Crap. “Janelle.” He took a deep breath to explain why getting back together wasn’t a good idea but had to stop when the pain in his torso flared.
“I know. I told myself I wouldn’t do this. It’s just that…” she took a deep breath. “You’re special, Quinn Donnelly.” She stood up and slung her large bag over her shoulder, using her straight hair to hide her face. “You know where to find me if you change your mind.”
She didn’t exactly run out of the restaurant, but she didn’t linger, either. Quinn finished his drink and picked his backpack up off the floor. When he approached the restaurant doors, he saw Janelle still outside. Waiting for him, maybe? Apprehension tingled down his arms and he went outside to face whatever else she wanted to throw at him.
“It was a good exit, wasn’t it?” She gave a bit of a laugh. “Marred only by the fact that Gus left me stranded. Can you give me a ride back to the Nation and World headquarters?”
* * *
Quinn parked his motorcycle outside his garage apartment. When he had been released from the hospital, he had worried that riding the bike would hurt too much, but the gliding movements felt better on his body than a jolting car. It was a relief to be home, where he could lie down and groan out loud, not worrying about what anyone would think or if they’d shoot him concerned glances or blather well-meaning encouragement. The one room and kitchenette had all Quinn needed, and the home-cooked meals he got from Merrick and his wife, Erin, were definitely a benefit. Buying his own home made no sense since he was never around.
The mail sat on the kitchen counter and he shuffled through it. Gaines—the one soldier still at Walter Reed—had sent him a copy of last month’s Play House with the corners turned down on his favorite models. Quinn felt it his duty—nay, his obligation to country—to inspect what his friend had so painstakingly marked.
His mind categorized what he needed to do for his new job while his eyes roamed the airbrushed figure on the page. He shuffled to the computer tucked next to the window. Apartment hunting was first on his list. He was going to Harbin as a resident, not as a hostile guest. With one last lingering look, he put down Ms. Navel Staples and searched for housing online.
All he required was a quiet bed and privacy. He hadn’t had much of either lately.
The setting sun cast shadows on his monitor by the time he was the proud renter of a one-bedroom furnished apartment on Harbin’s Main Street. The web pictures promised hardwood floors, a large, comfortable sofa, a queen-sized bed and a television. All the comforts of home.
“How was lunch?” Merrick leaned against the doorjamb, arms folded across his chest, still in a dress shirt and tie, every bit the executive accountant. Quinn tossed him the magazine. It always amused him how similar his family members looked. He shared the same Irish characteristics as his three siblings, including dark hair and blue eyes and the ability to cook the perfect corned beef and colcannon on St. Patrick’s Day, but their different personalities made Merrick happy at home and left Quinn always looking for the next assignment. His brother gave a quick check down the apartment stairs before flipping to the dog-eared pages. “Gus give you this?”
“Naw, it’s from one of the soldiers.”
Merrick stiffened at the mention of Quinn’s job but kept his eyes on the magazine. “Good friend.”
“Yeah. Check out page fifty-one.”
Merrick flipped forward a couple pages, then turned the image one way, then the other. “I’m not sure that’s physically possible.”
“But wouldn’t you like to find out?”
Merrick grinned, then whapped Quinn on the chest with the magazine. “Dinner’s ready.”
At least his brother wasn’t afraid to touch him. His mother and father handled him as delicately as they had when he was born. Quinn followed Merrick out the door. “How did you know I’d be eating with you tonight?”
“Cassie’s cooking for the first time. She’s so excited about having her favorite uncle try the food that she kept checking the driveway for your motorcycle. You weren’t carrying grocery bags when you got home.”
“You’ve got a little detective there. What are we having?”
“Hot dogs with macaroni and cheese.”
“Yum.”
“Uncle Quinn!” The mini-chef bounded out of the kitchen and flung herself around Quinn’s waist. Sharp spikes of pain radiated from his midsection, but hugging his niece more than made up for it.
