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Nadia.

I grab my phone and find three missed calls and a text.

Nadia:

I'm outside. You alive in there?

“Fuck,” I whisper.

Wyatt glances toward the door. “Who is it?”

“Nadia. I asked her to come over.”

His eyebrows lift. “You did?”

“Before you got here!”

“Right.” His mouth twitches. “Should I hide?”

“Very funny.”

The knocking starts again. “Quinn? I can hear you in there!”

I scramble to my feet, smoothing down my T-shirt and running a hand through my hair. Wyatt stays on the floor, looking entirely too amused for a man who was kissing me senseless thirty seconds ago.

I open the door. Nadia stands in the hallway holding a takeout bag from Melt.

“There you are. I was starting to think you'd fallen asleep or—”

She stops when she looks past my shoulder. “Oh.”

I close my eyes.

“Hi, Nadia,” Wyatt says from the living room.

I turn to find him getting to his feet. His hair is a mess, his shirt is rumpled, and he's wearing the expression of a man who's trying very hard not to smile.

Nadia looks at him, then at me, then at the grilled cheese wrappers on the coffee table.

“I see someone beat me to the comfort food.”

“Apparently,” I mutter.

She lifts her own bag. “Well, this is awkward.”

“You can come in,” I say quickly.

“Can I?” Her eyes flick between us again. “Because I'm getting the distinct impression I've interrupted something.”

Wyatt rubs a hand over the back of his neck.

I want the floor to swallow me.

Nadia takes a step back. “You know what? I'm going to take this home and eat it myself. You two carry on.”

“We weren't—” But I have no idea how to finish that sentence, because we definitely were.

She gives Wyatt a little wave. “Night, Wyatt.”