Frog and Quinn: Chapter One (Patreon)

Today, I’m hitting a personal record—I’m on my fourth move in one year. If I were smarter, I’d be living out of a duffel bag by now. But I vowed that the vagabond life wouldn’t touch me. I’ve seen what it does to the guys on the security team who can condense their lives into a 40L Patagonia bag. Most have zero sense of style. Like the best they can do is a black button-up for every single occasion.

As much as I love a little black dress, I have the overwhelming urge to have variety in my life. Variety equals boxes and boxes and boxes of accessories, shoes, clothes, and décor that I’ve accumulated over the past few years. So I try not to mentally freak out over the cardboard boxes piled haphazardly on the kitchen counter, living room floor, and the bare mattress in the bedroom. This is the price of having style, I remind myself. All right, I might be trying to convince myself.

Fuck—unpacking is going to take forever.

My dusty-pink fringed lampshade might seem like a pointless item to cart around, but it was a birthday gift from my client last December. No way would I toss it in the trash or donate it to Goodwill like yesterday’s news.

It means something to me.

And just because I’ve accumulated things doesn’t mean I can’t compile my essentials in five minutes flat for an impromptu flight.

I am multi-talented.

Confusion draws my brows together as I sift through a medium-sized box on the kitchen counter. Marble counters, to be exact. It’s fancy here, and in no way am I complaining about our new swanky apartment fit for those who can afford 10k in rent. Or you know, those who happen to be employed by a security firm that have billionaire clientele paying extra to have their bodyguards living in the same NYC high-rise as them.

Never did I think I’d be one of those elite bodyguards. But here I am—still sticking with it after the worst night of my life six months ago. It took more work than I get credit for to rise in ranks and keep this 24/7 position.

I’m not complaining about that either. However, I’m not against arguing a point, and my point is… “How do we only have one coffee mug?” I hold up the lonely mug that says Boobies with sketches of seabirds of the same name. It’s my favorite, but there had also been a Superheroes & Scones mug in here too and a very bedazzled Starbucks thermos that I got during my short time as a barista.

Though, I wasn’t the one to pack our kitchen utensils, dishware, and the notoriously unreliable coffee maker for the move from Philadelphia to New York.

That task belonged to my roommate.

Quinn Nicolau Sousa Oliveira.

He’s standing in the middle of our new living room, television remote in hand while he sets up our streaming services. It was prioritized over unpacking any of the communal boxes since there’s an important baseball game on tonight that, if missed, might cause Quinn actual emotional distress.

Oh, and he’s shirtless.

Very, very shirtless. The fact slams into me like a freight train when he rotates and I see all eight of his abs. His charcoal-gray gym shorts are slung low on his toned hips, and it takes all my energy not to follow the V-line toward his crotch.

We are coworkers.

We are roommates.

We are friends who protect the same famous client.

Anything else, and we’d both kiss our careers goodbye. But I’m human. I have two eyes. I can clearly see he’s a ten out of ten on the attractive scale. Women do double-takes in his presence. He’s hit on more than any bodyguard in the fleet, and he’s literally nicknamed the “Casanova” of our security team.

It’s not just his glossy, fluffy dark brown hair—the thick, wavy kind that I crave to run my fingers through. It’s not even his melt-your-soul brown eyes or his lean muscles that define every ridge of his athletic build.

It’s that motherfucking smile. He doesn’t even show teeth, but the expression pulls creases at the edges of his eyes and a dimple in his cheek. It’s saccharine but coy. Sweet but sour. Sultry but innocent. He’s the definition of a babe magnet.

That smile slants my way as he glances toward the box on the counter. “There was only one coffee cup to pack,” he says. “The one that says boobs.”

“Boobies,” I correct.

He makes a face. “Same thing, Kannika.”

Hearing my actual name always jars me like a splash of water to the face. No one, and I mean no one, calls me Kannika but him. He started doing it two months ago, and for some reason I haven’t corrected him. I don’t know if I want to.

“Boobies and boobs are different,” I tell him. “There’s a humor disparity. Boobs are inarguably not as funny.” I toss the packing paper into a heavy-duty garbage bag.

“Yeah, well, your boobie cup was the only one in the cabinet. Gabe must’ve taken the other one before he left.”

Gabe Montgomery. Our old roommate. He’s a “floater” on the security team, assigned to clients that need an extra bodyguard for the day or week. He’d been living with us in the Philly security apartment, and it’d been assumed he’d be moving to New York with us. But all assumptions flew out the window when his girlfriend asked him to live with her in a cute studio in Center City.