“What’s up, Sugar Plum?” The smell of bacon drifted to him as he approached the table. Based on that scent alone, he decided Cassie had cooked a culinary masterpiece.
“Sit down, sit down.” She led him to the table. His nephew Bran was already seated with Erin. Merrick helped Cassie bring the food to the table.
“This looks amazing.” Quinn took two hot dogs and a pile of pasta. Sure enough, little red bits decorated the gooey cheese.
Cassie and Bran talked about their day, and Quinn had a hard time following their chatter. It was faster than machine-gun fire as they jumped subjects and talked about their friends. Erin and Merrick were able to follow every word.
A twinge formed in Quinn’s chest that had nothing to do with his wounds. Being with his family was familiar and comfortable, but a part of him had always yearned to fly, to put himself in a place where grains and berries were dinner and you ate like the natives. This homey family lifestyle was not for him. Even before Afghanistan, his assignments often brought his readers to remote places of the world. Domestic bliss wasn’t something he could write an article about. But as much as he groaned about having people watch him, it was comforting to know caring eyes were right next door.
“What’s next for you, Quinn?” Erin asked as she served some homemade brownie ice cream.
Crap. His stomach twisted around the food he’d just consumed while his mind flipped through ways to tell them he was leaving again. Plying his brother with after-dinner drinks had been the original spontaneous plan. Never mind the fact that Merrick rarely consumed alcohol. Quinn would have found a way to get him drunk enough to not get upset.
He must have been thinking too loudly because white formed around Merrick’s tightened lips. His brother had been the one Gus called after the incident. The one who broke the news to their parents and flew to Germany to accompany him home. The one who moved him into the house and made sure he went to his doctor appointments and did his physical therapy exercises. The one who hadn’t let their mother know how extensive the injuries had been.
Quinn had never been more grateful for the kids at the table. Even if that meant he was a coward for using Cassie and Bran as emotional shields.
Merrick spooned up some dessert but held it, the melted ice cream dripping back into his bowl. “Leaving already? That didn’t take long.” His stare never left Quinn’s face, but he kept his tone neutral. “Where are you off to this time?”
“Uncle Quinn, you just got home!” Cassie protested.
Quinn blessed his brother for not giving him any sort of recovery lecture. Yet. “Gus has a new assignment for me.”
“Yeah?” The telltale clenched-jaw muscle flexed in Merrick’s cheek, a contrast to the calm words. Erin looked down at her plate and played with her spoon, and the kids bounced in their seats from the suppressed energy at the table.
“I’ll be working with a doctor in a very dangerous situation.” Now his brother turned pale, but still managed to restrain himself. A pang of guilt rammed into his gut. “In Harbin.”
Confusion filled his brother’s features. “Is that near Kandahar?”
“No. It’s closer to Savannah.”
It took a moment for realization to set in, but then Merrick let out slow breath. “I hate you.”
“Back atcha, big brother.”
“Daddy, that’s not a nice thing to say,” Cassie chided him.
“You’re right. I’m sorry. And I don’t really hate Uncle Quinn.”
She nodded, satisfied, her face smeared with ice cream.
“Sounds exciting,” Erin said. “I wish we had known before. We would have made you a special dinner.”
“This is a special dinner! One of my favorite nieces made it.” Quinn ruffled Cassie’s hair and helped clear the table. The kids carefully brought their own plates to the counter before heading off to play.
Merrick sipped some coffee and watched Quinn in silence when he was seated at the table again. Quinn didn’t move. Now that the child buffer was gone, he expected his brother to tell him he wasn’t ready to be so far away from his doctors or treatment. He loved his family, but sometimes they were too much in his business. “Don’t do anything stupid while you’re gone,” Merrick said instead.
Quinn clapped him on the shoulder before heading back to his apartment. “Not a chance.”
* * *
Sabrina held a filled chocolate shot glass and sniffed the mysterious brown liquid. She could identify a bit of caramel, but nothing else. Low chatter settled around her as the waitstaff of The Chocolate Bar took orders and Melora poured drinks behind the smooth oak counter. “What’s in this?”
