The Beach House

by Jolie Campbell

  Quinn Buckley was chuckling, looking down at his shirt and at me good-naturedly.

  Wow. WOW. He is so much hotter in person.

  He was grinning at me, eyebrows raised, that famously mischievous boyish smile. It seemed innocuous on the surface, but there was something underneath, a quality that made him irresistible onscreen. It was hard to pinpoint exactly what it was. A vulnerability, something smoldering in those warm, thickly lashed hazel eyes. A hint of something dark.

  "It was my fault," he said, bringing me back to earth. "I should have stayed put at the front desk, but I was following that incredible smell. What are you making in there?"

  He looked right into my eyes and then his smile faltered slightly, a hint of a furrow crossing his brow. His gaze didn't leave mine for what felt like a long moment.

  Then I remembered, he had just asked me a question.

  Get a grip, Em!

  "Oh, it's Irish soda bread, for breakfast tomorrow," I said, trying to seem cool and nonchalant while inwardly dying that I had just smeared Quinn Buckley, our VIP guest, with flour.

  I had to figure out a way to get him cleaned up fast, before Elaine saw him.

  "Weren't you supposed to arrive with Julianne at 5?" I asked, realizing too late how rude I sounded. "I mean, it's fine that you're here now. More than fine. It's great!"

  Jesus, shut up shut up!

  "I mean, we're happy you've chosen to stay with us while you're, I mean, well, we're just happy."

  By force of will I finally stopped talking.

  "Well, uh, thanks I guess," he said, winking at me, all smiles again.

  I'm such an idiot.

  "Hey, so do you have any luggage?" I walked him back toward the desk, thinking that being all business and not looking into those eyes was the only way to avoid making an even bigger fool of myself. "Maybe there's a fresh shirt in there and you can get cleaned up? I'll be happy to have that one washed for you."

  "Oh right, good idea," he gestured toward a fairly beaten up Army duffle. Definitely not fancy, movie-star luggage. He unzipped it, grabbed another T-shirt and whipped off the flour covered one.

  Oh. My. God.

  He was lean, but solid, muscular if not overly sculpted, with a wisp of caramel-brown hair on his chest. I had seen him shirtless onscreen before, dozens of times, but it was nothing compared to being with him, in the flesh. I swallowed hard.

  Stop staring, Emmy!

  He put on another shirt, thank goodness. As he ran a hand through his short, thick brown hair I had to suppress a panicked giggle—there was now a small streak of flour up there, too.

  "Let me take that for you, I- I'll have it clean in no time," I said, taking hold of the dirty shirt. He didn’t let go.

  "You don't have to do that," he said. Then he held out his other hand. "I'm Quinn, by the way."

  "I know. I mean, nice to meet you," I tried to wipe my hand off on my apron, then shook his. It was huge compared to mine and so warm. "I'm so sorry about your shirt. Can I please wash it for you? There's a washer-dryer right out in the back."

  God Emmy, can you beg to do his laundry a little more?

  "No, really, it's fine. Thanks though," he held onto my hand for a beat longer than necessary, then gave it a little squeeze before releasing me and said, "That's quite a handshake. You might have broken a finger or two.”

  Ugh, really? Gorgeous as he was, I fought the urge to roll my eyes. Was he really nice, or just phony?

  He tossed the floury shirt in his duffle, zipped it up and wiped the last of the flour I had gotten on his hand onto his jeans. “What did you say your name was?"

  "Oh, sorry, I didn’t. I-"

  "Mr. Buckley!" Elaine called, coming out of the kitchen, her strong floral perfume and a breath mint almost completely covering up the sharp undercurrent of scotch. "I'm sorry I wasn't here to greet you! My apologies. I’m Elaine, general manager of the Beach House.”

  She stepped right in front of me, nudging me out of the way.

  “Oh, Julianne told me about you. The famous Elaine,” Quinn said, shaking her hand. “Or, is it infamous?”

  Is he actually flirting with her? Gross. Or maybe this is just what he’s like with everyone?

  “Really, Mr. Buckley, you’re joking,” she twittered, giving him a predatory smile. "That will be all, Emmeline. Don't you have baking to do?"

  She dismissed me without even glancing my way.

