by Amy Andrews
Poppy took a deep breath, and Quentin tried not to get distracted by the rise and fall of that pretty chest as she did. ‘Sure, why not? I mean, of course. You’re on it, after all.’ She held out her hand and passed the phone to him, touching it lightly on the transfer so the screen would stay lit.
As she handed it over, their fingers connected and a zing of something wicked snaked between them. Quentin tried to focus on the screen. It was hard to make sense of the words with that wicked feeling crowding up his breathing room.
‘Number ten,’ she contributed, pointing at the screen with her finger.
And there it was. Underneath nine. Buy a pet snake. Keep and feed for at least a month (check with Biology department re appropriate sub-species).
He was definitely number ten.
‘Sex with a stranger?’ He felt somewhat light-headed reading it. And he also felt surprised. Surprised to see how low on details this item seemed to be compared with the rest of the list, at least the parts he’d read. He wondered why. This seemed to be a girl who planned everything. ‘You were planning this?’ He gestured south, somewhere in the direction of the action.
‘Oh no.’ Poppy’s hand flew to her mouth and she reached out to pat his shoulder. Her fingers felt cool and soft. ‘Of course not. That’s so … clinical. No, some of them, some of the items I mean, they need a lot of planning. Like the skydive this morning. Others I’m just sort of … going with the flow.’
He took a deep breath. Sex with a stranger. ‘Hey, Poppy. I’m not exactly a stranger, y’know. I mean we did meet yesterday. At the cafeteria.’
She raised an eyebrow.
He shrugged. She was right. It was a technicality.
Sex with a stranger. ‘I notice you didn’t call it whoopee on your list.’
She nodded, head to the side. ‘No,’ she agreed. ‘Probably because it’s a formal document, you know? Like a … deed, I guess.’
A horrible thought abruptly occurred to him. My god, was she going to try this with other almost-complete strangers?
‘So, er … Is the plan …? I mean … Do you only do each item once?’
Why did he care? Why did he care if she planned to do item ten over and over again? While the thought that she might have done this a hundred times before hadn’t disturbed him at all, the thought that she might do it again, with someone other than him, unexpectedly did disturb him. Very much.
She snorted. ‘Of course not. What do I look like?’
He studied her: medium-length curly brown hair falling over one creamy shoulder. Black square glasses perched on her nose. Cat-like eyes watching him watching her. Half-smile playing around those strange, exquisite lips that were all tight and thin one moment and then scrumptious and kissable the next.
‘Gorgeous,’ he said. ‘Absolutely gorgeous.’
She shrugged and snorted again. ‘Please. We’ve already done the sex. You don’t need to say all that.’
‘All what?’
‘All the empty-flattery-to-sleep-with-me stuff.’
He laughed, and he felt the tension ooze from shoulders that had worked really, really hard for the last seven hours. It was good to do something that felt effortless again. ‘Okay.’ He sighed. ‘No problem.’
She started to shift in the bed and Quentin could feel the Leaving Speech coming. Quentin knew the Leaving Speech by heart. In fact, he liked to think he’d written some of its best lines. He knew it had to happen. It served an important function at this delicate juncture. He just didn’t want it to happen yet.
Not quite yet.
‘So,’ he started again. ‘Tell me some more about the list.’
Poppy shrugged and studied her fingernails again. Quentin noticed they were short and ragged. ‘Not so interesting. Bucket list.’
‘Huh?’ It was so difficult to follow what she was saying when her mouth looked so good every time it moved.
She twitched her nose and flapped a hand at him. ‘Bucket list. You know, like the movie. Like the things you need to do before you kick the bucket list.’
Quentin just could not stop looking at this strange creature. Every time she talked her face was in motion, like it had a tough time containing itself when it needed to be polite and stay still. This girl must play a really crap hand of poker. He was about to laugh out loud again when he remembered where they’d met.
The hospital.
Bucket list.
Oh crap.
He touched her hand, gently, in case she could break. He felt himself start to redden thinking about how he’d been throwing her around all day.
Something dark and nasty curled its fingers around his heart.
Bucket list.
‘Oh, Poppy, I’m so sorry. What is it?’
‘Pardon?’