So yes, for the past ten months, I might have been living with Quinn—but this is actually the first time we’re living together without any other roommates. It’s just the two of us in this two-bedroom/one-bath sexy, bachelor pad apartment in Hell’s Kitchen.

It feels like a notable change, even though we’ve never said it out loud to each other.

“Great, so we need another coffee mug,” I say as I whip out my cell and pull up the notes app. “Should I make a list of all the things we need to buy?”

“I’m fine without a coffee mug,” Quinn says. “I’m not the one with an iced latte addiction.”

“I don’t drink iced coffee out of mugs,” I point out. “You, on the other hand, drink five cups of hot coffee a day.”

“Not five cups. Maybe two.”

“Three, definitely at least three.” Maybe I shouldn’t know this fact about a roommate or a friend or a coworker, but combine all three of those labels together and he becomes like some sort of mega-Transformer. I know things about Quinn, and unfortunately, he knows things about me. Though not everything—thank God.

I swear he’s smiling back at the TV, and I’m trying not to be jealous of a television for receiving that motherfucking smile over me as he says, “We have other drinking glasses.”

I peer over at the open cabinet behind me with water glasses. “You can’t drink hot coffee out of that.”

He raises the remote at the screen. “I can. I will.”

“It’s just…wrong.” I’m already typing into my app. Buy coffee mug. Preferably one that Gabe won’t steal if he visits.

I glance up while Quinn punches the keys on the remote. With his back to me, I’m reminded again that he’s very, very shirtless.

His deltoids and toned muscles steal my focus for a short second, and I sweep his golden, bare skin. There was a point where Quinn would never parade around our apartment shirtless. I just thought he was being respectful of his girlfriend. She didn’t like me. I didn't like her, and I figured she’d be pissy knowing he was half-naked in our kitchen.

He was mitigating those arguments. Assuaging her feelings.

Maybe that was part of the reason he stayed clothed around me, but it wasn’t all of it.

It reminds me that this move is a new start in many ways.

For me too. Neither of us are winning awards for The Best Past Relationship.

“Dammit, I think my brother changed the password.” Quinn tosses the remote on the curved velvet-green couch. It’s both the most beautiful piece of furniture I’ve ever seen and the most uncomfortable.

An incorrect password message flashes on the TV. He runs two distraught hands through his thick hair.

I frown. “Can’t you just call or text Oscar? Ask him what it is?”

“That would involve letting him know I’ve been using his account.”

“Wait, I thought he gave you his password.” I gape. “You’ve been hacking into your brother’s ESPN?”

“And Netflix, Max, Amazon Prime, Paramount Plus. But hack is a strong word.” Quinn reclaims the remote and begins inserting a new password. “I saw him type it in once, and he’s been using the same one since he got married. His husband’s last name and Jo’s birthday.”

Jo.

As in Joana Oliveira.

As in their younger sister who’s actually older than me.

By two years.

I’m only reminded of my age when he utters his sister’s name into the atmosphere because Oscar acts like Joana is a baby when she’s a full-grown, badass twenty-one-year-old woman, and Quinn also sees her as young. So what exactly does that mean about me?

I slide a scissors through the empty box on the marble counter and start breaking down the cardboard. “Oscar wouldn’t just give you his password if you asked?” I wonder.

Quinn goes quiet, still typing on the remote. Most people would take the hint to shut up, but I’m not scared of pushing buttons or passing barriers. It might be a personal defect.

“Is that a no?” I pry.

He lets out a heavy sigh. “He already looks at me like a kid. I don’t need him to think I can’t afford ESPN plus.”

“You are ten years younger than him.” I wish I didn’t make this distinction out loud. “And you can afford ESPN plus if you stop buying bougie protein powder.”

Quinn holds up a finger. “First of all, the protein powder is going in my body.” He points to his chest. “Of course I’m going to spend good money on it. Second…” His lips clamp shut as he loses his train of thought.

I smile. “Second?”

“I don’t know. I forgot,” he mumbles and turns back to the TV.

“So you’re just going to waste five hours trying to guess his password?” I wonder.

“I’ll do what I have to for the Phillies.” He’s hellbent on getting it to work, and I’ve seen stubborn Quinn before. It’s not a pretty sight. I’m fairly certain he might just melt into that spot on the floor trying to guess the password.  

