Home at Last--Sanctuary Island Book 6

by Lily Everett

  Speechless, Quinn looked at her father. Paul’s mouth was a tight line. “Ron is your mother’s new guru,” he said grimly.

  “Ron is our relationship expert,” Ingrid snapped. “But the fact that you refuse to take any ownership of this process is so completely typical. Ron says that’s a huge part of our problem.”

  “What problem?” Quinn asked, helpless tears rising up to clutch at her throat. “I didn’t know y’all were having … marriage problems?”

  “Ron says every marriage has problems. It’s what you do about them that defines your relationship.”

  Paul’s glance cut to Quinn and they shared a silent moment of complete understanding. She caught her father’s slight grimace and wanted to tell him that she got it—she’d only been in her mother’s presence for five minutes and she was already sick and tired of the phrase “Ron says…”

  But Quinn also knew her mother, and if Ingrid had entered fully into a new enthusiasm, she would react badly to anything that sounded like criticism of her most recent passion.

  “Mother.” Quinn tried to keep the threat of tears out of her voice. “I don’t understand all this. I don’t think selling the house where you and Daddy have so many happy memories is going to help anything. You love this house! And what about your garden?”

  “My garden.” Ingrid sighed, her mouth turned down into an unhappy curve. “I do hate to leave it. But Ron says this house is weighing all of us down, even you.”

  Quinn blinked. “What does Ron know about me? He’s never even met me.”

  “Your mother has no secrets from Ron.” Paul’s tone was dry enough to turn an ocean into a desert.

  “I told him about how you’re still finding your path,” Ingrid explained. “Which is exactly what you should be doing, sweetheart, no matter what your father says.”

  Paul frowned. “I just think Quinn would be happier if she had a goal to work toward. And maybe it’s time to think about settling down to something, whether that’s a family or a career. Or both!”

  “Don’t…” Quinn bit her lip, familiar frustration surging through her as her stomach twisted with guilt. They’d always been like this, her parents. So connected, even when arguing, it was like there was no one else in the room. “Please don’t fight about me, and don’t talk about me like I’m not here. As a matter of fact, you’ve been gone for a while and a few things changed while you were traveling.”

  “Oh?”

  Two pairs of interested eyes turned her way, and Quinn swallowed hard at the sudden intensity of her parents’ attention.

  “I started a job—a paying job!—at the therapeutic riding center, and I love it. I could see it turning into a real career. Like, long-term.” Honesty compelled her to add, “It’s not full-time yet, only part-time, but…”

  Ingrid clasped her hands to her chest with a jingle of her bangle bracelets. “But it’s a start! That’s wonderful, sweetie! Helping others, working outdoors in the fresh air and sunshine—it sounds perfect for you!”

  Quinn beamed at her mother’s enthusiasm, but it was her father’s quiet smile that warmed her heart.

  “I’m proud of you, honey. Real proud.”

  “I’ve been so worried,” Ingrid continued, her hands fluttering like butterflies unable to land. “Ron says we’ve been holding you back by keeping you tied to this house where you grew up because when you come home you can be a child again instead of moving forward into your adult space—”

  “Well, Ron is wrong,” Quinn interrupted forcefully. She couldn’t be the reason her family was falling apart. She had to do something.

  “I’m an adult now,” she continued, panicking a bit at the skeptical glance her parents shared. “I’m settling down, and this house is, is part of that! Because, well, you see, I have a boyfriend. A serious one. And I want you to stick around to get to know him.”

  “What the hell makes you think that’s a good idea?”

  Marcus’s gruff growl snapped Quinn out of her memory of her parents’ delighted surprise and back to the present, where the man she’d loved since she was a little girl looked anything but delighted at the prospect of dating her. Even pretend-dating.

  “My parents are talking about splitting up,” Quinn told him, holding her head high. “And I can’t let that happen.”

