Iced Out (Leighton U #1)(61)

Or Holden.

Quinn looks edible in a dark brown, worn leather jacket, a charcoal thermal shirt, and dark wash jeans. A knit beanie sits on his head, and I try not to smile when I notice he’s wearing his glasses again today. Something he’s been doing a lot more lately, and part of me wonders if it’s because I’ve mentioned liking them once or twice.

“Hey,” he says, grabbing my bag from me and tossing it in the trunk beside his own. “Thanks for agreeing to come.”

He seems excited. Giddy, almost bursting with energy as he moves back to the driver’s side door and climbs inside.

“You’re in a good mood,” I say slowly, sliding my body into the luxury car beside him. “Any particular reason why?”

Both of his brows quirk up, writing his amusement all over his face. “I can’t just be happy?”

“Absolutely not,” I deadpan. “I prefer it when you’re miserable.”

Picking up on my sarcasm, a slow smile breaks out across his face, and he lets out a low, rich chuckle. It washes over me like whiskey and warm honey, and I feel it to my toes. “Touché, baby. I know the feeling.”

We drive in silence for a while, the only sound coming from the roar of the engine and the low, seductive thrum of Bad Omens’s “THE DEATH OF PEACE OF MIND” from the speakers.

“Where are we going?” I finally ask about fifteen minutes later, just as Quinn pulls out onto the interstate that loops around Chicago’s eastern side. It runs right along the shores of Lake Michigan, the setting sun casting a glow over the relatively calm body of water.

He glances over to me for a second, tongue in cheek, before returning his attention to weaving the BMW through the traffic on the highway. “You gonna be mad if I tell you it’s a surprise?”

No, but it might make me slightly more irritated. Which I’m sure he knows, no doubt.

“Why do I have a feeling you really are about to turn me into fish food?”

A grin breaks out over his face. “You tell me. You’re the one who put the idea in my head to begin with.”

Laughing, I shake my head and stare out across the water. Soon enough, Chicago’s infamous Navy Pier comes into view. One of the main attractions for tourists visiting the city.

“Have you been here?” Quinn asks, and when I shift my focus to him, he nods toward the pier.

My brows furrow, and—

“I don’t think so,” I tell him, astonished by the fact. “At least, not that I can remember, anyway. I’d have to ask my parents to be sure.”

I put a pin in the thought, because with it so close to Millennium Park, I’ve been here a few times. At least when my brother and I were younger. I’m still lost in thought as Quinton veers off the highway and onto the exit for the pier, stopping a few minutes later when he pulls into a parking garage.

“Were you planning to come here all along? We don’t need an overnight bag to walk around the pier.”

“The world may never know.”

“You’re the most infuriatingly ridiculous person I’ve ever met.”

His lips twitch, fighting a smile. “So you’ve told me once or twice.”

After killing the engine, he grabs my hand and pulls me toward the garage exit leading to the main level of the pier. Though, dragging might be the more appropriate term, because, once again, I can feel the excitement radiating off him in palpable waves. It seeps into my skin where our palms touch, and soon enough, I’m feeling the same level of anticipation he is.

Right until he starts crossing the plaza to the ticket booth for the Centennial Wheel.

I stop in my tracks, damn near yanking his arm from the socket. He turns and gives me a what the fuck look as I glance up at the wheel. When my eyes drift back down to him, I swallow my pride and admit something very few people know.

“I’m afraid of heights.”

The way his eyebrows almost jump into his hairline would be laughable…if I wasn’t being dead serious.

“You’re afraid of heights,” he repeats, to which I nod.

“Deathly afraid might be an exaggeration, but it’s close enough.”

I expect him to say we can forget about it and do something else. Maybe go ice skating again, grab dinner, whatever. But instead, a devious, shit-eating grin crosses his face and he drags me straight to the ticket counter, the line empty because it’s the middle of winter. In the Windy City. On a giant pier. Sticking out into a large body of water.

Panic sets in, a thin coat of sweat already gathering on my forehead beneath my hat. “You heard the part where I said I’m afraid of heights, right?”

“Sure did,” he says, ordering us two tickets.

“Don’t worry, honey,” the middle-aged woman at the ticket counter says. “There’s those little puke bags in there if you start feeling woozy.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” I mutter, which only makes her laugh.

“You two enjoy your evening.”

Quinn thanks her, pocketing his wallet and grabbing the tickets before taking my hand too.

“You’ll be fine, Oak,” he says, pulling me over to where the passengers get loaded. “I promise. And I’ll hold your hand the entire time.”

“It’s really not as bad as you think. Nothing like those ones they have at the fair,” a little girl in front of us says, clearly having never heard of the whole stranger danger concept. Then again, I’m willing to bet the woman whose hand she’s holding is her mother, so how dangerous could it really be?