  "Yes, of course," I said quietly, my face burning, trying to maintain some dignity as I scurried out.

  "See you later!" Quinn called after me. I glanced back as I went into the kitchen and saw Elaine link her arm into his.

  "We’re so glad you’ve decided to stay with us," she went on. “Let's get you settled, shall we, Mr. Buckley?"

  "Please, call me Quinn. When you say ‘Mr. Buckley’ I think I'm in some kind of trouble."

  Oh brother, I thought as I heard Elaine laugh. What a cheeseball.

  "Hot damn, you met him already? You were alone with him?" Shari squealed between big bites of leftover Irish soda bread, toasted and slathered with butter and my homemade strawberry jam.

  It was late the next morning, and I was gathering ingredients for pumpkin muffins for the following day. Quinn had not appeared at breakfast, and I hadn’t seen him since the flour incident.

  "Tell me everything! What was he like? What did he say? What did you say? Is he as hot in person? Is he short? Ugh, the hot ones are always short. Or gay. Or both. This is amazing, Em. My new favorite," she murmured through a mouth full of toast. She washed it down with a big gulp of coffee and stared at me expectantly.

  "Thanks, but you say that about everything."

  "Because everything you make is freaking awesome. That's why I've gained so much weight in the last four years, while you stay thin as a rail, you bitch," she nudged my shoulder.

  “Thin as a rail? How about compact, like a cheapo rental car,” I muttered.

  There’s nothing remarkable about how I look. People have always said I’m “cute,” which to me is code for “not ugly, pretty enough to get by.” I'm short, 5-foot-2, and small-framed, with modest breasts, a waist kept trim from regular running and an active job, and hips just narrower than my shoulders. I’m certainly proportionate—I guess I have that going for me. Pale gray-ish blue eyes, skin way too fair for a native Californian, an inconsistent smattering of freckles and hair that’s not red but not brown, not curly but not straight. There’s absolutely nothing about me that would make someone say, “Oh, Emmy! She was the one with the [blank].” At best they would shrug, “She’s sort of cute, I guess.”

  "'Compact, like a rental car'? You are twisted, you know that? If I had a cute figure like you…” Shari snorted, anchoring me back in the moment. “Now, are you going to tell me about Quinn Buckley, or do I have to kill you?"

  "Come on, Shari, there's really nothing to tell. I-"

  "Ouch!" Came Quinn's voice. He was leaning in the doorway of the kitchen, grinning, hair wet from a shower, ridiculously beautiful in long tan shorts and a dark red T-shirt. "Nothing at all? I was hoping I made some sort of impression?"

  Shit. How much had he just heard?

  He walked into the kitchen and right up to me, peering over my shoulder into the bowl where I had already measured whole-wheat pastry flour, baking powder and spices. My breath caught as his hands explored the other ingredients: He picked up each of the two eggs I had on the counter, one at a time, then tossed the can of organic pumpkin puree into the air before setting it back down and running his fingers over the silicone spatula that was next to the mixing bowl. Watching his hands roving, I realized I was breathing quickly and unsteadily. I blushed as I felt his hard shoulder brush the back of mine and I caught a whiff of him.

  God, what is that scent?

  What is wrong with me?

  The reaction I had to Quinn was new for me. I had never felt this kind of pull toward another person before. I’d had boyfriends, of course—Brian, in high school, who
I dated all of sophomore year until he went away for a summer music program and hooked up with a cellist. Then there was Dave, also in high school, for a frenetic few months in which I lost my virginity in a tent on the beach, tried X, got arrested for trespassing and lost 15 pounds. The end was so traumatic, involving so much screaming and crying, that my mom nearly called the police. The one good thing that came out of it was that I started running to help recover.

  I didn’t date anyone else until Ben in college, the anti-Dave, a sweet guy who was smart, funny, close with his family—the nicest person I'd ever met. Sadly, he was also the most boring lover in the world. All missionary, all the time, in the dark; and that’s when he felt like doing it, which wasn’t ever more than a couple of times a month. Somehow he lasted nearly 3 years. He was so sweet, so kind-hearted and considerate, I just couldn’t stand the idea of breaking up with him. When I finally did, his mom sent me an email to tell me how much she enjoyed knowing me and wishing me luck in the future.

