We fell again into that companionable silence, just running along together in what felt like a comfortable rhythm. Finally, as we approached the inn, I broke the quiet. "I'm almost afraid to ask. OK, Mr. Movie Star, what do you want from the poor service worker?"
"Oh boo hoo, cry me a river. You took the bet, my friend," he slowed as the Beach House came into view in the distance. "Now you have to pay up."
‘My friend.’ Right. Obviously he wants to be friends. If even that. "All right, all right," I fell into step with him as he walked. "What do you want?"
"I want you to make me something," he said.
"Um, Quinn, hello, I do that every day."
"Ha ha. I know that. I want something special."
"Can you be more specific?"
"I want you to make dinner for me. Tonight. And then I want you to eat with me."
I shot him a look. "I can't do that."
"Which one were you struggling with, cooking or eating? Come on, you’re staying overnight anyway, right?"
"What if Elaine found out? Having dinner together is fraternizing, where I come from."
He hesitated. "You're supposed to do whatever I want, right? If she asks, just tell her I wanted dinner and you made it, and then I insisted that you eat with me. You didn't want to, you were practically a hostage."
"Practically?"
He rolled his eyes. "Funny. Is it really so bad? Or are you just being a sore loser?"
I laughed. "OK, fine. Any requests?"
"Wear a dress. Doesn't have to be really fancy, but definitely like you've made an eff-"
"Food requests, Mr. Buckley. Food requests!"
"Oh. That. Nope, just make it good."
"Yeah, right. Can you narrow it down for me at all? A type of food? Anything you love or hate? Allergies? Dietary restrictions? Any new fad celebrity diet your personal trainer or nutritionist has you on?"
"Oh yeah, you know me so well." He laughed and shook his head. "No restrictions. Just a nice dinner. I'll bring some wine. What time is good?"
"Is 9 OK? I know it's on the later side, but I have some work to finish up."
"Of course," he shrugged. We had reached the inn.
I put my fist up for him to bump. "Nice work, you. Good run."
He fist-bumped me, then grabbed my hand and pulled me into a quick, avuncular hug. "Thanks for getting me out, and up that stupid hill. See you later."
He released me, bounded up to the porch and grinned over his shoulder as he disappeared inside.
CHAPTER 8
The rest of the day went by in a blur. I tried not to think too much about the evening to come. Was this a date? That seemed completely impossible. He had told me to wear a dress, but was he just kidding around? I wanted to look nice, but if I dressed up too much and he was joking about the dress part, I would look like a total idiot, even more than I already did.
As I walked the aisles of the supermarket, I realized it was time to call in reinforcements.
SOS, I texted to Erica. She texted back right away: What's up? How's QB? Slept with him yet? When's the wedding?
I had told Erica about Quinn staying at the Beach House, even though we were sworn to secrecy. She would never tell. Erica was that kind of friend; you could waterboard her, she still would not give up the goods.
Ha ha. Seriously! He won a bet and now I have to make him dinner and eat with him. Help! What 2 wear? What 2 cook???
My phone rang.
"What do you mean you have to cook dinner and eat with him? Do you have a date with Quinn Buckley??"
"I don't know, E! I have no idea how serious he was being. He told me to wear a dress. What do I do?"
"OK, tell me everything, from the very beginning. Every detail! Then we'll figure it out."
I told her the whole story, beginning with how we started running together in the first place, up to me at that minute, shopping for ingredients for dinner. Lucky for me, Erica liked to cook, too, and she knew way more about men than I did. Jackpot.
"OK, this sounds like a date to me, but I understand why you're hesitating. Let's start with the food. What are you thinking?"
I told her my plan of simple but luscious roasted chicken with herb compound butter, with baby potatoes roasted in the same pan, and a salad with mixed greens, beets, chilled roasted carrots, toasted pistachios and homemade mustard vinaigrette.
"I think it's perfect, Em, as long as the execution is flawless. That's always the trick with such a simple, rustic dinner.”
"Yeah, you’re right. OK. But what about dessert? He has my tea-time treats all the time."
"Hmm, that's a tough one. You could always make him an ice cream sundae, and then seductively offer him some whipped cream, ha ha."
