Men Like This

by Roxanne Smith

  “Not vacation. Move there. Spend the whole year in Europe. London is the ideal base. Lots of museums, tons of history.” He didn’t seem to grasp the absurdity of the idea. He tucked into his mashed potatoes without a care for how her head spun.

  Her meal sat untouched since she’d nearly checked out on a piece of pasta. Driving when you were upset was a bad idea. Apparently eating while experiencing high emotion was equally dangerous. “I can’t go to London. Seth would hate me. Blake would . . . Well, Blake probably wouldn’t care. Still, it’s fanciful and nuts. Mostly nuts.”

  He shrugged. Your funeral, the motion seemed to say. “If you’re going to do something, do it right. Otherwise—”

  “Don’t bother.” Quinn finished the familiar axiom with a moan. Only a fair amount of willpower allowed her to resist the dramatic eye roll that had been the standard response of her youth. “London, Dad? London? What about Seth?”

  This time his shrug came touched with impatience. “I’m not saying jump on a plane tomorrow. Find a house, get joint custody, and take him with you. Lots of kids spend a year abroad. It’s a great educational opportunity for a boy his age.”

  She shook her head even as she gave the idea true consideration for the first time. She sipped water to soothe her suddenly parched throat. “I don’t know, Dad. There’s no guarantee Seth will want to go. He could end up hating me no matter the outcome of the custody hearing.”

  “Quinnie. Listen to me. You’ve never done anything for you, never done a thing because you felt like it and wanted to. This is your chance. There will always be a million reasons to hold back from doing what you want, a million people telling you not to.”

  Already, he had a point.

  “Seth is thirteen. He’s the kid, you’re the adult. If you’re going to London for a year and he doesn’t like it, he can stay with his dad. Blake doesn’t have to like it, either. He’s Seth’s father, and that’s his damn job. In my mind, the bastard owes you. Who put college aside to take care of Seth when he was a baby? Not Blake, that’s for sure.”

  Douglas went back to his steak with a little more punch. Discussing Blake agitated him. She loved having someone on her side, especially since Emily tended to accuse her of “overreacting” to Blake’s five-year affair, but Quinn didn’t like upsetting her dad.

  Most of the insult seemed to come from the way Blake treated her career with complete disregard. Her hard-won accolades were of no more consequence than if she’d been named ringleader of the neighborhood canasta club. It was a lucrative hobby, an easy occupation for a housewife who didn’t want to work too hard doing a real job.

  Blake wore the stiffly starched pants in their relationship, and it was crucial to his reputation he maintain the image no matter how many of his clients were avid Clementine Hazel readers. And many of them were. It served as an interesting conversational piece at business dinners, but that was about it.

  Her dad broke into her wandering thoughts with a reminder of what lie ahead rather than lay behind. “This is a great time to settle a few other things, besides family matters.”

  She nodded and poked at the cold pasta on her plate. “Buy a house, like you said.”

  “Why buy when you can rent? No use making such a permanent decision when you’re on the cusp of change. I meant Richard.”

  “Oh. That.” In times like these, she questioned whether she perhaps shared too much with her dad.

  “Yes, that. A woman is more likely to support your change in genres.”

  Quinn refused to make eye contact. “Very sexist of you.”

  “Sure, but it’s also true.” He shrugged as if in apology but didn’t seem a bit sorry. “Fire Richard while you have cause.”

  In a strange way, she was grateful for Richard’s stunt. Through his ill-fated attempt to seduce her, she’d discovered her newest muse. Poor guy. He’d done all the leg work for someone else to take home the prize. It’d be like if she wrote the thriller of the year, and another author’s name showed up on the book cover.

  “Maybe.” She wouldn’t commit until she had time to mull it over. Firing an agent wasn’t a decision to make lightly, especially an agent as successful as Richard.