I can’t watch this. I pull out my phone and start urgently typing, working my magic. After I’ve created a new email account, I close the distance between the kitchen and the living room.

“Can I try?” I stretch out a hand.

Quinn must be desperate because there’s no fight. He relinquishes the remote, and I quickly type in my email and select free trial on the television screen. “And in seven days, I’ll cancel and add a new email.” I grin at my cleverness and slide the remote back into Quinn’s hand.

He’s staring hard at the TV. “That’s lying.”

My brows rise. “You were stealing your own brother’s password.”

“That’s different,” Quinn replies. “You’re scamming—”

“It’s a company, not a little old lady,” I argue.

“We have ethics. We’re in security.”

“Oh my God, I’m trying to help you!” I raise my voice, my chest rising and falling heavily. Why are we even fighting over something so silly?

“I don’t need your help if it’s going to be you doing something illegal for me!” He’s yelling back, but a deeper concern rests against his eyes. I don’t want to dig into that.

“How is it illegal? Everyone does it!” I throw up my hands, exasperated.

“Yeah, well you shouldn’t,” he growls. “You’re better than everyone.” That hits me heavy in the chest, a direct bullseye, and I don’t have a response. He angrily veers back to the TV. “Thanks for the free trial, but I don’t need another one. I’ll just pay for it or ask my brother for his password—or I can watch it in his apartment.”

Oscar’s crash pad for security is in this same apartment complex. Different floor. Quinn jokes that Joana is the resident squatter since she practically overtook Oscar’s place, despite having no affiliation with private security.

It made me instantly like her. But I never told anyone that.

I pocket my phone in my tight yet flared jeans, and I sulk back to the kitchen. I can feel his eyes trailing after me. He’s wrong—I’m not better than everyone. I have my talents, but I’m more of a fuck-up than him.

Before joining security, he’d been a professional boxer.

Before joining security, I almost got arrested for shoplifting CDs.

We’re not the same, and I’ve spent the past year trying to prove to everyone and myself that I’m not the same person I was in Buffalo. But who am I kidding—I don’t think I ever really changed. It’s just the environment around me that did. I went from high school to training with my Auntie Mint in Queens to working security in Philly, and this job was only handed to me on a silver platter because my cousin owns the security firm.

Proving myself is going to be a lifelong job.

It’s been a year, and I’m already exhausted.

I retrieve a blender from the last box, and Quinn edges up to the marble island. I think he’s been watching me this whole time, maybe afraid I might shatter into a thousand pieces. But I’m not really that fragile—and an argument between roommates is nothing new for us. Still, his expression carries about a thousand apologies. “Frog,” he says the nickname everyone uses for me.

It shouldn’t feel like a punch to the stomach.

I’ve been called Frog since birth. Yet it’s nowhere on my birth certificate.

In Thai culture, random nicknames unrelated to our legal names are pretty common. It’s one of the biggest pieces of my Thai family that I connect to. I look like a true mix of my parents. While my dad is Southeast Asian, my mom is white. I have her light brown hair, but I started dyeing it darker in eleventh grade.

The long, straight strands dive past my boobs, and I have no wide hips to place my hands on. I am slender. Thin. Too skinny, as said by my doubters in security.

Quinn hasn’t been one of them.    

I hold his steady gaze—I like how he never shies from me. I’ve been told my eye contact can be intense. And he says, “Look, I’m sorry.”

“I am too,” I say. “That will be the last time I offer my friendly Frog cleverness free of charge.”

His face plummets like I kicked him in the groin. That’s the other thing about Quinn—he doesn’t hide his feelings. You know exactly what you’re getting with him, which is hard for me. My words are made to slice, and sometimes I don’t want to see the open wounds.

“My rate won’t be high,” I mumble out the concession.

“I just don’t want you to ice me out over this stupid fight.”

“I won’t,” I say like that’s the furthest thing that’d ever happen. “And it was stupid. But we’ve had stupider. You remember when the three of us couldn’t agree what temperature the apartment should be set at?”

Quinn groans into a laugh. “Fuck, those were dark days.”

Gabe, Quinn, and I would get into screaming matches over the AC, until we all decided that no one would win. We set the heat to a blistering ninety degrees. We were all sweating and walking around in our underwear for a week. In truth, there’ve been countless times we’ve raised our voices. Maybe because we work in a high stress job, and whenever we come home, we’re live wires ready to snap.

These days aren’t much different.

