Natalie softened. “I understand.”
“Mom forgot to mention that you’re free to eat anything in the kitchen when it’s slow.”
“Yes, I assumed.” She hesitated. “So, there’s nothing on the menu like quiche? Or crepes? Coq au vin?”
Quinn stared at her a moment, then burst out laughing. “This isn’t Vivi’s, honey. This is an Irish pub.”
“Don’t call me honey,” Natalie said crossly.
“Food snob,” Quinn accused.
“I most certainly am not.”
Quinn looked pained. “Do me a favor, all right? Don’t make any suggestions for changes to the menu to my folks. They know what they’re doing.”
Natalie frowned. “Fine.”
“C’mon, I’ll introduce you to the bar regulars, and then I have to run.”
He started toward the bar.
“Quinn?”
He turned. “Yeah?”
“Thank you,” Natalie murmured. She took a step forward, surprising herself when she planted a chaste, measured kiss on Quinn’s cheek. Quinn’s look of surprise quickly transformed into one of disappointment.
“C’mon, you can do better than that,” he teased.
Natalie ignored the quip. “Thank you again,” she said.
Quinn bowed, smiling playfully. “Anything for mademoiselle.”
It scared her, because she knew he meant it. And she liked it.
4
Natalie felt her nerves return as Quinn led her back to the bar. The group sitting there looked more than motley; they looked somewhat mad. At the far end was a very fat woman with a yellow-and-teal-colored parrot on her shoulder. Natalie was horrified. Wasn’t having a bird in a place of dining unsanitary?
Beside the parrot woman sat a thin, scruffy-looking man hunched over his beer. He dressed worse than Quinn, his corduroy jacket bearing the sheen of the threadbare. Two seats down from the scruffy fellow was a rheumy-eyed, middle-aged man with a red nose, engrossed in a battered old paperback. Two policemen sitting side by side had their eyes glued to the baseball game. Last but not least, at the other end of the bar, sat a well-dressed, dignified older man with a wizened face and gleaming silver hair, lost in thought between spoonfuls of what looked like beef stew.
Let me introduce you to the crew,” said Quinn with a wicked gleam in his eye. He walked down to the end of the bar where the parrot lady sat. “Natalie, I’d like you to meet Mrs. Colgan and Rudy.”
“Grab me a beer out of the fridge, you old hag,” Rudy squawked.
Natalie was too stunned to speak.
“Rudy parrots the late Mr. Colgan,” Quinn explained helpfully.
God help me, Natalie thought.
“Look what menopause is doing to you!” Rudy cried. “Your beard is heavier than mine!”
“Shut up!” Mrs. Colgan hissed, returning to her drink.
Natalie pulled Quinn aside. “How long has she been coming in with him?” she managed.
“Since her husband died about five years ago. Rudy will probably outlive her. You have any idea how long parrots live?”
Quinn’s brother leaned over to them. “Don’t pay Rudy too much attention, especially when he screams out about how his balls itch. How’d it go with the folks?”
“I’ll be working here.”
Liam cocked his head inquisitively. “Did my folks have any problem with you being French?”
Natalie blinked. “No. Why would they?”
Liam shrugged. “Your accent is just kind of high-class for the Hart, is all.”
Next Quinn brought her to meet the rumpled man nursing the beer. “This is PJ Leary, our resident novelist.” PJ looked up. “PJ, this is Natalie, the new waitress.”
“Nice to meet you,” Natalie said. “You’re working on a book? That’s very impressive.”
“Yes, my writer’s block appears to have lifted. I published a book many years ago—”
“Try forty,” said Liam.
“And haven’t been able to write a word since—until now.”
“What’s it about?” Natalie asked politely.
Quinn groaned.
“An army of leprechauns who—”
“Yeah, Peej, Nat here is a little pressed for time,” Quinn cut in. “You can tell her all about it on Friday night if she gets a breather.”
“Right,” said PJ, returning to his gloom.
Natalie couldn’t believe Quinn’s bluntness. “That was rude.”
“We’ll see how rude you think it is when he tells you the whole plot one night.”