“Just try it.”
When her sister said that, Sabrina knew better than to argue. She took another deep breath, and finding nothing new or offensive, popped the whole thing in her mouth, chocolate shot glass and all. “Mmmmm,” she said while she chewed the drink. “Sweet and salty.”
“It’s called Salted Caramel Delight. So it’s tasty? You’re always a good guinea pig for something different.”
“Because my life isn’t about to be different enough.” She swiveled on the stool and took in the early crowd at The Chocolate Bar. The scents of hops and chocolate permeated the air while her sister bustled behind the bar. The familiar after-work scene was usually a comfort, but not today. Sabrina rested her forehead in the palms of her hands. “I can’t believe I got talked into this.”
Melora shook her head. “I kept saying don’t do it. I’m a bartender. Bartenders give the best advice. You should know that by now.”
“I should have listened.” She peeked past the patrons filling the tables to the entrance. The large wooden doors remained closed. Any minute now, that hotshot world-traveled reporter was going to come and start the havoc about to be unleashed on her life. She should be home, helping Noah with homework, instead of waiting for this unknown man.
“Watch this.”
Sabrina turned her attention back to her sister, who stood poised with a vodka bottle in one hand and Kahlua in the other. She flipped the vodka around her back and turned, pouring the next drink in a juggling act without dropping anything. She slid the glass to the end of the bar where Sally caught it and put it on her tray.
Sabrina applauded, along with other patrons seated near her. “You’ve been practicing.”
“Hey, Dr. Bankhead!” Jed leaned forward in his seat, his plaid shirt bunching against the bar.
“Yes?” They both answered, then laughed.
“The mind doctor,” the man clarified.
“Why do you always answer when it’s clearly not a pediatric question?” Melora asked.
“Because it’s fun.”
“I’ve got a problem,” Jed stated.
Sabrina reached for the rope next to the wall, ringing a bell that echoed throughout the bar. Almost immediately, the hum of the patrons quieted down. “Jed has a problem!” she announced.
“The doctor is in!” the crowd yelled, then settled back to listen.
Jed addressed his audience. “There’s this girl, see? And I think I like her. But I’m afraid to ask her out.”
The bell above the door tinkled, breaking Jed’s monologue. Almost everyone else stayed riveted to his tale of woe, but Sabrina turned to look at the newcomer. She’d been expecting him.
Suddenly the favor she was doing for Dr. McMichaels didn’t seem so bad.
Sabrina studied the man and holy hell, what a study he was. He stayed near the door, a motorcycle helmet tucked under his arm, observing everything around him before moving deeper into the room, his gait a bit stiff. The crisp pale green dress shirt under his leather jacket and his black trousers screamed Visitor! just as loudly as if he’d been holding a map. Thick dark hair set a perfect backdrop for blue eyes that met and held hers while she held her breath.
He switched directions when their gazes locked, oozing confidence as he made his way around the tables and chairs. Damn, he was one good-looking man, with a magnetism that had more heads than just hers turning his way. His sharp eyes missed nothing.
“Ladies!” Melora yelled.
Sabrina wrestled her attention back to her sister, but she could feel him getting closer.
“Do we want hot guys who put us second?”
“No!” the female patrons answered.
“Will we put up with cheaters and liars just to have money and fast cars?”
“No!”
“If a man treats us right, do we care what his bank account looks like?”
“No!” they yelled again.
“Jed, stop being a wuss and ask her out. Be yourself. Because if all she’s interested in is speeding and a model boyfriend, then she’s not the right woman for you. Or any other sane man. The doctor has spoken!”
Cheers followed this pronouncement as Jed fished around in his pockets and pulled out a coin, then flipped it into a jar under a sign that read Psychiatric Help, 5¢. The jar was already filled about halfway with shining coins. “Thanks, Melora.”
“Anytime, darlin’.”
Jed went back to his table and the new guy took his place at the bar. The guy took Jed’s place. “Dr. Bankhead?”