‘What’s wrong with you? I’m so sorry, I didn’t even realise. I mean, I didn’t really connect the …’ He willed himself to stop blathering. ‘Oh fuck. You’re dying?’
She laughed, but it was a pale echo of the squealy gurgle he’d tried so earnestly to inspire earlier. ‘Nah.’ She paused. ‘At least not that I know of. But I had to go have some tests. Yesterday. You fixed me that sandwich at the café after.’
‘What kind of tests?’ Quentin didn’t know why he was finding it so strenuous to catch his breath. But he did know enough about hospitals to understand that your garden-variety tests usually happened elsewhere.
‘Breast.’ Poppy traced a finger over her chest in a mesmerising figure eight, on top of the navy sheet.
Quentin tried with all his might to remember that they were discussing potentially life-threatening medical issues. He willed himself not to get his usual reaction to any woman, let alone this beautiful one, touching herself.
She was talking again and he tried to zone in through the thrumming in his ears. ‘Breast cancer, I guess. It’s not that, though, right? Not yet, okay? Just a weird lump. Just a test. I should know the results by now, but of course I had to schedule the tests for yesterday. Bloody Friday. I had to pick a bloody Friday. Gotta wait till Monday to find out for sure.’
‘But why now? Why’d you write the bucket list now? You’re probably fine. It’s probably nothing. One of those … what do they call them? Cyst. A cyst.’
She laughed again. ‘Oh, I didn’t write the list just now, silly. I’ve had it for years. My best friend Julia and I wrote them a few years back. It’s important to be prepared. When I found out I needed the tests on Wednesday, I just dusted it off. Figured I might as well get a headstart. You know, just in case. Just in case I am going to …’ She paused. ‘Die.’
‘Yeah, right, just in case.’ Quentin moved closer, dragging in the chocolatey smell of her and stroking the underside of one wrist with a long index finger.
Her face changed, took on a dark and flushed look. ‘What are you doing?’
Quentin moved closer still, so that he could feel his own breath bouncing back at him after it skimmed her cheek. ‘I’m … checking.’
She frowned and narrowed her eyes. ‘Checking for what?’
‘Any signs that you’re gonna die.’
Quentin went slowly, tracing fingers calloused from guitar strings across baby-soft skin. Burying his head in that hair that smelled like sunlight and chocolate. Nibbling slightly on those watermelon lips.
It took a huge effort of will to pull away and not push her back down on the bed under some lame guise of needing a more intimate examination.
Finally, heroically, he drew back. ‘Nope.’
Poppy looked messy and flustered. ‘Nope what?’
‘Nope, definitely not dying. You can take my word for it. I have a nose for these things.’
She raised that cute eyebrow at him again.
‘Hey, I work in a hospital.’
‘You work in a hospital cafeteria,’ she corrected him.
‘Details,’ he murmured, winking at her. ‘Know this, Poppy Devine. I am very many things. Lots of ’em bad. But I am never, ever wrong.’
He liked the sound of her full name rolling around in his mouth. As he finished his diagnosis, she swatted him on the bicep, then trailed a finger down his arm. Something thick and unmoving sat in the air between them. He watched her eyes darken and flick down to his lips. He eyeballed her from under his long fringe and blasted her with what his drummer, Spike, called The Look That Asks The Question.
He obviously did it wrong.
‘I’ve got to go.’ Poppy started to move away.
Really?
‘You sure?’ Not yet, Poppy Devine. Not quite yet.
‘Yep,’ she said, smiling as she began to detach herself from the bed.
He was losing her.
‘Okay.’ Time for the trump card. ‘But man, I am ravenous.’
It was true. Quentin was almost always ravenous. With a six-foot-six frame to feed, life truly was one long picnic. It was the reason he’d learned to cook so well in the first place. Survival.
‘Tell you what. Why don’t I come with you and we go work on number twelve?’
Poppy’s brow puckered.
‘Don’t tell me you don’t remember,’ he chided gently. ‘Number twelve? Eat a Mexican meal.’ He made the inverted commas sign with his fingers. ‘“At an authentic Mexican restaurant”.’ He smiled at her slowly and wiggled his fingers once again. ‘“Definitely, definitely no Tex Mex.”’