I can add that on the list of reasons why Quinn and Frog Will Never Date. Two bodyguards together—we’d kill each other. Bodyguards need an escape to come home to. Comfort. Care.

Two high-strung, overworked people uniting is grounds for a nuclear implosion. It’s never happened in the history of the security team for a reason, and since I’m the only woman who’s a 24/7 bodyguard in Kitsuwon Securities, I won’t be the one breaking that cycle.

No, thank you.

“Here, I can help,” Quinn says and takes the empty cardboard box off the counter. He rips it into three flat pieces with his bare hands. I try not to be impressed, but it’s a big fail.

Both our phones beep at the same time. His on the stiff velvet couch cushion, and mine on the sleek marble counter. I quickly shove the blender under the sink, and then swipe into my cell.

Luna: Staying in all night to unpack. Hope you both are enjoying your new space 🖖 

My client—scratch that—our client basically just informed us that we have the night off.

If Luna Hale doesn’t leave her apartment, the one directly across the hall from ours, then she doesn’t need her bodyguards. We go where she goes. Hence, the move to New York.

She’s here this summer before she starts school at Manhattan Valley University in the fall. It’s a big change for everyone, considering I need to learn an entirely new campus. I memorized the University of Pennsylvania like the back of my hand, and now we’re starting over.

But transferring schools is good for her, and I’m just grateful she still wants me on her detail.

I’m grateful that I haven’t been kicked to the curb yet. I’m not even ashamed that she needs two bodyguards now, which is why Quinn has been transferred to her detail. It’s not a knock on my skills. Not when high-risk clients have had two full-time bodyguards before.

I send Luna a quick heart emoji back while Quinn just thumbs up her text.

He goes to the well-stocked fridge, courtesy of the Triple Shield bodyguards that live in New York. Luna’s great big famous family employs two different security companies: Kitsuwon Securities (my cousin Akara’s) and Triple Shield. We haven’t always gotten along with the guys on Triple Shield, but the groceries were a “welcome to the city” gift. I’d call it an olive branch if Vance Wreath didn’t call me a “liability” yesterday in a team meeting.

“Luna only needs two bodyguards because one of them happens to be a five-foot-six nineteen-year-old,” he argued.

“I happen to be five-foot-six-and-a-half,” I retorted. “And Luna needs two bodyguards because of who she is.”

“Frog is right,” my cousin piped in. “One bodyguard isn’t going to cut it.”

“And I need Frog. I couldn’t do it by myself, even if I wanted to,” Quinn added in agreement.

Vance shook his head vigorously. He has that All-American, I was Mr. Popular in high school aura. Both him and his older brother Ian do. They were football players at Penn State—“back in the day,” they’ll say.

As if they’re ancient.

Vance is twenty-seven.

And I think I’m a great judge of character (with some exceptions), and I knew the Wreath brothers were too bro-y and that sliding in their good graces would be the hardest. It doesn’t help that Ian got a promotion. He’s now a rung higher than me as a lead.

It’s made Vance more obnoxious and vocal in his dislike of me. Like if he complains enough, I will get fired.

He wouldn’t shut up. “Since Luna’s threat level is so high, she should have two experienced bodyguards and not a rookie girl who hasn’t even hit puberty—”

“Fuck off,” I snapped. “Your balls haven’t even dropped—”

“How would you know? You’ve never even touched a pair of balls,” Vance shot back. Other guys from Triple Shield laughed like it was an inside joke that I’ve never had sex. Once upon a time, my big mouth let it slip I was a virgin because I thought nothing of it. Who cares?

I didn’t.

Little did I know, I was giving ammunition to a bunch of overgrown meatheads. This job is a boys’ club. A group of ninety-nine percent young men who are fit enough to bench-press double my weight. What I lack in upper-body strength I make up elsewhere, but it’s clear I’m the odd one out by a mile.

“Enough!” my cousin yelled over the laughter. He looked at me. “You want to file a complaint?” For sexual harassment, he meant.

Vance turned red. “Seriously? She mentioned my balls first.” That was exactly why I wouldn’t do it. It’s locker room talk, and my words could get just as filthy. I like slinging mud as much as they do.

“No one’s getting written up,” I said, which seemed to settle Vance and the other men. But their comments have stuck with me like toxic tar. So no, I don’t think the bananas and apples and two cartons of eggs will win me over that easily.

Quinn browses the contents of the fridge. “Well, if we’re off-duty, I guess we can grab something to eat. You want me to cook or should we order in?”

