The guitar music kept up, and she listened, thinking of Nick, of the night he’d told her his family secret, the way the air had carried her.

She thought of how much he hated Tyler, and wished she knew how to reconcile all these facets of the same guy.

The guitar music changed, becoming something more lively. Still muffled, still at a distance, but enough that she could pick out the rhythm and melody. Was someone outside? But they were on the third floor.

She swung her legs onto the velvet softness of the carpeting, padding into the doorway. Definitely outside.

She peeked through Tyler’s doorway, expecting to either find him asleep, or sitting up in bed, as confused about the music as she was.

His bed was empty.

The light over the sink was on, casting a soft glow across half the apartment. Quinn approached the glass door that led to the porch, seeing that someone was indeed out there, sprawled on one of the porch chairs, a guitar in his lap.

Tyler.

Quinn slid the glass door open. “What happened to your eight o’clock class?”

“Nothing. I couldn’t sleep.” He was good enough that he didn’t lose the rhythm or the melody. “Did I wake you?”

“You’re probably waking half the building.”

“Doubt it.” She opened her mouth to fire back, but he nodded at the opposite chair. “Want to join me?”

Like she had anything better to do. She dragged the door closed behind her and eased into the vinyl chair. It was way too cold for a tank top and stretch pants, but she was used to being underdressed for the weather. She caught a whiff of smoke in the air, then saw the lit cigarette perched on an ashtray on the table beside him. A beer sat there with it.

Definitely way too old for her. She didn’t give a crap. “You’re very good,” she said quietly.

“Thanks,” he said equably.

“Do you sing, too?”

She’d been kidding, but he nodded. He didn’t demonstrate, however.

“I don’t get a show?” she mocked, thinking of his comments when she was dancing in the woods.

He pressed a hand against the strings, stopping the music abruptly. “Do you want one?”

Was his voice suggestive? She couldn’t tell.

“Sure.” A breeze slid through the railing and she shivered, running her hands up and down her arms.

He picked up his beer. “Cold?”

“No, it’s a tic.”

He laughed softly, then moved the guitar off his lap. He wasn’t quite holding his arms open for a hug, but the invitation was there. He clinched it when he said, “Want to sit with me?”

Quinn studied him in the near darkness for a long moment. She remembered their conversation about the lion earlier. Right now she felt like she was climbing into a lion’s cage. Or rather, his lap.