Melora put her hand in front of Sabrina, cutting her off while she gave the stranger a blatant perusal, then a slow smile, and shifted her body so her hip jutted out. “You don’t have a kid with you, so you must mean me. What can I do for you, handsome?”
“Sabrina Bankhead.”
Her sister heaved a melodramatic sigh, then grabbed a wash towel to wipe down the countertop. Once she was behind the man, she grinned and fanned herself while she mouthed He’s hot!
Sabrina held out her hand. “You must be Quinn Donnelly.”
“I am.” His skin was warm, though the texture on the side of his hand was much rougher than normal manual labor would make it. Maybe he had atopic dermatitis. Or psoriasis.
Oh, wait. Tara had told her about him. Quinn had been wounded in a war zone. She tried to get a good look at his hands, but the bar was too dark and he moved too quickly. She couldn’t see any other visible wounds, but his super-straight posture definitely covered some secrets. She was surprised he could ride a motorcycle, considering his stiff walk.
Melora placed a Guinness in front of him. He accepted it with a nod and inhaled the hops scent before taking a swallow. “I don’t know exactly what your producer wants me to do, but I know it centers around you. I hope you don’t mind spending time with me so I can get to know you first.”
A woman would be crazy to mind that. Even though her son took up most of her free hours, having the attention of an attractive man was never a problem for her. Though sometimes it was for the man. “Not at all. And you’ll be hosting a dating game show.”
“You’ll be hosting a dating game show where my sister will prostitute herself to raise money,” Melora chimed in.
“Excuse me?”
“Said the woman of four husbands,” Sabrina retorted. “We’ve already been through this, Melora. No one wants to support a clinic in a small town that won’t bring name recognition. Besides, going out with all these different men has got to be more fun than sitting at home every night with a pint of ice cream.”
“Well, I don’t know. It depends on the ice cream.”
“Please tell me you were speaking metaphorically,” Quinn said to Melora.
“She was.” Sabrina glared at her sister. “Don’t you have work to do?”
Melora left them alo
ne, flipping a bottle in her hand as she listened to a drink order.
“Tara said she’d stop by tonight, too.” Tara could wait until tomorrow as far as Sabrina was concerned. She cringed, thinking of the name of the show. Who Wants to Marry a Doctor? It was cheesier than her nephew’s hands after making pizza. And it wasn’t like she was actually going to get married.
With his cool blue eyes and curly black hair, Quinn would have made a drool-worthy contestant. Too bad he was the host instead. There were four men to date. Four! Which was ironic, considering Charlie—oh, sorry: Charles—had broken things off with her because she was busy all the time.
“You’re a long way from Atlanta. Where was your assignment before this?”
“Afghanistan.”
The clipped way he said the word and his averted eyes gave her a clear signal he didn’t want to talk about it. Professional curiosity fought with politeness, but she let it drop.
A woman holding a stack of papers elbowed her way between them at the bar. Typical Rachel Belmont behavior. Her large bag brushed Quinn’s side and he pressed his lips together, the skin around them turning white.
The woman didn’t notice. “Quinn Donnelly? I’m Rachel Belmont, from WCHB. The producer couldn’t make it tonight so she sent me. It’s a pleasure meeting you.”
Oh, great. Sabrina had forgotten Rachel worked at the TV station. She had nothing against the woman, but Rachel harbored a grudge against her from high school. She had never forgiven Sabrina for…well, anything. Somehow everything wrong in Rachel’s life was always Sabrina’s fault. Probably even the obvious dark roots in her blond hair.
“I have the scripts for the first show.” Rachel held one out to Quinn, leaving the other in a ring of water on the bar.
Whatever. Paper dried easily. Sabrina picked it up, but Quinn took it and handed her his dry one.
“Oops. Sorry.” Rachel offered Sabrina an insincere smile and brushed her hair behind an ear. “Since neither one of you have ever been in a show like this before, I thought it would be a good idea for you to have the scripts early.”
Who Wants to Marry a Cowboy? Page 31