That gave me an idea. Actually two, but only one that had any chance of actually happening. "Hey, ice cream is a great idea. He loves the Luna and Larry’s vanilla bean coconut milk ice cream that I do. What if I made bourbon caramel sauce and hot fudge from scratch and serve them with the ice cream, maybe some fresh strawberries?"
"I like it! Too bad there’s no time to make your own ice cream. But the coconut stuff is nice, since you know he likes it. Thoughtful of you. You're going rustic all the way through. Are you sure that's how you want to go? Just playing devil's advocate here. Sure you don't want to bump it up a notch, do a filet or some kind of dressed-up fish? Make a zabaglione for dessert?"
I thought for a minute. "I think I want to keep it simple, and just make sure it's perfect, like you said. I'm sure he gets super-fancy “cheffy” food all the time. I want this to be more like a home-cooked meal."
"Just the best home-cooked meal he's ever had in his hot and sexy life. Great! I think you've got the right idea. Now, what are we wearing?"
After another 15 minutes on the phone, I had a wardrobe plan and all the groceries in my cart. I picked up a couple of cheeses I knew he liked and habanero-stuffed olives, so he could munch on something if he came down a bit early, as I suspected he might. The kitchen was inviting and guests loved to hang out in there, especially if there was something cooking that smelled good.
After a quick stop at my apartment to pick up clothes and a few other things, I was back at the inn, wrapping up the next morning's setup, crossing off items on my daily prep list and jotting down a to-do list for the next day.
I got the chicken ready and, since I had found tiny baby potatoes, I didn't have to do anything but scrub and dry them, toss them in olive oil with coarse salt and fresh pepper and drop them into the same ancient cast iron pan that held the chicken. I popped it in the oven and was just about to head downstairs to shower when the phone rang.
"Good evening, the Beach House, this is Emmy, how may I assist you?"
The first call was a reservation, followed immediately by another one where a woman asked me to confirm every bit of information on our web site, then declined to make a reservation.
Twenty minutes later than I meant to, I showered. Great, now my hair would still be damp when Quinn came in. If I tried to blow it dry in the little basement room, it got so hot I started sweating, defeating the purpose of a shower. Oh well, Quinn was going to have to be happy with slightly damp-haired me, nothing I could do about it.
I put on a little bit of makeup and the black cotton sundress Erica suggested. It had spaghetti straps, a very fitted bodice that held up and shaped my tiny bust without a bra and an A-line skirt that fell just below my knees. Erica said it accentuated all of my best parts, but I liked it because it was comfortable and it covered up the areas I was least secure about, namely my whole lower half. Red espadrille sandals, a simple gold necklace with a delicate circle on it and I was good to go. As ready as I'll ever be.
"Damn, it smells amazing in here," Quinn said as he sauntered into the kitchen 15 minutes early. "I was going to be cool and roll in a few minutes late, but I couldn't stay away." He shrugged and I laughed.
"That's OK, have a snack," I said, pointing at the table, where I had laid out th
e cheeses, some homemade crackers I sometimes served for tea and the olives. Relax, relax, relax, Emmy, stay calm…
“Oh, I love this song,” he murmured, almost to himself, bopping his head slightly along with “Got To Be Real” by Cheryl James. I had put the Stevie Wonder station on Pandora on a whim, thinking it would be fun music that didn't send any particular message.
He came up and lightly kissed my cheek, then handed me a cold bottle of wine. I took in his scent, more pronounced since he was fresh from a shower. His hair was still slightly damp, like mine, but unlike me, he looked perfect in dark-wash jeans and a midnight-blue, un-tucked button-down shirt.
"Is rosé OK? I wasn't sure what we were having, figured this would go with anything."
"Sure, it's perfect. Thank you. Here, want to open it?" I handed him the opener.
"Wait—you're not letting me do something for myself, are you?" He made an exaggeratedly shocked face.
"Remember that expression I taught you earlier? Bite me," I shot him a mock dirty look.
