Yours at Midnight

by Robin Bielman

  She skipped around the dining room table, putting a big pine barrier between them. Several sheets of paper, red and green with finger painted designs, sat beside a small basket of holiday cards. She has a life, he thought. And here he was trying to do what? Sleep with her again and then leave?

  The best thing he could do for her was walk out the door. But his feet just wouldn’t move.

  “We’ve been down this road before, Quinn.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You know what I mean.” Her cheeks reddened.

  “Explain it to me.” Her blush drew him in like she’d cast a magic spell.

  There was silence, then, “You’re leaving. I’m staying. End of story.”

  “We had fun last time, didn’t we?” His hands skimmed the tops of the chairs as he circled around the table. She did the same. “I want to spend more time with you.”

  “Don’t go lumping me into your fantasies.”

  He grinned. He hadn’t meant to end up in this position, but now that he was, every reason he had for staying away vanished. “I’d be more than happy to share my fantasies with you.”

  She let out an exasperated huff. “No thank you.”

  “Doesn’t fit into your plans?”

  She stopped and gave him a dirty look. He’d seen the expression many times before. Little did she know the scrunched nose and petulant mouth only made him want to strip her clothes off and put a smile on her face.

  “My plans don’t include a New York City boy who’s probably had more meaningless conquests than I’m comfortable with.”

  Huh. She was prying into his love life again.

  “What’s your definition of comfortable? I haven’t been celibate, Lyric, but I’m not the jerk you think I am, either.” When he thought about her with other men, he wanted to hit something. He wanted to hit the asshole that had gotten her pregnant and then been stupid enough to leave her. There wasn’t anyone better than Lyric.

  “And what about you?” he asked.

  “What about me?” She tripped over her words. Her hands tightened around the chair.

  “You’re beautiful. Smart. Guys must be eager for your attention.”

  “Yep. In fact, I’m meeting one in the morning. So you know, you should probably go now. I forgot I have some work to do before I hit the sack, and I don’t want to be too tired tomorrow. Don’t want bags under my eyes.”

  “Brothers don’t count.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Interesting development. Your mom asked me to help you shop for party games tomorrow so your brother could take his wife to a matinee of The Nutcracker.”

  Her forehead fell into the palm of her hand. “I’m going to kill my mother.”

  “I’ll help you hide the body.”

  That got a laugh out of her. “You would, wouldn’t you?”

  He closed in on his prey and caught her by the shoulders. She stiffened, then relaxed when he started to massage the knots lumped under his fingers. “Christ, you’re carrying a lot of stress back here.”

  Her head lolled forward. “I guess.”

  “Turn around.” He guided her until he could really dig his hands into the kinks behind her neck. “So how am I doing?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “On the points scale?”

  “Dead bodies do rank pretty high, so I’d say you’re at negative five hundred now.” Her shoulders relaxed, and she let out a sigh. “That feels so good. Thank you.”

  He fought the urge to stroke his hands over her body. “My pleasure,” he whispered in her ear, letting his lips linger at her ear lobe.

  Lyric twisted away from him. Her eyes blazed with a desire that matched his own, but she said, “I really think you should go now.”

  She hurried around the table and opened the front door. A cool breeze swept in, extinguishing the heat between them.

  He’d let her be for now. “I’ll see you in the morning at ten?”

  “Nine-thirty, and you’re buying the coffee.”

  “Deal.” He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, drawn once again to the slope of her neck. She trembled and leaned into his hand.

  If he didn’t walk out the door right now, he’d never leave.

  “What’s the theme for the party this year?” He stepped over the threshold, his attention dipping to the Welcome mat. Lyric’s home was definitely that—warm and comfortable. He dreaded going back to his parents’ house.

  She groaned. “Fifties Sock Hop.”

  “Really? You wearing a poodle skirt?”

  “Yes.”

  “Looks like I’ll need a leather jacket. A little gel in my hair.”

  Lyric giggled, and something moved inside his chest. “You like the idea of dressing up?”

  “I’m channeling James Dean, baby. You’d better watch out.” He had no idea where this playfulness came from, but he enjoyed it.

  She leaned on the door while she pushed it to close. “I’ll be watching all right.”

  “Good.”

  Chapter Five

  Lyric was going straight to hell.

  The devil told her so. Last night. In her dream. After she’d had mind-blowing, imaginary sex with Quinn in a huge bed with fluffy white pillows and a billowing comforter, and still hadn’t told him the truth about Max. She’d fallen from bliss to purgatory in point zero five seconds.

  God, he had a nice ass.

  Quinn. Not the devil. Ew.

  The barista behind the Starbucks counter obviously thought he had a nice front, because she was currently undressing him with her eyes. Lyric fought the urge to get up from the table, brush up beside him, and whisper hey baby in his ear. He wasn’t hers. She had no claim on him. She wanted to throw up.

  “Hope I got this right,” he said, handing over a cup and sliding into the seat across from her. “I might have screwed up the espresso part.”

  She took a sip. “Blech!”

  He grinned. “Oops. Gave you my cup.” He traded her.

  “You did that on purpose!”

  “Maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t.”