  A complicated expression shadowed Marcus’s face before it resolved into something that looked an awful lot like pity. “That’s rough. I’m sorry. But…”

  “But people split up. I know.” She raked her fingers through her hair, resisting the urge to start tearing it out in chunks. “Not my parents. Trust me on this. They’re the real deal, they love each other like crazy and they’d be miserable apart. They’re going through a hard time, that’s all.”

  Marcus blew out a breath. “Maybe, but I still don’t see where I come into it.”

  “I needed a way to stall my parents before they blew up their lives and did a bunch of things I know they’d come to regret,” Quinn said carefully. “It was a spur-of-the-moment thing, I just blurted it out—but I’ve been thinking it over for the last couple of hours, and I know it can work. All I need is to buy some time. Time to show my parents that they don’t need to worry about me or fight over me anymore, and time to help them remember how much they love each other.”

  “So what happens in a month?”

  Quinn’s heart rate spiked. He wasn’t saying no. At least, not yet. “Their thirtieth wedding anniversary. I want them to renew their vows. If I can’t get them to do that inside of a month, I’ll … I’ll let it go. They can get a divorce if they want.”

  The D-word was as bitter as grapefruit peel on the back of her tongue, but Quinn meant what she said. She knew she couldn’t ultimately control what her parents chose to do, and if this didn’t work, she’d accept it.

  But only after giving it her best shot. Which depended, in large part, on the man staring across an empty table at her.

  Chapter 3

  Marcus’s mind raced in circles like a rookie doing defensive driving training on a closed course. Amid the blaring confusion of questions, one stood out from all the rest. He had to know.

  “Why me?”

  A sneer pulled oddly at Quinn’s sweetly shaped mouth. It looked entirely wrong on her face. “Not because I’m trying to get back together with you, if that’s what that worried face is all about. I may be an optimistic idiot when it comes to romance, but even I have my limits.”

  That’s good, Marcus told himself, ignoring the pang near his midsection. She can’t have any more illusions about happily-ever-after with you.

  Still, better safe than sorry.

  “Find someone else to play house with.” Marcus went back to closing down the bar. There wasn’t a lot to do. Without any customers to spill their drinks and drop peanut shells on the floor, the place was as clean as it had been when he opened the doors at four.

  “I don’t have time to audition fake boyfriends,” Quinn said, impatience clipping her words short. “If there were another eligible bachelor in town, don’t you think I’d be dating him for real? I grew up with these guys, my parents would never believe I’d go for any of them. You and me, though—that’s believable. Everyone in town knows we were together. They won’t be surprised when we get back together, and they’ll confirm our story to my parents.”

  And if Marcus started dating Sanctuary Island’s Sweetheart again, he’d be off the town’s shit list. They’d finally give the Buttercup Inn a try … and hopefully even after this wacky scheme of Quinn’s blew up in Marcus’s face, the townspeople would be used to coming here.

  He couldn’t believe he was actually considering this ludicrous proposition.

  As though sensing his weakness, Quinn pounced. “I’m not asking you to change your life in any way. We already live in the same building—no one needs to know we’re not sharing your apartment. All we’re talking about is a couple of dinners with my parents, maybe a picnic or something. No big-time commitment on your en
d. Just enough to convince them that we’re…”

  She hesitated, so Marcus supplied the obvious word. “Screwing.”

  Her nose crinkled. He didn’t find it adorable. At all.

  “That we’re deeply in love,” she corrected him. “Almost ready to settle down. You know, the whole basic load of crap.”

  Marcus frowned. It was crap. He knew it. So why did it bug him to hear Quinn talk about love and marriage as if they were things she couldn’t imagine believing in?

  Obviously misinterpreting his scowl as a signal he was about to turn her down, Quinn propped her hands on her slim hips and pierced Marcus with a glare. He half expected her to tell him he owed her, after the way he’d treated her. But instead, she said, “Look. Do you really think I’d come to you with this if I had any other choice? I’m desperate. My family is coming apart at the seams. You can help me stitch it back together. Please don’t make me beg.”