He batted his eyes innocently, and chuckled as he grabbed two glasses out of the antique cabinet, opened the wine and poured us each a generous glass. After delivering mine, he wandered over to the counter to examine all the ingredients and tools I had out.
He had learned his way around the kitchen and seemed to feel comfortable in here with me. I couldn't help but wonder if this was just how he was, adaptable and confident enough to feel like he belonged wherever he wanted to be. Or was this different? Was it the Beach House? He had said while running that he especially liked the atmosphere at the inn. I didn’t want to let myself hope that it had anything to do with me.
He travels all over the world all the time and he's always around strangers, he must have just learned to make himself comfortable. Nothing special about the Beach House or me.
“How are you feeling?” I asked, pulling myself out of my head.
“Do you mean am I sore after two days of running with you?” he asked with raised eyebrows. “Yes. OK? Satisfied?”
I laughed. “If it makes you feel any better, I am, too.”
“Liar,” he rolled his eyes, and we both laughed.
"So, can I help?" he asked, looking over my shoulder at what I was doing. As always, my heart fluttered when he got close, and his scent didn’t help. I breathed deeply, trying to calm myself and keep my hands steady.
Luckily I was making salad dressing, which I could do practically in my sleep. I added coarse sea salt and cracked pepper to the rest of the ingredients in a small mason jar, then handed the jar to Quinn.
"Sure. Just seal this up and give it a good shake," I said. As he took them, his fingers brushed mine and I jumped. God Emmy, hold it together. If he noticed, he didn’t let on. He just shook the jar vigorously and handed it back to me with a smile.
“What did I just do?” he asked.
“You just mixed the salad dressing.”
“Homemade salad dressing? Wow,” he said. “Fancy.”
“You’re impressed by homemade salad dressing? You’re easy.”
“Emmeline, you have no idea,” he drawled, sweeping into an exaggerated bow, and I rolled my eyes.
OK, this is definitely flirting, right? He’s flirting with me? We sipped our wine and as he reached for an olive, I felt I should warn him.
"Careful. Those are super-hot. They're stuffed with habaneros."
"Mmmmm," he said, then his eyes widened as he got the impact of the chile. "Holy shit! That's hot!"
I laughed. "Do you want some milk to soothe it?"
"Milk? No thanks. Ah. Actually, once the burst of heat wears off it's a really nice flavor."
"I know, that's what I love about them. I thought you'd like it."
He looked right into my eyes and smiled at me, and I had to force myself to hold his gaze. It wasn't his movie-star grin. The look he gave me was real, unguarded. After a few seconds I smiled and looked away. That was not in my head. Was it?
I pulled on oven mitts and grabbed the pan out of the oven.
"Wow Em, that looks delicious."
"Oh thanks," I tried to sound casual, but I knew I was blushing. "It just needs to rest for a few minutes."
Quinn stood up and walked over to get a closer look as I spooned the potatoes into a bowl. I grabbed a clean kitchen towel to cover the bowl to keep the potatoes warm and then shook the dressing again, poured it over the salad and tossed it in with my hands.
"Hey, what are you doing?" Quinn asked, laughing.
"What? These are the best tools you can use to toss a salad," I held up my hands, wiggling my fingers, just before rinsing them in the sink.
Quinn just chuckled and shook his head.
"What smells so good in here?" Dan called as he and Martin appeared in the kitchen doorway.
"Oh hi, Quinn," Dan said. "What's this? We didn't know you served dinner, Emmy! That chicken looks beautiful."
"Hi there! Thanks so much," my voice sounded shrill and manic. Breathe, Emmy! "I don't, usually, but-"
"But Quinn here is getting the movie star treatment, eh?" Dan smiled good-naturedly. Dan and Martin had hit it off with Quinn and it seemed like they were all becoming friends.
"And you look so pretty, Emmy!” Martin said. “I don't think I've ever seen you out of your Beach House shirt."
My face went hot, and they both laughed.
"That sounded terrible! I just meant in your regular clothes, honey," he patted my shoulder.
"Oh, I know," I smiled, shaking off my initial embarrassed reaction.
"So why are you all dressed up?” Dan asked. “Oh wait. Is this a date? Are we interrupting?"
"No!" I practically shouted.