  Douglas didn’t let it settle there. He was like a dog with a pig ear. “Richard is a rat. There’s always been something off about him, don’t you think? A shadiness I can’t quite put my finger on, but it’s definitely there. I’ll bet you a twenty right now he’s not going to support this romance idea of yours. Switching genres for an author like you is starting over again, your entire career, from scratch. You’ll have to prove yourself, but it’s up to your agent to sell the product. It helps if he believes in what he’s selling. Richard is a very good agent. Doesn’t make him the right agent, does it?”

  Quinn finally braved another bite of cold penne rigate and waited until it went down smoothly before giving her dad an unsatisfactory answer. He wouldn’t like it, but she wouldn’t rush into a decision no matter how many fine points he made.

  “I’ll visit Richard tomorrow, okay? If you’re right, maybe I’ll do something about it. My bigger dilemma is figuring out if I’m seriously attempting to go to London. I still say it’s madness.”

  Douglas raised his white caterpillar eyebrows. “Oh? And premier horror novelist Clementine Hazel writing a romance isn’t?”

  He had her there.

  “You’ve got a fan base of blood-lusting, thrill-seeking readers. To satisfy them with a love story it’s gotta be nothing short of epic. I mean, a real sweeping masterpiece that can’t be denied no matter what section of the library they house it in.” He held his hands out wide as though cradling the earth itself. “Epic.”

  Quinn shook her head in awe of herself. “You’re right. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you’re right. Oh, God.” Her hand flew to her chest. “I’m going to have a panic attack.”

  Douglas signaled for the waiter without any show of concern. “Can it wait until after dessert? How does banana pudding sound? It’s both delicious and virtually impossible to choke on.”

  Quinn threw her napkin down. “I’ll be in the car.”

  Chapter 4

  Jack’s final night in Hollywood looked and smelled about as sour as it felt.

  Sabini’s wasn’t the sort of place he’d normally spend a great deal of time. Quite the opposite, in fact. Though the bar was rather nice, the crowd drawn by the dance club down the hall rubbed him the wrong way. The women dressed trashy, and the men dressed like women half the time, with their jeans wrapped tight around their skinny, and some not so skinny, legs like they’d been applied with glue and a roll-on brush.

  Worse yet, Jack doubted Sabini’s was the sort of place Quinn hung out.

  Quinn Buzzly.

  Disappointment didn’t quite cover the circumstances. On the other side of the world, in some Hungarian forest, a director sat angrily punching words into his phone, which would then travel thousands upon thousands of miles to arrive in the text inbox of Jack’s mobile. He should’ve been on location by now. Two weeks had passed, and Jack had finally run out of excuses to remain in L.A.

  He sighed and surveyed the bar before motioning for Busty the Barkeep. He’d formed a slight attachment to the young bartender. It had nothing to do with her bust, beauty, or remarkable bar-side manner. Rather, her presence behind the bar kept the memory of the night he’d met Quinn fresh in Jack’s mind.

  Busty smiled in her friendly way. “Whiskey ginger ale, hold the whiskey?”

  He knocked back the last sip of his previous drink. “Do you remember me?” The question sounded sudden and strange to his own ears. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I mean, not from the last two weeks I’ve been practically living on your barstools. But the night I was here with the blonde. I guess what I’m really asking is if you recall her.”

  The bartender relaxed and leaned onto the bar as if to settle in for a long conversation. The bar was slow enough, certainly, being a weeknight. “Trust me, dude.
You do not forget a girl who comes in here dressed for the prom.”

  Jack nodded. “Would you recognize her in jeans? Say, if she’d been here the week before, would you know it?”

  He knew his cause was lost when Busty tilted her head to one side and gave him a pitying smile. “Sorry. There’s no lack of tall, pretty, blonde women in Hollywood, but if you live here, I’m the damn mayor. Knowing faces is my livelihood. I’d never seen her before that night.”

  Jack swallowed a sigh of despair. He ought to have figured by now. Or even asked sooner, but then he’d have lost out on two weeks of hoping Quinn might show up.

  Disappointment didn’t own the stage, though, because dismay in Quinn’s harsh verdict warred for space, as well. She’d decided the sort of man Jack was without giving him so much as a chance to prove otherwise. That bothered him greatly, but he hardly held it against her. After what her ex-husband had put her through, what woman didn’t run for the hills after a hookup with a stranger?