They moved on to the red-nosed man with his face in a book.
“Hey, Joey.”
The man shut his book. “Quinn O’Brien. Good to see you.”
“We call Joey the Mouth. He never shuts up.”
Natalie was once again shocked by Quinn’s insult, but Joey didn’t seem to mind.
“This is Natalie. She’s replacing Maggie.”
“Why did you have to say hello to him?” Liam chided his brother, though his expression was affectionate as he regarded the Mouth. “Now he’s gonna start up.”
“I always say,” the Mouth began to pontificate, “that young men who have no respect for their elders will find themselves swallowing a bitter, bitter pill when they themselves grow old.”
Liam put his elbows on the bar and leaned over, putting his face right up to the Mouth’s. “What about young men who let old men run a tab equal to a month’s salary?”
“Ah. Well, it’s possible those young men might escape an ignominious fate.” The Mouth’s eyes shot up to the TV above the bar. Clearly he didn’t want to continue the conversation.
Finally, Quinn led her to the older man at the end of the bar. “Major?”
The old man looked up from his stew. “Quinn.”
“This is Natalie, the new waitress. Natalie, this is the Major.”
The old man held out a shaky hand.
“Pleased to meet you,” said Natalie.
The Major just nodded and went back to his meal.
Again Natalie pulled Quinn out of hearing range. “Why is he called the Major?”
“You got me.”
“I would think as a reporter, you’d want to know.”
“No one will say. Not even my folks. All I know is he’s from Dublin. I’ve learned to let it drop.” He looked over his shoulder back at the bar. “Eclectic group, no?”
“You could say that,” Natalie replied dryly.
“Feel free to be your usual acerbic self with PJ and Joey. They’ll love it.”
“I’m not acerbic.”
“Yeah, and I don’t want to win a Pulitzer. C’mon, let’s talk to Heathcliff, and then I have to get out of here. You can stay if you want.”
“No, I have a lot to do,” Natalie said hastily.
Quinn looked dubious as he gestured for her to follow him behind the bar.
“So, how do you know my brother?” Liam asked Natalie, seeming to make a point of ignoring Quinn.
“He’s a regular at my sister’s restaurant, Vivi’s.”
“Wow, you actually take time to sit down to eat now and then?” Liam said to Quinn. He turned to Natalie. “You know about this guy, right?”
Natalie stared at him blankly.
“What, you don’t know about Mr. Nominated for the Pulitzer Prize in Journalism Twice? The Sent is what he lives for. You know what his motto is? ‘I’ll sleep when I’m dead.’ He spends his life chasing stories.”
Natalie was confused. “And you are telling me this because—?”
“Because he’s jealous of me,” Quinn finished.
“Bite me,” said Liam, flipping Quinn off. He moved down the bar to take someone’s order.
Natalie swallowed as she looked up at Quinn. “Your brother seems to be a very angry person.”
“He is. For some unknown reason, he’s got a chip on his shoulder where I’m concerned. Damned if I know why.”
“I don’t think he likes me.”
“Yes, but I think since I know you, and he doesn’t seem to like you, by extension he will not like me.”
“Screw him. Look, just because he’s a surly jackass doesn’t mean you should be nervous about working here. He can be a great guy. Honestly.”
“Why did your mother call him ‘dark’?”
“Because he’s moody. The girls love it, the whole tormented soul, bad boy persona.”
“So it’s an act.”
“No, he really is that way, poor bastard.” Quinn shook his head, his expression playful. “He’s not happy-go-lucky like me.” Quinn checked his watch. “Fuck—I mean—I gotta run. You gonna be okay?”
Natalie bristled. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Guess I’ll see you Friday night, then. I’ll be in with my coworkers, barring unforeseen circumstances.”
Natalie frowned. “I’m looking forward to it.”
“I know you are,” Quinn murmured in her ear.
Natalie wanted to stamp her foot in frustration but refrained. Honestly, he was maddening. Maddening. But he’d done her a big favor, and for that she was grateful. She just hoped she landed the job of her dreams sooner rather than later. She really couldn’t picture herself working here for very long.