  And that was it. Marcus was done. A woman like Quinn should never have to beg someone like Marcus for a damn thing that didn’t involve being naked and shuddering with pleasure. He’d shot pretty wide of the mark in most areas of his life so far, but he wasn’t so far gone as that.

  “I’ll do it.” The words ripped out of him like prying a bullet out of a wound.

  Quinn’s eyes widened, her whole face lighting up as if someone had flipped a switch, but Marcus held up his hands for caution before she could get too incandescent.

  “I’ll help you out, pretend to be your boyfriend for a month—but I’ve got a few conditions of my own.”

  A wary look finally flickered to life in Quinn’s eyes. “What conditions?”

  Marcus crossed to the last table and instead of picking up the chair, he pulled it out and sat in it. Gesturing for Quinn to take the seat opposite, he shoved up the sleeves of his flannel shirt and rested his crossed arms on the rough-hewn wood of the tabletop while his mind revved into high gear.

  “First, it has to look real. I get that. But I wasn’t big into public displays of affection when we dated before, so I don’t think it’ll look more real now if we’re suddenly all lovey-dovey.”

  “But we’re getting back together after breaking up. You realized exactly what you were missing.”

  And he did miss it. God Almighty, did he ever. But Marcus would be damned before he’d admit it. “I’ll hold hands in public,” he compromised. “But I’m not getting a tattoo of your name on my bicep or something. I know how your mind works. We’re going to keep it simple.”

  Sure enough, Quinn looked briefly disappointed before brightening again. “They make really convincing temporary tattoos these days. Anyway, we can hammer out the details later. The important thing is, you’re in!”

  “Not so fast.” His stern voice dragged her pert little rear back into the seat she’d half bounced up out of. “A few details, we’ll settle now. Like exactly what we’re both committing to, here.”

  “I don’t know exactly what I’ll need from you,” Quinn argued. “Can’t we play it by ear?”

  Marcus dipped his chin in a nod. “We can. Let’s call it at least one get-together per week, either with your parents or somewhere public enough that people will see us and tell them about it.”

  “Like your bar!”

  He shrugged. “Doesn’t have to be. But if enough customers show up to make it worthwhile, sure.”

  So long as it wasn’t at her parents’ house, down the road from where Marcus grew up, he was fine with it.

  “You’re supposed to be getting something out of this, too, you know,” she said earnestly, leaning over the table. “I want the Buttercup Inn to be a success. Not only because I helped build it but because there’s no place else on the island where I can get a margarita! Speaking of which, how about we seal this deal with a drink? On me. I’ll even do the mixing.”

  She was up and behind the bar before Marcus could remind her there was no mixing involved in a scotch on the rocks. But maybe putting a little distance between them wasn’t a bad idea. Because Marcus still had one final condition to lay out.

  He sprawled back in the chair and watched her bustle around, clinking ice into glasses and lifting bottles of liquor to sniff curiously at them. Marcus felt his gaze go heavy-lidded and intense, staring at her from the shadows, but they had to finish this conversation or he couldn’t move forward with this scheme.

  “Before we seal the deal, you have to make me a promise.”

  Quinn looked over her creamy, freckled shoulder at him, strawberry-blond hair slipping free of a braid to wisp against her cheeks. “Anything, Marcus. Seriously, I appreciate this more than I can tell you.”

  “I need you to promise not to get caught up in the act,” he said slowly, deliberately. “Promise me you won’t fall in love with me.”

  *

  Quinn nearly dropped the single malt on the hardwood floor. Gripping the neck of the bottle hard enough to worry about snapping the glass with her fingers, she glared across the bar at Marcus and thought very seriously about hurling the Talisker at his head.

  Only her respect for a very fine Scotch whisky stayed her hand. Well, that and an innate desire not to let Marcus see how much power he still had to affect her.

  Forcing a light laugh, Quinn deliberately loosened her grasp on the bottle and set it down with care. “Oh, Marcus. You’re hilarious. I’m not sure what you’re afraid of exactly, but if it’ll make you feel better, I think I can safely promise never, ever to fall in love with you.”