  Hookup didn’t do their encounter justice, but Quinn wasn’t here to argue the point. Jack had been dead set on seeing her again. Had she felt the same, she’d have come to Sabini’s.

  Sure, he could go knock on her hotel-room door, but he had a notion he’d be an unwelcome sight. No, Quinn had to be the one to make the decision. She had to come to him. He’d done his part, putting off his director who, had he not been a good friend besides, likely would’ve fired him by now, and putting himself where he could be found were Quinn so inclined to find him.

  Jack declined another drink from Busty. He stood and reached for his jacket hung on the back of the stool.

  With the smoothness of a longtime habit, she swiped his crumpled paper-napkin coaster from the bar with one hand, and ran a wet cloth over it with the other all before he’d even gotten his arms inside the sleeves. She smiled up at him. “See you tomorrow, then.”

  “No, unfortunately not.” Jack picked through his wallet for a bill large enough to properly demonstrate his appreciation for the kind company. “It’s back to work for me, I’m afraid. One less face for you to memorize, eh?”

  “It’s a nice face. I’ll miss it.”

  A lovely sentiment. Jack handed her the bill, then waved as he started for the exit. Unfortunately, it came from the wrong woman.

  The ball sat in Richard’s court. He let out a low whistle, sat back into his fat, cushy black chair and thoughtfully chewed his bottom lip. Doubt dripped from the words he finally spoke. “A divorcée to write a romance?”

  “No one appreciates love like those who have lost it.”

  Quinn’s poetic answer didn’t seem to have amused him. He smiled without humor. “Never argue with a writer. Your extensive arsenal of words can make even the worst idea sound brilliant. It’s a shame you dislike politics.”

  It sounded like a compliment but felt like a barb.

  His manner became increasingly condescending. It wasn’t a stretch for her to figure out he considered her plumb stupid. “You do realize what a bad idea this is? You, the mother of gore, are going to slap every single one of your fans in the face by putting out some lovey-dovey fairy tale? Oh, not to mention how not thrilled your publisher’s going to be about this. You’re a brand, dear, whether you like it or not. That’s not a box you step out of on a whim or because you’re having a midlife crisis. My professional opinion? Take a vacation. Go to London, scratch out a little love story if it’ll make you happy, then come home and do what Clementine Hazel does best—write stories that have adults checking under the bed for monsters right alongside their children.”

  A more moving statement than she’d anticipated. “Maybe I’ll use another pen name. Clementine can stay true to her art.” She couldn’t make herself any clearer. She wasn’t Jell-O to be squished into a mold, but an artist. She’d decide her medium.

  “That’s the smartest thing to come out of your mouth since you arrived.” Richard tugged at his tie again and opened the thin silver laptop on his desk. “I’ll print out a fresh copy of our contract, and we can go over the fine print.”

  Thankfully, she hadn’t taken her dad’s bet. She’d need the money if no one wanted to publish her novel. The sheer possibility made her queasy.

  It was easy to understand Richard’s reticence, but it galled her how quickly he let her go without a fight. “Getting to the meat of the matter, huh? I can’t believe you’re so certain I’ll fail.”

  “Hey, you’re the one letting me go, remember? That said, you’re absolutely right about me.” He glanced up from the computer monitor. “You’re committing career suicide. I’m jumping ship while the jumping is good.”

  She kindly pointed out the obvious. “It’s not really jumping ship if you’ve been asked to leave. It’s more like walking the plank.”

  “While you go down with a sinking vessel, Captain. Cutesy metaphors aside, you’re going to disappoint your fans. Besides, who says you’ve got the chops for romance? Your characters are too busy stabbing each other in inappropriate places to fall in love.”

  She released a dramatic sigh of disgust. “It was one time! Everything since has been your run-of-the-mill, knife-you-in-the-neck stabbings. Let it go.”

  “Sorry. The really disturbing ones stay with you.”