  After that, I had dates here and there, but no one lasted longer than a few months.

  And now I was having an intense, insane physical reaction to a man I didn’t know, a total stranger, who also happened to be a movie star with a huge, exciting life and a ridiculously gorgeous starlet girlfriend.

  I had never been around anyone famous before. Maybe this is what it felt like to be starstruck? I didn’t think so, but couldn’t think of another explanation.

  Let it go, Emmy. You are out of your mind.

  "That's- I- that isn't what I meant," I stammered. Oh yeah, he had made an impression all right.

  "Mr. Buckley, is there something we can help you with, sir?" Shari intoned in a ladylike voice I had never heard come out of her mouth before. "Please, come into the living room and I'll be happy to get whatever you would like."

  "Oh my God," he said, rolling his eyes in what looked like mock despair. "You can start by never ever calling me 'sir' again. And please, tell me your name."

  He wasn't leaving the kitchen, despite Shari's efforts to gently but firmly lead him out. Elaine would freak if she found him in here.

  "My name is Shari, Mr. Buckley. I'm the head of housekeeping, at your service. Have you already met Emmy?"

  "Please, call me Quinn, I'm begging you. Nice to meet you, Shari. Great place. You really keep it in beautiful shape. Hi Emmy," he directed his smile at me. "We sort of met yesterday. Please keep your flour to yourself."

  He winked at me.

  Oh please. There's the cheese again.

  It shook me out of my fantasy-land. A little bit.

  “I’ll work on that,” I replied, sounding colder than I meant to.

  "So you prefer Emmy to Emmeline?" he asked, lightly touching my shoulder as I turned my glance away from him.

  "We all call her Em or Emmy," Shari answered for me.

  "Hmm. I like Em. Reminds me of the sexy female boss in the James Bond movies," he said.

  I felt like someone's little sister who he was flirting with to be polite.

  “As for the whole ‘cheapo rental car’ thing-” he started.

  "Mr. Buck- I'm sorry, Quinn. Is there anything you needed?” I asked, changing the subject abruptly. I couldn't imagine what he was going to say but I was pretty sure I didn't want to hear it. “Can I get you something to drink, maybe some coffee? Or a snack? I can bring it to you in the living room or out on the porch, if you'd like?"

  His smile faded slightly. "Oh, um, no thanks. I was just saying hi. I'm going to be here for a while so I'm just trying to get to know everyone a bit, but I don't mean to keep you from your work. I'll get out of your way. See you ladies later. Nice meeting you both—you again, Em."

  With that, he ambled out.

  "What the hell is the matter with you?" Shari hissed in a sharp whisper. "He wanted to get to know us and you all but kicked him out!"

  "Shari! Are you crazy?” I whispered back. “If Elaine came in here and found us chatting with him, we'd be fired. I need this job, and so do you."

  "Oh please. She wouldn't fire us, especially you. He seems nice! If he initiates talking to us, we're not supposed to be rude!"

  "I wasn't being rude. I-"

  "Yeah, you were. We can't fraternize with him, but if he wants to be friendly with us, Elaine won't mind!"

  "Excuse me, Shari, but I think I made myself perfectly clear at our meeting, did I not," Elaine said in her imperious I'm-the-boss voice as she strode into the kitchen. "No socializing. If he greets you, you may greet him back. But that's all."

  "He was just in here, Elaine, chatting with Em and me. That's OK, right? He came in here, just looking to say hello and get to know the staff a little."

  "Then you politely give your name, offer your help and get him anything he requires. I'm sure his aim was not to spend the afternoon in the kitchen visiting with you two."

  "I don't know, Elaine, he seemed pretty-"

  "Enough, Shari!" Elaine snapped. "I've told you what to do. This is your one and only warning. Be professional with Mr. Buckley. That's it. If you can't handle it, we'll part friends."

  Elaine tossed her hair and stalked out.

  "Friends," Shari grumbled. "Please. I'm better friends with Quinn Buckley after a two-minute conversation than with that bitch after four freaking years. Don't say ‘I told you so,’ Emmy!"

  I rubbed her arm. "I wasn't going to Shar," I said.

  I would have hugged her, but too much touching embarrassed her.