  She’d have to put on blinders if he didn’t stop with the mischievous look and twinkle in his eyes. This playful, more relaxed Quinn unnerved her.

  “Much better,” she said, sighing as she sampled the perfect blend of non-fat milk and double shot of espresso. “Thank you.”

  “Where we headed this morning?”

  “There’s a store downtown called Decades that should have what my mom wants. She’s tasked us with a few more decorations, too.”

  “You want to go now?”

  “Sure.”

  “Lyric?” came a masculine voice from behind her.

  She spun around. “Dylan? Hi. How are you?”

  His dark hair and green eyes were exactly how she remembered. He squeezed past the line of customers and wrapped her in an awkward, not-sure-how-close-to-get hug. “I’m good.” He scanned her top to bottom. “Wow, you look great. How are things?”

  “Really well, thanks.” She waited for her body to have some sort of reaction to him. A little flutter. A hiccup in her pulse. A tingle down her spine.

  She got nothing.

  She’d dated Dylan for a month after Quinn had left. Fallen hard and fast for him. He was funny, cute, studying to be an architect, and loved to watch hockey as much as she did. She hadn’t slept with him, but had planned to when he’d taken her to Napa for the weekend. The day before they were supposed to leave—a week late in her cycle—she’d found out she was pregnant and abruptly ended their relationship.

  “You must be doing your residency now?” he asked, looking genuinely happy to see her.

  When she’d broken up with him without an explanation, she thought if they ever saw each other again, he’d keep his distance. She was happy t
hat wasn’t the case.

  “No actually. Change in plans. What about you? Are you working for an architecture firm?”

  “Ahem. Hey, I’m Quinn Sobel.” He extended his hand.

  And put the other one on the small of her back.

  Now her body tingled.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Quinn, this is Dylan…” She couldn’t think of his last name. Her brain had gone to mush the moment Quinn touched her. Not to mention the deep, dominating sound of his voice rendered her incapable of stringing too many words together.

  “Peterson. Dylan Peterson.” He shook Quinn’s hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Yeah. So we were just leaving, Dylan.” Quinn steered her away. Like he had any say in her actions.

  Lyric dug her feet in and twisted. “You’re working locally?”

  Dylan smiled. “Yeah.” His eyes flicked to her left hand. “We should get together sometime and catch up.”

  “I’d like that.”

  She’d made a resolution to find a man, hadn’t she? And Dylan was one of the nicest guys she knew.

  He leaned in and said softly, “Call me. The number’s the same.”

  “Okay,” she answered, maybe a little breathy. But not because of Dylan’s nice green eyes and amiable personality.

  No. Her nerves were shot because Quinn’s hot breath tickled the back of neck. He scooted her out of Starbuck’s like a jealous boyfriend.

  “You didn’t have to be rude to him, you know.” A light drizzle fell as they walked across the parking lot to her car. Christmas garlands stretched between the light posts.

  “I wasn’t rude.”

  “You were a total jerk.”

  “I didn’t like the way he looked at you.”

  She came to a stop. “How was he looking at me?”

  “Like he’d seen you naked and wanted to see it again.” He pulled her out of the middle of the lane so a car could pass.

  Her stomach quivered. “And that bothers you?”

  How many times growing up had she wished for Oliver to be bothered by the attention she got from other guys? But the only person who’d seemed to notice was Quinn. Much to her chagrin, he’d always kept an eye on her. Right now his caveman behavior sent shivers down her spine.

  “Lately, where you’re concerned, everything bothers me.”

  “Why?” She moved around a parked motorcycle. Tiny reindeer antlers stuck out from the license plate, and she smiled.

  “You are not allowed to ask me that ever again.”

  She stopped at her car door, put her coffee on the roof, and searched her purse for her keys. “Why?”

  He spun her around and trapped her against the car. A thrill shot through her. He wasn’t rough, but he wasn’t exactly gentle either.

  “Was that the guy?”

  “Was who what guy?” Her mind might be lost, but her body, God, her body trembled from her head to her feet. Quinn’s intensity turned her on. She’d never seen him so alpha, and she liked it. A lot.

  He growled. “Is Dylan Max’s dad?”

  “What? No!” A very different tremble swept through her now. She wasn’t ready for this conversation. Not here in a parking lot, both the sky and Quinn stormy.

  His body relaxed. His gaze fell to her mouth. He took a step back.

  “Did you tell him? Did you tell the guy that got you pregnant he was going to be a dad?”

  Lyric shut her eyes. If it hadn’t been for the car at her back, holding her up, she would have slumped to the ground. She hadn’t prepared long enough for this moment. The hundreds of scenarios she’d dreamed about weren’t enough when a living, breathing Quinn stood in front of her and she saw him differently now.

  He wasn’t a loner, he was lonely. He wasn’t bitter, he was grieving. He wasn’t uncaring, he was sorry.

  “No,” she whispered.

  “How come?” he asked, so full of compassion that she couldn’t bear the thought of hurting him with the truth—yet he also took a small step back and shook his head.

  She looked down at the asphalt and let her purse slip from her shoulder to her feet. “He left me. Didn’t want me. I didn’t want to screw up his life, so I decided not to tell him.”

