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“Yeah, they are,” Peyton says. “I ordered out. Makes things easier.”
“We can go,” Nola says as she sits down. “I told Quinn we’re intruding.”
“Are we?” Quinn asks us.
“Never. Our door is always open. Can I get you something to drink?”
Quinn asks for a beer. Nola wants water. I run into the bar area of our patio and grab what’s needed and return. Nola eyes the beer in Quinn’s hand.
“It’s only one,” he mutters, but doesn’t twist the top off.
“So, what’s up?” I ask as I sit down. With a beer in one hand, I reach for Peyton’s hand with my free one. After Stevie Nicks has given her visitors the all clear, she comes over and hops onto Peyton’s lap. Instantly, I wish I had stopped her.
“Ewe, gross.”
“Wet dog, dirty dog, it all equals fun,” I say, laughing.
“We should get a dog,” Quinn says to Nola.
“I really don’t want to take care of a dog,” Nola says sharply.
I glance toward Peyton who meets my gaze. I think we’re both trying to hide how awkward we feel right now. I don’t know what’s going on there, but something is definitely bothering Nola.
When I chance a look at Quinn, his eyes are down. If I had to guess, something’s up between them. I suppose I could ask Quinn to come with me into the house, but I don’t want to be too obvious and upset Nola.
“Nola, on Sunday, we’re going to check out some more wineries if you’re not busy and want to come with us?” Peyton asks.
“Thanks, but I have a final next week.”
“Are you almost done with your masters?” Peyton asks.
Nola shakes her head. “No. I took time off to go on tour with Quinn, so I’m behind.” She rubs her hands down the front of her shorts.
“Oh, no. Does that mean you’ll have to take more time off for this next tour?”
Nola’s head turns sharply toward Quinn, who’s focusing on the fire. Oh, shit.
“What tour?”
Quinn twists the top off his beer and takes a chug.
“Quinn?”
“Sinful Distraction and Plum.”
“Are you serious?” she asks in a hush tone. “Again?”
“It’s part of the business. You know this.”
“Well, I’m not going.” Nola angles her body away from Quinn.
This is awkward and clearly something they should talk about at home, where no one is privy to their disagreement.
“Do you have to go potty?” I ask Stevie Nicks, looking for a change of subject to ease the tension in the air. Her ears perk and then I believe she looks at me like I’m some kind of dumbass because we’re outside and she doesn’t need me asking. Still, I stand, as does Peyton.
“I left my phone upstairs,” she says as she follows me down our cobblestone path.
When we’re out of earshot, my eyes widen at her. “What in the hell?”