  "Back to work, I guess," she gave me a faint smile. "See you later. Thanks for the snack.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Elaine was supposed to water the bougainvillea in the back garden every day, since the gardeners only came twice a week. The bright flowers, whose splashy purple and pink blooms climbed on vines up the back wall, wouldn't survive the direct sunlight they basked in without daily attention.

  Now it was 2 o'clock in the afternoon, and I hadn't seen her yet. At least three times a week I ended up on flower duty. Not my favorite task; I usually managed to kill anything green. The only exceptions were a few herbs I grew in a window box off the kitchen, and these bougainvillea, which didn't require any particular skill, just a hose with a light spray and a little consistency. As I watered, I was absently plotting out the rest of the day in my head. After this, I would set up afternoon tea in the living room, then make oatmeal-raisin bread for the next day's breakfast. It had been a while since I'd cleaned out the freezer, so I could tackle that while the bread was in the oven, and then—

  "Hey," a male voice just behind me on my right startled me and I jumped, instinctively turning toward it. Unfortunately I was holding the hose as I turned, so before I caught myself, I had given the owner of the voice a bit of a splash.

  "Oh, I'm so-"

  Shiiiit!

  Of course, after covering him with flour a couple of days before, now I had doused Quinn with water.

  "Quinn, I'm sorry!" I dropped the hose, ran just behind him and turned off the water. "I can't believe I did that! Let me get you a towel."

  "It's just a little water. Don't worry about it," he grinned, brushing himself off.

  Then I noticed his smart phone, which had borne the brunt of the spray. "Oh shit—I mean, oh no! Your phone! Is it ruined?"

  He was wiping it on his shirt. "No. It's no big deal."

  I was shaking my head. "God. I'm sorry."

  "Seriously, Em, don't worry about it. It's just a phone. And it's insured, and it's probably giving me a brain tumor," he winked at me. "See? If you wrecked it, you may have saved my life."

  I smiled back wanly. "Thanks. Sorry. Is it working?"

  As soon as I leaned toward him to look at the phone, I knew I’d made a terrible mistake. This proximity to him was a bad idea, very bad. I could feel the warmth coming off him, and he smelled so good. I wanted to edge closer, breathe him in-

  "...so no worries," he was saying. Yikes. I was so busy ogling that I had missed the whole thing.

  "I'm sorry, what?"<
br />
  He chuckled. "I just said that it's working fine. But I swear to God, Em, if I hear you apologize one more time, I'm taking you over my knee."

  Um, what?

  "Ha! You have to catch me first."

  Oh my God—what did I just say?

  "A challenge! I love it," he said, leaning toward me slightly and raising his eyebrows. He stuck his phone in his pocket. "I should warn you though, I'm a runner."

  "Oh yeah? Me too." I felt myself starting to relax a little. This was more comfortable territory for me. "How much do you run?"

  "I go a few times a week, anywhere from four to six miles. Longer if I'm training for something or losing weight for a role. What about you?"

  "About the same, actually," I said, nodding. "Minus the part about the role. Have you always been a runner?"

  "I hope minus the losing weight part, too," he said, gesturing at my body. He looked away and blushed slightly, and my face felt like it was on fire. Thankfully he just continued talking. "I started about five years ago, when I got more serious about fitness. After a while I got hooked. Runner's high, I guess."

  "I know what you mean. Total endorphin junkie," I pointed at myself. "I just feel off if I haven't gone for a few days."

  He shook his head. "I'm not quite there yet. For me the best thing about running is still stopping. And pasta."

  I laughed. "Yeah, the pasta's good."

  "Well, maybe you could-" he started.

  "Mr. Buckley—how are you?" Elaine crooned as she came out the back door. I could see the strain of a hangover on her face, but with her hotel-manager expression and smooth voice, it wouldn't be apparent to anyone who didn't know her well. I hoped it didn’t look like I was fraternizing, and that she didn’t notice the wet patch on Quinn's shirt.

  "Elaine, I'm better now that I've seen you," he winked at her. There’s the cheese again. "Just getting up?"

  He was kidding, of course, but the slight wince that passed over her face told me he was spot on. The wince was instantly replaced by a closed-mouth smile and a phony little laugh.