  Quinn took her hands in his. “The guy’s a jackass.”

  “Not really. He gave me Max.”

  “Does anyone know?”

  His questions were getting harder and harder to swallow. Lyric gulped. If he kept thinking about it long enough, would he think to ask the right question?

  “No one knows who Max’s dad is but me, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

  “You’re positive it’s not the ass in the coffee shop, though, right?” Quinn held tight to her hands like he needed to feel her answer as well as hear it.

  “He’s not an ass. He was very nice and—”

  “But you didn’t sleep with him.”

  She slipped her hands out of his and picked up her purse. “I didn’t realize whatever is going on between us meant you got to ask me about my sex life.”

  “Answer the question.”

  “You can shove your questions—”

  “Lyric.” He cupped her cheek and stroked his thumb back and forth.

  Heat spread through her like a lit fuse. “What do you want from me?”

  “For starters, while I’m here, no seeing other guys.”

  Like she saw other guys. “You’re here for what, four more days?”

  “Right. So it should be easy for you.”

  She narrowed her eyes. Nothing about her feelings for Quinn was easy.

  …

  The next day, Quinn walked over to Caroline and Douglas’s with life-size cardboard cutouts of Elvis Presley and Marilyn Monroe. His mother had bought them for the New Year’s Eve party, before she’d left.

  His mom had sounded good on the telephone. They’d talked for longer than they had in a long time. He’d shared with her his need to reconcile the past so he could move forward. He’d apologized for his long absence, too, and told her the details of the car accident. To his surprise, she wasn’t angry with him. She’d asked him to stay home until she and his dad got back, but Noble needed him in the office on the morning of the second.

  “Hello?” he called out, then poked his head through the open kitchen door.

  “Quinn? Come on in.” Caroline’s eyes brightened. “Oh, those are perfect.” She clapped her hands together before taking Elvis. “Your mother is the best.”

  “She says the same about you.”

  “We rub off on each other.” She put Elvis in the corner and returned to the stove. “Chili’s almost ready. You hungry?”

  He put Marilyn beside Elvis and took a seat at the kitchen island. “Sure. Where is everyone?”

  “You mean where is Lyric?” She looked over her shoulder at him with expert mom vision that said she knew he still had a crush on Lyric. Her sparkling eyes had always read him with just a little too much ease.

  “Uh, okay.”

  “She had a client to visit. Everyone else went ice skating.” She glanced at the large decorative wall clock. “They should be back around five.”

  “Does she ever take a day off?” Something stirred inside him. Lyric had always put others before herself, and he imagined her business did well because of it.

  “On occasion. But she’s always on call. This particular family has had a tough time of it these past couple of weeks.”

  Quinn swiveled in his bar stool. “Doesn’t she have any staff?”

  Caroline placed a bowl of steaming hot chili in front of him. The smell of meat and spices filled him with comfort. “She does, but she gave them the week off. Crackers or cornbread?”

  “Cornbread.” He’d missed her baking. Missed being the guy who got first dibs when no one else was around.

 
She cut a square, then sat across from him and leaned over the counter with her chin in her hand. “How are you?”

  “Better.” Since Oliver’s death there’d been one person he’d semi-confided in: Caroline. She’d called him every year on New Year’s Eve to check in, and to remind him that life marched on and he was too young not to embrace it. That there would always be bad and good. The bad, she’d said, helped remind people not to take anything for granted.

  “Still happy at work?”

  “Very.”

  “Any new year’s resolutions?”

  He put down his fork. She always asked him that. “Not sure yet.” Truthfully, he wasn’t sure about anything. Yes, he loved his work, his apartment, his life, but if he kept up the same pace then moments like this—sitting in a warm kitchen with a homemade meal and heartfelt conversation—would elude him.

  Her hand covered his. “You always have a home here. You know that, right?”

  All he could do was nod. Some weird emotion choked him.

  “Nana?”

  They both turned. Max padded in, his brown hair mussed, his eyes sleepy, his thumb in his mouth. He dragged a light blue blanket with him. Teddy followed on his heels.

  Shit. He hadn’t even realized the dog was gone again.

  “Hey, sweetie. How was your nap?” Caroline slipped off her stool and picked him up.

  The little boy snuggled into her chest. “Where’s Mama?”

  “She had to run out for a little bit, but she’ll be back lickety-split.”

  The timer on the oven dinged.

  “Grandma’s got to get that. Can I put you down?”

  Max shook his head and looked at Quinn. So did Caroline. “How about if Quinn holds you? Would that be okay?”

  Quinn didn’t have time to offer an alternative. The little guy crawled right into his lap. “Hey, buddy.”

  Max’s small body fit against him just right, and Quinn tightened his hold. The thumb sucking was damn cute. Quinn had sucked his thumb until he was eight—until Oliver and Lyric called him a baby. He’d pulled his thumb out of his mouth and never put it back in again.

  From across the kitchen, Caroline hummed “Jingle Bells.”

  “You too little to go ice skating?” Quinn asked. He’d never spent any time around kids until the other night, so he had no idea how old a kid had to be to ice skate. Max couldn’t weigh more than twenty-five or thirty pounds, and Quinn figured he was two years old.