barely breathe. But when Quinn didn’t make any moves forward and when she looked at me with terror in her eyes, I assumed she didn’t want to kiss me.

“What the hell are you doing?” she finally asks. “Something I should have done a long time ago.” Then, I cup her jaw in my hands, bend down, and kiss the ever-loving hell out of her.

My heart is a predictable piece of crap. I know this because I fall into Landon without a single fight.

“I will never make you do something you don’t want to do.” “Except talk.” “It’s normal communication, Quinn. I won’t apologize for that.”

“I swear you get off on talking about your feelings.” “I get off on a lot of things. Your scowl. Your bad attitude.”

“I wanted to kiss you,” he says. “I wanted to do more, if I’m being perfectly honest. But I didn’t want you to feel like you had to. Because of some obligation to the play or some other stupid reason. And I didn’t know what else to do. So, I panicked.” “You panicked?”

“You make me panic. How are you surprised? I’m a mess for you.”

“Masochist.” He chuckles. “When it comes to you? Yes, I just might be.”