Marty rasped a sigh as she pulled off her ankle-length coat in royal blue, and hung it up on the coatrack in the corner. “Not now, Night Dweller. Quinn’s had a long day. Go make that tea or something. Can’t you see the poor woman’s teeth are chattering?”
Her teeth were indeed chattering, the harsh winds of mid-fall in Manhattan a far cry from the heat of Greece. Quinn spread out a shaky arm. “Please, make yourselves comfortable.”
“On what? The Barbie couch? Can I sit next to Ken?” Nina asked with a cackle.
Wanda unfurled her scarf and shook it at Nina. “Knock it off. Not everyone finds BOGO velvet wall art from the flea market and lava lamps appealing. Now go make tea, so the rest of us can help Quinn sit and catch her breath.”
Marty wrapped an arm around Quinn’s shoulders and squeezed. “It’s so nice to finally meet you. I know Ingrid kept you at arm’s length because of…well, you know—us, but we’ve heard so much about you and how you’ve helped our Ingrid out in your art history classes. It’s nice to put the face to the topic of many conversations.”
Quinn nodded. She could only imagine the conversations her stupidity over Igor and love and romance had evoked. Ingrid was always mocking her for it. Turned out she was right.
Suddenly exhausted, all she wanted to do was climb under her fluffy comforter and sleep off this Nina-lag. “It’s nice to finally meet you, too,” she mumbled, leaning into the warmth of Marty’s side and letting her lead her across the room.
Marty smelled as nice as Wanda, and she dressed as if she’d fallen out of a copy of Vogue, with her skinny jeans, royal blue knee-high boots, and dolman-sleeved purple and pink sweater. Her hair glistened all shades of blonde under the dim glow of Quinn’s end table lamps, falling down her back in beachy waves.
Her hands were gentle when she drew Quinn to the couch and sat her down, tucking the blanket around her and ordering Ingrid to find some warm socks for her sandaled feet.
In a sleep-deprived haze, she let these people she didn’t know tend to her, forgetting they were historically considered heinous creatures and thinking only that she could sleep for days with this kind of attention paid to her.
When a firm hand, warm and gentle, reached for her foot and unhooked the buckle to her sandal, she didn’t open her eyes. She knew it was Khristos, but she almost didn’t care.
Almost—except for that tingle running along her calf as he eased her fluffy socks up and over her ankle.
He leaned into her then and whispered, “Rest. I’ll be here when you wake up, Quinn.”
And somehow, that was strangely comforting.
“Who is this smooshy face?” she heard Nina’s husky voice ask in a tone that almost sounded childlike and sweet. “Oh my goodness, I can’t believe who’s such a sweet, sweet girl!”
Quinn’s eyes flew open, scanning the room. Buffy and Spike. How could she have forgotten about her cats? But it didn’t seem to matter, Nina clearly had it all taken care of as she scratched Spike’s hindquarters and rubbed her cheek against Buffy’s head.
“I told you—total mush on the inside,” Ingrid commented, nudging her shoulder with a grin.
Quinn pushed her hair from her face, assessing her surroundings. She was still on the couch. Rubbing her temples with the heels of her hand, she groaned. “What time is it?”
Ingrid patted her hand. “Midnight.”
Quinn sat forward with a jolt as everything came rushing back to her, but suddenly Marty was there, holding a cup of steaming tea and a grilled cheese sandwich, a warm smile on her red lips. “It’s okay, Quinn,” she said softly. “Everything is okay. Ingrid called your cat sitter to let her know you were home and as you can see, our resident Mistress of Evil-slash-marshmallow has everything under control. Now drink your tea and just relax.” She patted her thigh, and set her tea and sandwich on the end table before wandering off to Quinn’s kitchen, the heels of her boots clacking over the bleached white flooring of her living room.
Khristos was there suddenly, too, standing in front of her before sinking to his haunches, his face maybe even more beautiful in the glow of the lamp. “Better now?”
God. That voice. His voice did things to her stomach, warm and squishy things she rebelled against almost instantly. He was not allowed to give her warm squishies, and while this circumstance was indeed right out of a piece of fiction, it wasn’t romantic at all.
He had to go.
“I’m fine. Look, I don’t need a babysitter. You can go home, wherever that is.” Where did a Greek goddess’s son call home anyway?
“Um, no. I can’t just go home and leave you with the power of Aphrodite, Quinn. It doesn’t work that way. It’s an enormous responsibility, putting people together for life.”
“That’s why they have this thing called divorce. On the off chance you make the wrong decision.” Such an ugly word. As a child of divorce, and a nasty, knock-down drag-out one at that, she’d promised herself when she married it was going to be forever, no matter what it took to keep it together.