  She harrumphed and held a hand out for the freshly printed stack of papers in the printer tray behind his desk. “Give me those. Maybe a little legal work will help blot out the memory.”

  “I should be so lucky.”

  “Breathe, Quinn, breathe.”

  Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.

  Telling Richard about her plans to move to London to write a romance novel had been a trial in courage. Spilling the beans to her son had been far less fun, an emotional battering ram of guilt and apprehension as Seth had told her under no uncertain terms he intended to stay in California, even if it meant living with his dad for another year.

  Preparing to tell Blake the news and Seth’s subsequent decision required mustering every ounce of confidence she possessed. And some she didn’t.

  “He’s a glorified number cruncher. No one special. Not anymore.” If she said it a million times, it wouldn’t make it true. Blake would always be special to her. She’d worshipped him up until the day she’d received the damning phone call from an office busybody with a grudge against Blake informing her of his affair.

  The cab driver, who steadfastly ignored Quinn mumbling to herself in the backseat, deposited her at the curb in front of her former home. She climbed out and gazed at the gorgeous pale blue colonial.

  She loved this house. She’d spent ten years decorating it with great care and pride. She didn’t blame Blake for wanting to keep it. He hadn’t had to try too hard. Divorce had left her in shambles. What was one more loss?

  Blake answered the royal-blue front door and greeted Quinn with a curt nod before stepping back to allow her entry.

  Seth waited inside to give her an enormous, encouraging hug. “Hey, Mom.” She took comfort in his mumbled breath against her shoulder. He pulled away. “Can we get lunch after you talk to Dad?”

  She ruffled his hair. “Yeah, sounds great.”

  “Okay. I’ll be upstairs till you’re ready.” He headed for the staircase.

  She admired the way his thick, dark hair bounced as he raced up the steps two at a time. The rogue gene from Aunt Emily had beat out the blond he should’ve inherited from both Quinn and Blake. Seth’s eyes, however, were undeniably his father’s—hazel and beautiful. Like mint and honey.

  Blake led her through the house to his office as if she didn’t know the way. She tried to ignore the changes. Kira had wasted no time putting her tasteless stamp on things. Ugly braided rugs covered the flawless hardwood floors, and she hardly recognized the oak dining table stained a hideous shade of red.

  Her heels clicked on the floor of Blake’s office—no rugs in here—and she sent a silent whisper of thanks for the added height. Once again, Angie had convinced her into the soaring stilettos, this time w
ith some nonsense about keeping her back straight. Totally worth it to find herself almost a full inch taller than her ex-husband.

  The shoes reminded her of Jack. He’d towered several inches over her last time she’d worn them. Suddenly Blake didn’t seem so imposing.

  Quinn smiled. Comparing the two men might be her ticket to surviving this encounter. She had only to recall the disdain on Jack’s face when she’d talked about her ex.

  His office hadn’t changed with the exception of the picture frames on his desk and bookshelves. They held photos of Kira now. Quinn blocked out the initial sensation of needling pain as she imagined decade-old photographs of herself tossed out like garbage and focused on how there wasn’t a single picture of Seth in sight. Transferring grief to anger wasn’t healthy, but it felt better than a breaking heart.

  Blake sat without inviting her to do the same. She sat anyway.

  “Have you found a place yet?”

  Despite his coolness toward her, Quinn missed him. How could she not miss the man she’d spent almost half her life loving? She missed everything from how his pillow smelled to the sprinkling of blond facial hair left in the sink after his morning shave. It seemed like the small things hurt the most.

  Today he wore a pale gray button-up with the sleeves rolled up twice. It was unbuttoned at the top and showed off his collarbones and a hint of fine, blond chest hair. Still the golden boy he’d been in high school when she’d first fallen head over heels for him. He’d looked at her like the moon lived in her eyes in those days. What happened?

  The moon bolted, honey, and took up residence in Kira’s eyes. Kira had ambition to match Blake’s. She was a woman in his field of work who understood the demands of the job and sympathized, a woman demanding and driven like him.

  They’d get married and have bossy, imposing children.