Poppy blushed. ‘Okay, so I know it’s kind of lame.’
‘Kind of lame? Poppy.’ Quentin used his entire lower register as he scolded her. ‘It’s almost unforgiveable. I don’t know anyone who’s never eaten Mexican.’
Poppy shrugged, that pointy, delicate chin lifting defiantly. ‘Yeah, well, I’m not just anyone,’ she declared. ‘There are things about me. Historical things.’ She wriggled her eyebrows dramatically. ‘Family things. Things you do not know.’
‘Amen to that.’ Quentin chuckled. With women, that was generally just how he liked it. ‘Come on, get your coat.’
‘I can’t.’ Poppy bit her lip and stayed firmly wrapped in the navy-blue sheets.
Quentin studied her. He had the strangest feeling that nothing would ever be easy with this girl.
‘Can’t what? Can’t eat Mexican yet? Need to take a hallucinogenic drug first? Because if you’re going to try to tell me it’s an ordering problem, let me tell you, girl, that I know better. I happen to know for a fact that you skipped from number one right on through to number ten when it suited you.’
Poppy chuckled. ‘No, it’s not the order. It’s … well, I suppose it’s … you.’
‘Me?’ This was confusing. She seemed pretty happy to be with him the last seven and a half hours. What the hell could be wrong with him? Women loved Quentin, at least at this stage of the relationship. He tried not to think about other lists, the very long ones all his ex-girlfriends had composed about all the reasons he was a crap boyfriend. Partner. Potential husband.
And really, it had never worried him. But the idea that he somehow wasn’t good enough to eat Mexican with? Man, he’d eaten Mexican food with all kinds of unsavoury characters. Didn’t this girl get it? Mexican was anything goes food.
‘Well, not you exactly. Obviously, you’re …’ Her eyes skittered over his broad, naked chest in what he could have sworn was an appreciative manner. ‘It’s just that you’re not my type.’
He raised his eyebrows and she blushed some more.
‘I mean, for dating, you know.’
Oh, that. Well, of course he wasn’t. About time a woman was clever enough to realise it. ‘Okay, so no worries.’ He grinned in what he hoped was a charming, boyish way. Chicks liked that. ‘So let’s not call it a date. Let’s call it additional bucket-list ticking.’
She rested her chin on her finger and studied his face.
He waited while he watched her ponder his proposal. It was hard. He just wasn’t the patient type.
He tried another tack. ‘Okay, so tell you what. While you’re thinking about that terrifying idea, tell me. Who exactly is your type?’
The question seemed to perplex her even more than his Mexican-food proposal. She reached over to the rickety coffee table beside his bed and punched the red button on the remote. The television flickered to life. The news. The US president saying something to a bunch of journalists.
‘Him.’ She pointed a chewed finger at the box.
‘Obama?’
She nodded.
He nodded at the television. ‘Obama is your type?’
She nodded again.
‘Don’t you think he’s a little …’
‘Are you going to say black?’ She was almost out of the bed before he registered what she meant. She was like quicksilver.
‘No.’ And it was true. ‘I wasn’t going to say black. I was going to say don’t you think he’s a little serious. And presidenty. And you know, kind of … married? Pretty happily, too, by the looks of things.’
Poppy nodded earnestly. ‘Yeah,’ she agreed. ‘But I’m also serious,’ she said quietly, sitting cross-legged on the bed.
He eyed her in disbelief.
She met his gaze dead on. ‘I am. I’ll prove it. See if you can guess my job.’
He groaned inwardly. Oh, goody. Games. Girls love games. Almost as much as the what are you thinking conversation. But on the other hand, he wasn’t quite ready for her to leave. Not quite. So maybe he could tolerate a game. A short one.
‘Okay, great.’ At least it might keep her here a while longer. ‘Let’s see.’ He rubbed his chin and scratched his head. ‘How many guesses do I get?’
She cocked her head to the side. ‘Three.’ This was one girl who knew her mind. Heaven help the guy who crossed her.
‘Okay, here goes. Accountant?’
She shook that curly hair emphatically.
‘Lawyer?’
Another shake, this time with an accompanying droop to that pretty mouth.