  And she meant it. Times had changed and Quinn wasn’t a kid anymore. She could control herself. She could keep this smart and aboveboard and completely free of all emotions except gratitude for Marcus doing her this favor.

  Marcus stayed still and silent for a long moment, studying her with disconcerting intensity. She poured a couple of fingers of scotch into a glass and tried not to notice the way his long, denim-clad legs splayed slightly open from the way he leaned back in that chair. Gratitude, she reminded herself with gritted teeth. Gratitude. That’s all you feel for him.

  Sure, her reckless, wanton body replied. Gratitude for the way his black T-shirt is rumpled up enough to expose that sliver of his taut, toned abs. Gratitude for broad shoulders and the way they stretch the jersey tight, and the glimpse of his strong forearms, and the shadow of stubble on a strong, angular jaw, and the glint of silver under unfairly long lashes.

  For the first time, Quinn had a moment of doubt about her ability to get through the next four weeks with her heart—and her sanity—intact. But it was too late to back out now, when Marcus was on the point of agreeing.

  She’d just have to suppress the helpless longing that stirred her up like a cocktail in a shaker every time she came within ten feet of Marcus Beckett.

  The man in question stood, a coiled rush of power and grace that made everything low in her body go liquid. He prowled over to lean on the bar in front of her. “You’ve got yourself a deal. As long as we’re agreed that when the month is up, it’s over—whether your parents are back together or not.”

  One month. It seemed like such a short amount of time to fix whatever catastrophe had gone wrong between her parents, but they’d been together and happy a lot longer than they’d been struggling. She was sure she could do it.

  Quinn poured a second glass of scotch and slid the first across the bar. Clinking the glasses together, she said, “Agreed. And thank you for helping me. I know every kid thinks their parents belong together, but mine really do.”

  A muscle ticked behind Marcus’s jaw before he tipped the glass and took a sip of scotch. “Not every kid. I’ll go along with this in return for a chance to bring some paying customers into the bar, but that doesn’t mean I think you’re heading for anything other than disappointment.”

  Quinn stiffened, her glass of whisky halfway to her mouth. There it was.

  Gratitude. For reminding her that Marcus Beckett might be the sexiest man she’d ever seen, but his heart was made of icy stone.


  If she could keep remembering that, she’d be okay.

  *

  Paul Harper hung up the phone and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He knew his daughter, and that was not the sound of a blissfully happy Quinn.

  Something was going on with her. The only question was whether it was Marcus Beckett’s fault … or her parents’.

  Ingrid wandered over to his desk, her journal tucked under one arm. She’d been diligently writing in it for two hours, her pen scratching out whatever thought exercises Ron had given her like a student studying for an all-important exam. Paul wondered if even Ingrid knew what a passing grade would look like.

  “Was that Quinn? Are she and that nice Beckett boy coming over? I haven’t seen him in years, not since my sweet Elizabeth crossed over to the other side.”

  Paul knew his wife’s grief for her friend and neighbor was sincere, but all that stuff about the other side rubbed him the wrong way. He dropped his hand and arranged his face into something bland and pleasant. That seemed the best way to avoid yet another discussion that felt like a verbal boxing match. “They’re not coming over. Quinn suggested we all meet up at the Firefly Café instead. It’s Friday and she knows how much you love their fried chicken.”

  But Ingrid didn’t look pleased. “I wanted them to come here! If Marcus is the chosen partner of Quinn’s journey, we should welcome him into our home.”

  The fact that they’d only arrived back on the island two days ago after weeks out of town, and their kitchen wasn’t exactly stocked for hosting lunch guests—that wasn’t the sort of thing Ingrid Harper could be counted on to notice.

  Her obliviousness had never bothered Paul. He found it endearing, usually. But these days, it caught him on the raw.

  “Our home,” he repeated. “The home that up until yesterday, you couldn’t wait to sell?”

  “You make it sound so ugly and … and mercenary! It’s not about the money, Paul. It’s because this house is an anchor dragging us down into the past.”