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them. And he controlled himself. Sarah thought back to the near fight, when he turned over the table. He’d clearly gotten drunker than he was used to—he’d told her laterit was “his turn.” He’d been in a rage, understandably jealous as Erin and Owen flaunted their new love in front of him. And he still had the wherewithal and the courtesy to say to her, “Move, please,” before he threw the table into the pool.
    Move, please. Maybe he was worried about more than her physical safety. Maybe he could tell how far gone she already was. In his direction.
    Or toward the Alabama coastal town where she’d grown up. He reminded her of the high school boys who wore cheap cologne and long bangs and ironed jeans with their shirts tucked in when they dressed up special for dates. Not that Quentin had long bangs. His haircut was such an unstudied mess of brown waves that it couldn’t technically be considered a haircut.
    It was more the Southern drawl that was familiar, and the insolence with which he eyed her. She’d seen that look many times, but it had never been directed at her, and she’d wanted it. She’d wanted one of those cheap cologne dates and had never had one. She’d smelled the boys when they played basketball with her, smelled their hot sweat. Then, on Saturday night, she would go to the movies with her friends. The boys would be there with their dates, wearing their cologne, eyeing those other, luckier girls lustfully. The scent would stab through her.
    No , she told herself. Sex with Quentin would be a disaster. She was trying to stabilize him, not wreck the band. The Erin situation was precarious. And Sarah was beginning to believe the band’s problems ran evendeeper than she’d been told. The only reason she could think of that Martin would hold on to a long-sleeved shirt from hot night to strip poker to pool was that he needed to hide his track marks. Tomorrow morning she would have a talk with Quentin about Martin’s drug use. And Erin. And every lie he’d told her.
    But for now . . . Now that she’d lain asleep with Quentin, she was afraid she’d fallen even further for him. She’d lived with Harold for so many lonely nights. Even their most romantic evenings together had ended with them parting ways perfunctorily and leaving the middle of the bed empty. Harold claimed Sarah had the metabolism of a racehorse and made him hot—in a bad way—if he held her while they slept. A man had never held her in the dark, embracing her like he treasured her, sliding his fingers closer to her sex as the night grew older.
    The placement of Quentin’s hand gave her an idea for how to shock him into telling her the truth in the morning. But here in the dark, disoriented without her phone and lost in time, she might as well enjoy it. She slid her own hand on top of her fly until it covered his hand beneath the material.
    Her blood heated as his fingers curled against her.
    She wondered if she could stir the passion in him that he’d felt for her at first. Carefully she pressed her ass against his groin—and then tried not to gasp as he nuzzled her neck in his sleep and dragged a rough kiss along her jaw.
    He grew still again, holding her more tightly than before. She didn’t dare make another move lest she get more of what she wanted than she was bargaining for. She simply enjoyed the sensation of being caught in his heat, because she would never get so lucky again.

    “Q! Where’s breakfast?”
    This time, Sarah knew she was awake. The sound booth was brightly lit. She recognized the acoustic tile on the walls. She’d grown familiar with the feel of Quentin’s hand in her intimate area.
    And, looking up toward the voice that had woken her—looking way, way up—she saw a very irate Erin standing over them, fists on her hips, her eyes on Quentin’s wrist disappearing into Sarah’s pants.
    An emotion passed across Erin’s pretty face. Sarah knew fear when she saw it.
    And then Erin was padding