He stretched for something serious yet sexier sounding. He could tell the first two guesses weren’t making her happy. ‘Cellist?’
She seemed to brighten at this. ‘No. No, no, no. You lose. Maths lecturer.’
‘Maths lecturer?’ Quentin could feel his jaw hanging open in a most unmanly fashion so he scooped it up again. ‘Aren’t you like … twenty-five?’
‘Twenty-nine,’ she countered. ‘And I was kind of in a hurry. How old are you?’
Quentin swallowed. Was she going to freak out? ‘Twenty-two.’
Poppy shrugged. ‘Hmmm,’ she mused. ‘You look older.’
‘Okay,’ he went on quickly, still trying to join the dots. ‘So you can’t eat Mexican with me because you’re a maths professor. Hey, that’s cool.’ He shrugged. ‘We’ll always have Paris.’ Was she a Casablanca fan?
‘It’s not that,’ she scolded, punching him on the arm. ‘It’s just that I can tell we’re not compatible. So what’s the point? Why start dating at all?’
‘How can you tell we’re not compatible?’ He wasn’t arguing. Truth to tell, he was pretty sure he’d never met a woman he’d been compatible with. Leastways there didn’t seem to be that many who liked old movies, late-night guitar gigs in smoky pubs, and surfing. And none who didn’t want to change him, set him up with a real job, make him respectable. So yeah, he wasn’t arguing on the compatibility front. Merely curious.
‘I’m an expert.’
‘Yeah, you said that, Ms Maths Lecturer.’
‘Doctor Maths Lecturer to you.’
Man, she was cute. He tried to work out how to tell her that without sounding patronising. But she was too quick for him again.
‘No, I mean my field is human connection. Well, the algorithms of internet dating, actually. Whether they can help you find your perfect match. I’m doing some research right now. Let me tell you, I’ve done thousands of hours of research in this field and …’
She was starting to speak really fast, and as she did he noticed the tiniest shred of a lisp start to creep in on a very occasional word.
But h
e needed to stop her. This was not right. ‘Hang on, that’s your field of maths? Internet dating? ’Cause that doesn’t sound really serious to me.’
At least not serious enough to stop you eating Mexican with me.
‘Oh, you have no idea. That’s why I’ve been fast-tracked. There’s huge, literally huge, money in it.’
He looked her over, up and down. She sure was cute, but it had been clear from the first moment they’d tumbled into this big old bed of his that she did not do this a lot. She was too … skittish. Which begged the question …
‘So. This romance expertise of yours. How’s it working for you?’
‘What?’
‘All this expertise. How is it working for,’ he paused emphatically, ‘you?’
Poppy blushed again, and then narrowed those eyes at him. ‘You sure Julia didn’t set you up with me?’
‘Julia?’
‘My best friend, Julia. The bucket list, remember?’ She flapped a hand at him. ‘Anyway, enough about me. What about you? You’re a chef?’
He laughed. ‘Kind of a grand title. No. I do days at the Royal, short-order cook. Nights I do …’ He motioned towards a six-string leaning on the bookshelf.
‘Oh. You’re a musician.’ Before he could open his mouth for a shrugging-off remark, she reached up and pulled his face close to hers. ‘Play me something.’
Quentin took in her shiny eyes and half-open mouth. He grinned.
Oh yeah, baby. She might be a maths professor and all, but she’s still a girl. He could almost smell the tacos.
Chapter Two
‘God, do you think they nicked these chairs from Guantanamo?’ Julia Shrewsbury asked, adjusting her bottom on the solid plastic.
Julia had grown up not only with a silver spoon in her mouth, but with opulent furnishings beneath her backside. And she may have rejected all that trust-fund crap and the strings with which it came, but, much like the princess who had issues with that pesky pea, her lower vertebrae remembered luxury.
‘Mmm,’ Poppy said noncommittally.
‘I mean really, this whole place is seriously fucking depressing,’ she continued, her eyes roaming around the impersonal hospital waiting room with its garish orange-and-green decor. It looked like a relic from the disco era. ‘Why don’t they just put up a sign pronouncing Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here? It could do with a good interior designer.’ She paused, chewing her lip. ‘Missy Althrop. She’d be perfect.’