“How’s it goin’, Nat?”
It was Friday night, Natalie’s first night of waitressing, and Quinn had determined that come hell or high water, he was going to drop by to see how she fared—that, and he and his cohorts were desperate to unwind after a particularly chaotic week at work. There were a rash of robberies on the Upper West Side. A murder in Brooklyn. A shooting in Queens. Good stuff.
Natalie looked unfazed as she glanced around the small dining room. “I think I’m doing well.”
“A little too noisy for you, I bet,” Quinn teased.
Natalie said nothing.
“You and Liam getting along okay?”
“Yes. He’s very nice. Very personable.”
“He damn well better be if he’s the bartender.” It bugged him that Natalie liked Liam.
“I better get back to work,” said Natalie as someone motioned for her to give them their check. “I don’t want your mother to think I’m goofing off.”
Quinn laughed. It sounded so weird to hear someone say “goofing off ” in a French accent.
“Well, I’ll be at that booth right over there”—he pointed at the booth farthest in the back—“if you want to come over and flirt with me.”
“Arrogant fool.”
Eyeing her discreetly as she swung by the table asking for the check, Quinn couldn’t help noticing how attractive she was. Lately, he’d been having fantasies about what it might be like to make love to her in every way imaginable. He knew it was just a way to distract himself when he was under so much pressure. He sighed and went to sit in his regular booth.
Within minutes, his cronies appeared. When Rogan, Rodriquez, Durham, and Moss sat down, Natalie was there almost immediately to take their orders. Quinn introduced her to them as a good friend of his; he wanted them to know that he already knew her. Even so, the cavalcade of rude comments started as soon as she was out of hearing range.
“Be still, my horny heart,” said Pete Rodriguez. “That is one mighty fine ass.”
“Mighty fine ass?” repeated Durham. “That’s the best you can come up with? She’s ravishing.”
“Listen to Mr. Crossword Puzzle,” Rodriguez mocked. “Sorry, I happen to think ‘mighty fine ass’ sounds a helluva lot more manly than ‘ravishing.’ ”
“Hey,” said Quinn sharply. “Don’t talk about her that way.”
“Whoa,” said Rodriguez, rearing back. “Sounds to me like someone else at this table wants a piece of that.”
“No way,” Shep mocked before Quinn could remind them that Natalie was just a friend. “Quinn doesn’t have time for beautiful ladies. His only love is New York City. Ain’t that right, Quinnie boy?”
“Shut up, Shep,” Quinn said with a frown. “At least I do something. What the hell do you do? I’ve never been quite sure about that.”
“He’s the Phantom of the Sent,” Durham cracked. “Prowls the office at night.”
Rodriguez was still checking out Natalie, who was chatting amiably with Liam as he filled the drink orders for the table. Quinn watched their easy way with one another, the way they laughed, and found himself percolating with jealousy. Was it possible Natalie and Liam would hook up? He imagined it for a moment and then chided himself for being ridiculous. No way would Natalie ever go out with a bartender. Unless she was falling for his tortured Irishman bullshit.
Rodriguez finally tore his eyes from Natalie, zeroing in on Quinn with a smirk. “Friend, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“She have a boyfriend?” Shep asked.
“Why don’t you ask her?” Quinn replied snarkily. “Use those interviewing skills you supposedly have, you know? They might come in handy. PS, correct me if I’m wrong, but it seems to me you’re old enough to be her father.”
Shep scowled at him as Natalie returned to the table with their drinks. Quinn’s friends were more polite to her than he’d ever seen them be to a waitress in their lives.
“You guys are so transparent,” he said disgustedly when Natalie walked away.
“Oh, and you aren’t,” snorted Durham. “Friend my derriere. You’re smitten with her. Don’t repudiate it.”
Quinn sipped his Guinness. “You’re spending too much time staring at your monitor, trying to think up complicated synonyms for words like plate and oil burner. It’s addling your brain, my friend. You need to get out more.”
