The Good Girl's Second Chance (The Bravos Of Justice Creek 2) by Christine Rimmer

to get what you’re trying to tell me.”
    She let out a hard sigh. “Oh, Quinn. It’s a beautiful night. And you’re here beside me. It’s good, you and me, talking like this.”
    “Yeah, it is.”
    “I probably shouldn’t even have brought up my divorce.”
    “Yeah, you should. Whatever you want to tell me, that’s what I want to hear.”
    “That’s just it. I really don’t want to go into any of that old garbage right now.”
    He gave her another of those long, thoughtful looks. And then, “All right.”
    And just like that, he let it go.
    How amazing. He let it go. She’d grown up with a mother who never let anything go. And Ted? He would hound a person to hell and back to find out something he wanted to know.
    But not Quinn. She said she didn’t want to talk about it—and he just let it go. He said, “Whatever that story is, whatever happened in the past, you’re going to be fine.”
    She made a low, rueful sound. “You’re sure about that, huh?”
    And he nodded. “You’re brave and beautiful, Chloe—and not only on the outside. You’re beautiful in your heart, where it matters. I admire the hell out of you.”
    Tears burned in her eyes at such praise. She blinked them away and whispered a soft, sincere “Thank you...”
    By then, she really wanted to take him inside and spend a few more thrilling hours in his arms. But she felt somehow shyer now than that other night—shy and tentative.
    And other than kissing her hand that one time, he’d made no move on her.
    It was two in the morning when he said good-night. She stood at the railing watching him jog down the hill to his house, and felt disappointed in herself that she’d let him go without so much as a single shared kiss.
    But then, he
had
asked her out. She would see him again on Friday night...
    * * *
    Friday evening, Quinn arrived five minutes early. “Better grab a scarf,” he warned.
    She ran and got one, then followed him out across the breezeway and around the garage to the side parking space, where a gorgeous old convertible Buick coupe waited—top down, of course. With sidewalls so white they were blinding even in the shade.
    “Wow.” She couldn’t resist gliding her palm over the glossy maroon paint. “It looks brand-new.” The bright chrome gleamed in the fading early-evening light. It had round vents on the front fenders and an enormous, toothy grille.
    “It’s one of Carter’s rebuilds. A ’49 Buick Roadmaster.” Carter, Quinn’s oldest brother, designed and built custom cars. “I saw it at his shop a couple of weeks ago. Don’t know what came over me, but I wanted it. So I bought it.” He opened the door for her. She slid in onto the snow-white, tuck-and-roll bench seat. “Had him put seat belts in it, along with a decent sound system and power windows.” He was leaning on the open door, bending close to her, his gray suit jacket already off and slung over his shoulder, hanging by a finger.
    She got a hint of his aftershave, which was manly and fresh. He looked so good, in a white shirt and gray slacks, with a dark blue tie. She thought about kissing him, and turned away to run her hand over the leather seat in an effort to distract herself from a sudden, vivid memory of how pliant and hot his lips felt pressed to hers. “It’s gorgeous,” she said, altogether too breathlessly.
    “Yeah.” The single word seemed to dance along her nerve endings. She looked back up at him, and he grinned at her. And she just knew that
he
knew what she’d been thinking. “You look beautiful,” he said, his gaze taking in her little black dress and her double strand of pearls that her dad had given her when she graduated from high school. “So smooth.”
    “Um, what?”
    “You, Chloe. You’re smooth.”
    “That’s good, I hope?”
    “That is excellent. Buckle up now.” He shut the door as she tied her scarf over her hair.
    He took her to the Sylvan Inn, which was a few miles southeast of town nestled in among