#quinn2

There were plans, of course, but nothing had been set in stone. And maybe it was a bad idea. Well, no-- it was a bad idea. And Nate knew it. But he was several glasses in and pissed off at the world. And it was as if everyone in the room had parted, leaving Quinn Hawthorne in his direct line of sight.

He slid one glance to his left. Just across the room, his father mingled. Smiling and laughing as though pleasantries were his norm. He wanted to ruin it. Nate’s throat tightened, his knuckles white as they gripped the glass in his hand. His feet were moving before he could even process the thought. This was almost as public as they could get, right?

“Hawthorne,” Nate greeted loudly, with all the swagger of someone drunk and looking for a fight. He raised his glass slightly in a mocking sort of greeting. He’d catch on, Nate knew. “It seems with the venue change, the gala has also lowered its standards. Looks like they’ll let just about anyone in this place.”