“Self-denial,” Rodriquez murmured to Durham, shaking his head sadly. “One of the more charming Irish traits.”
Quinn frowned again. He wanted to get off the topic of Natalie and steer the conversation toward the subject of the Sent’s smarmy new editor in chief, Mason Clement, when the bastard himself walked through the door.
“Fuck me with a stick,” Durham hissed. “Satan’s entered heaven.”
“Don’t you mean ‘Have congress with me with a bough’?” asked Shep.
Rodriguez turned around to look. “I hope he doesn’t want to sit here.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” said Quinn. “We’re ink-stained wretches. He’s management.”
“He’d never want to sit here,” said Rogan, though he didn’t sound entirely sure.
Quinn saw Clement’s eyes briefly light on their booth before grabbing a stool at the bar. The guy knew better than to even try approaching them off-hours. Quinn couldn’t blame him. From the first day Mason Clement set foot in the Sent’s office two weeks earlier after the firing of their previous editor in chief, the hostility toward him had been palpable. Not only was the guy an Aussie, but the paper’s new owner—a media mogul from Canada named Darren Hewitt, whose hobby was buying the world’s newspapers—wanted to turn the Sent into a rag, complete with pages of star gossip and pictures of bikini-clad girls with silicone boobs on page three. Clement was Hewitt’s eyes and ears, his henchman. The guy wouldn’t know a good story if it bit him in the ass. Quinn disliked him on principle.
Quinn tensed when Natalie breezed by the bar, and Clement actually turned his head to watch her go by, his eyes lingering on her body. He made himself turn back to his friends. “What’s the theme of your puzzle for tomorrow?” he asked Durham.
“Aircraft.”
“Interesting,” Quinn murmured. He turned to Shep with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “And what are you working on?”
Before Shep could answer, Rodriquez began humming the theme from The Phantom of the Opera. They all laughed.
“Anything good come in over the police scanner after I left?” Quinn asked, his eyes magnetically drawn back to Natalie. When he saw Mason Clement call Natalie over and start talking to her, and Natalie smiling, anger surged inside him. The bastard was a charmer, one of those assholes who could fire people and make th
e person being axed actually feel sorry for him for having to convey such bad news. Must be the accent, Quinn thought.
Unable to help himself, he slid out of the booth. “Be back in a minute.”
He strolled over to Natalie and Clement, putting a friendly hand on Natalie’s shoulder. “Could you excuse us a minute?”
Natalie looked surprised. “You two know each other?”
“He’s the new editor in chief,” Quinn said, sounding slightly disdainful.
“Which means I’m his boss.” Clement flashed Natalie a charming smile. “I’m looking forward to chatting with you again soon.”
Natalie smiled back at him as she walked away.
“What can I do for you?” Clement asked Quinn genially.
Quinn wanted to tell him not to go near Natalie, but he refused to give Clement any ammunition to use against him. He decided to stick to basics.
“Look, I’m gonna say this nicely, and I’m gonna say it once: you’re not wanted here.”
Clement looked confused as he lifted an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“This is the reporters’ hangout. Management goes to Barzini’s Grill.”
“I didn’t know that,” Clement admitted. Clearly none of the other suits had yet invited him out for an after-work drink with them. Quinn wasn’t surprised. It was likely that none of them trusted him, either.
“Well, now that you know, you should hang at Barzini’s.”
Clement looked bemused. “Why do you care where I go to unwind? As long as I don’t sit with you, what does it matter?”
The bastard had a point.
“Look,” said Quinn, trying to sound reasonable. “I’m just saying—”
“I promise I’ll stay here at the bar if I come in again, okay?”
“Fine,” Quinn said begrudgingly.
“Good reporting on the shooting in Queens,” said Clement.
“Thanks,” said Quinn, not wanting to appear ungracious. God, he wanted this guy to be a total asshole, and he wasn’t, at least not right now.
“I’d like to talk to you Monday morning if you can,” Clement continued. “We haven’t really had a chance to chat on our own. And since you’re the paper’s star reporter . . .”
“My shift doesn’t start until three.”
With a Twist Page 4