"You know how it is here, Emmy has to accommodate all of my stupid requests," Quinn sighed. "She has plans with a friend later, but she was nice enough to make me this beautiful dinner beforehand."
"Hey, can I get you guys anything? Tea? A glass of wine? A snack?" I asked, still trying to calm myself.
"Thank you, Emmy, that's very sweet, but we just came from dinner at Nobu in Malibu and we are stuffed! If there's any of that lovely chicken left over, though, I wouldn't turn down a piece tomorrow," Dan said, winking at me.
"OK," I smiled.
"All right. Quinn, you lucky bastard, enjoy the dinner. Emmy, have fun tonight, don't spend too much time waiting on this brat," Martin gestured at Quinn. "Good night."
"Good night! See you tomorrow," I held up my hand in a small wave.
I looked at Quinn with wide eyes.
"Plans with a friend?" I said quietly. "I'm not supposed to go out when I do the overnights."
"I didn't say you we're going out, just that you had plans with a friend, which is the truth."
Right, a friend. He wants to be friends. Of course. I knew that. He keeps saying it. The rest is just a stupid fantasy, my overactive imagination.
I took a deep breath. "Right. OK. Is Shari coming over, or someone else?"
"Ha ha. OK, I think that chicken has rested long enough. I don’t want it to fall asleep. Let's eat."
CHAPTER 9
"So what did you do today?" I asked Quinn after carving the chicken, making up two plates and sitting down with him.
"You mean after you kicked my ass up that hill?" He smiled.
I grinned back. "Yes, after you got your butt handed to you by a girl."
"Yeah, and yet, I turned that into you looking beautiful in that dress and making me this amazing dinner. I think I win this round."
"Maybe, but you haven't tried the food yet."
"Right! Touché," he shook his head and picked up his glass. "OK, that wore me out too much to make a really clever toast. So I'll just say, to you, Em. Thanks for making my forced exile fun and, um, special."
We clinked glasses, but he barely met my eyes. Was he embarrassed? No way.
"Thanks," I said, flattered. "That's really nice."
We were just digging into the food, and I was about to ask him again how he
'd spent the day, when the phone rang. I jumped up. "Oh! Sorry, just a sec. Have to get this. Please, start eating while it's hot."
I answered with my usual greeting, shooting Quinn a smile.
"Emmeline, why do you sound like that?" Elaine. Oh shit, does she know what I’m doing? Oh my God, is there a nanny-cam in here?
"What do you mean? Everything's fine. How are you, Elaine?" I gave Quinn the shhh sign before turning away toward the sink.
"Oh, I'm fine. How is everything there?" I could hear ice tinkling in a glass.
"Good! Good. Busy, you know. We got some holiday reservations earlier. Oh, and the boiler guy had to change the appointment again. How was your mother's birthday?"
"You're sweet to ask, Emmy. It was fine, as well as could be expected. I can't believe that boiler man, he's useless. Well, I'll deal with him. Everything OK with our special guest?"
"Oh sure, he's fine," I glanced over my shoulder at Quinn. "I mean, he seems fine, as far as I can tell."
Quinn's eyebrows shot up, and his pointed to himself with a questioning expression. I nodded.
"Good. Please see that no one disturbs him while I'm gone, Emmy. I'm counting on you to be my eyes and ears. Dennis and Lauren reiterated to me that I'm to fire anyone who bothers him. He won't complain, Julianne tells me, so we have to be vigilant on his behalf."
"I understand."
"Thank you. All right, I'll see you soon."
"OK, Elaine, safe travels. Good night."
I heard the ice clinking again as she hung up.
"What was that all about?"
"Just Elaine checking in."
"But she obviously said something about me. What did she say?"
"She asked me to make sure no one bothers you."
"Jesus, I'm not made of glass. I wish everyone didn’t feel like they have to tiptoe around me."
"Well, we were all told to leave you alone. You know that."
"I know, I know,” he said, sounding frustrated. “I am going to talk to Julianne about this again.”
Just then the phone rang again, and Quinn rolled his eyes.
"Sorry," I mouthed. He smiled and shook his head.
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