I’m in a daze, glaring at the broccoli on the shelf.

Quinn rotates to me, his hand on the fridge door. “Kannika?”

I let out a deep sigh. “They’re never going to respect me if I’m a virgin,” I say the realization.

Quinn’s not a dummy. He sees the food in the fridge and connects all the dots. There’s only one group of people who act like I’m a sack of dead weight. He’s already shaking his head. “That’s not it.”

“It’s part of it,” I say, “and you can’t deny it. I’m not going to earn their respect until I’m seen as more than a little girl. And unfortunately, in their pea-brained heads, having sex is a sign of maturity.”

He grips the top of the fridge way too easily at six-three. “You shouldn’t have sex just to gain their respect. That’s a lousy reason.”

“What’s a good reason? Love—that’s most likely not happening with what limited time I have in my personal life.” I cross my arms over my chest. “The way I see it, if I don’t plan it out, I’ll lose it in one drunken night, and it’ll be some unmemorable occurrence anyway.”

Quinn’s a solid brick wall now. His body tensed. His grip on the fridge door tightens. “So what?” he asks, bite to his voice. “You’re going to find some random guy on the street?”

I cringe. “Ew. No. There are dating apps, Quinn.”

His brows furrow. “Creeps are on those too.”

“I know,” I say. “But I can spot them…?” I don’t say it confidently because I’m not as confident as I used to be. My intuition is on the fritz. The last guy I dated had many red flags, but I ran through them like a bull in a fighting ring.

I’d like to trust myself in this department, but how can I when my minimal dating experience has gone so poorly?

Quinn’s still shaking his head like this is one bad idea.

Fine, then I’ll come up with a solution. “Will you help me then?” I ask him.  

“I’m not taking your virginity, Kannika,” Quinn says in a husky, too heavy breath that straightens the hairs on my arms.

“Oh my God,” I gasp. “I wasn’t—that wasn’t what I was asking, Quinn.”

He’s as red in the face as me.

“What the fuck?” he growls.

“What the fuck, right back at you,” I snap. And why is my heart racing? Why is he staring at me like that? Why did he jump to that solution when I wasn’t even thinking it?! “I was asking if you could help me online date. Like…pick out my dates. Help me choose the green flag guy.”

“Help you pick out the guy who’s going to take your virginity?” he asks so casually but the air has thoroughly tensed.

“Yes, that kind of help.” Not the kind where he puts his dick in me, but I won’t lie—that doesn’t sound so unappealing. Maybe in a different life…

His nose has flared as he’s thinking this over. “It won’t work,” he says. “You’re going to just disagree with me. You’re stubborn when it comes to guys.”

“That was one guy,” I refute.

Quinn warned me about Scooter a thousand times. Told me he didn’t like him. Even at one point refused to let him into our apartment. I ignored all the protests because I thought Quinn was just being super overprotective like all the guys in Kitsuwon Securities, and I was caught up in how Scooter gave me attention. Swooned over me. Made me feel special and heard during a really, really emotional time in my life. It took me too long to realize he was more manipulative than sweet.

Quinn runs a hand through his hair. “I get to choose your dates? You won’t second-guess me?”

“I will question within reason,” I offer.

“Okay,” he says to my surprise.

“Okay,” I repeat. “So this is happening. We should start with a profile.” I whip out my phone.

“Wait, right now?” Quinn looks like I just told him we’re going bungee jumping.

“There’s no time like the present.”  

Thank you all for reading the first chapter of Frog & Quinn's romance! Being back in this timeline is like a breath of fresh air and made us so very giddy!! Add that on top of Frog's POV and we've been on cloud nine, so we've been nervously anticipating sharing the start of their love story with you! We can't wait for you to read more and see more of the characters you love from this world. Being in New York as a home base is such a great new setting, and this is only just the start 😉

xoxo Krista & Becca

CHAPTER NOTES: Chapter One takes place 6 months after the prologue. This chapter has been lightly edited and updated on 4/21/2025

IMPORTANT: Please do not screenshot and post any part of this chapter to other sites or share with non-patrons. All of the Patreon content is exclusive to Patreon and for current patron's eyes only.  Thank you!!

RESOURCES:  Check out Frog & Quinn's Collection for more of their chapters as their story continues.

MUSIC: We listened to "This One's Gonna Cost Me" by Lainey Wilson while writing this chapter.

 “Frog and Quinn," Copyright © 2024 by K.B. Ritchie