Their car soon arrived at Saunders Mansion and Quinn alighted.
Sam stayed inside, looking like he had no intention of moving.
"Not getting out?" Quinn asked.
"Nope."
"Not going in?"
"Nope."
"Why?"
"What do you mean 'why'?" Sam asked in return.
Quinn simply stood there, watching him.
He rolled his eyes and growled impatiently, "I was in prison for three years, Quinn Summer. That means three years without action—what do you think I want to do most after getting out?"
"Aren't I enough?" Quinn asked.
Sam glowered right then, but she simply continued, demanding, "Are the women out there that much better? Do I sicken you that much? Are my breasts too small or my hips too wide?"
"I don't need anyone who's forcing themselves to do something they don't like."
"Did I ever say I was forcing myself?"
"Quinn Summer!" Sam flew into a rage right then.
His poor temper never changed—and it probably never would, no matter how much time had passed or whatever he went through.
Even after serving his sentence, Sam was still goofing off and not trying to impress himself at all, and he still had that chip on his shoulder.
"I don't need your sympathy," he growled slowly and clearly. "Also, for someone like me, having a record or being in prison doesn't matter!"
"I'll admit that I didn't think that I'd fall for you," Quinn suddenly said.
Sam simply sneered—his feathers would never be ruffled when he expected that.
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