A moot point once she added enough cream and sugar.
The Black Kettle possessed no distinguishing features. It looked like any other nondescript coffeehouse in a borough full of nondescript coffeehouses. A small gated area separated a handful of round, grated tables and their matching chair sets from the bustle of the sidewalk. A forest-green awning stretched overhead offered meager protection against London’s elements this time of year.
The warm aroma of cinnamon and fresh-baked bread invaded her senses the moment she stepped inside. She ordered the largest latte they had from a polite girl behind a glass case of pastries. Something covered in chocolate tempted her but, alas, oatmeal with cranberries, her concession to a healthy breakfast, waited for her at home.
Right next to a pile of work.
She picked out an unoccupied table near the rear of the café. A newspaper lay abandoned. She considered it a gift from the healthy breakfast gods impressed with her iron will. She sat down and flipped through the pages for something interesting or distracting.
She hit pay dirt and fumbled inside her purse for the always elusive pencil she kept there. Nothing like a foreign word puzzle to help forget the tangled web of plot waiting patiently on her desk at home.
“What’s the world coming to? Can’t visit the loo without having your newspaper stolen anymore.”
Quinn jumped like someone had set off sparklers under her chair. Only the lid on her latte kept the scalding contents from sloshing over into her lap. She leaped to her feet and spun around in a rush to apologize to the man whose property she’d unwittingly adopted.
She opened her mouth. Nothing came out.
Her lips moved; still, no words emerged. She stood within inches of eyes that had haunted her for the past year. She’d seen them more times in her imaginings than in real life. They weren’t the kind a woman forgot, any more than the man who owned them.
Speechless, she was compelled to hug Jack as though he were her dearest friend on the planet. He seemed affected by the same force and stepped into the embrace without pause. Quinn closed her eyes and took in the shape of him. She experienced the strangest sensation of familiarity. Like coming home after a long trip.
He seemed stunned, too, but didn’t share her tongue-tied affliction. “Bloody hell, if it isn’t my favorite little novelist! Where’d you come from, lass?” He stepped back, holding her at arm’s length to give her a once-over. He shook his head in awe, and a huge grin broke out over his mouth, lighting up his entire face. “Can’t believe it. You look great.”
Quinn managed to escape her verbal paralysis and return his broad smile. “Me? Look at you! Where’s your hair?”
Gone were the curly ends playing peek-a-boo with his shirt collar. He’d literally cut it within an inch of its life. It did strange and wonderful things for his face, such as drawing out the height of his cheekbones and showing off the intense color of his eyes. He appeared rougher than he had a year ago. Darker, less polished. He’d be perfectly at home straddling a Harley, covered in half-naked-lady tattoos.
He ran a hand over his head. “My usual ’do. I’d grown it out for a role when we met.”
“I like it.”
His teal eyes danced. “Feels like yesterday.” He stared and shook his head as if to clear it. “London, huh? What’s brought you over to the dark side, Quinnie?” He made to sit down and indicated she should reclaim her chair.
She sat slowly. She must look ridiculous with a massive grin taking over her face, but it was a force all its own. She came to swift terms with the knowledge that her reaction to Jack during their first encounter wasn’t to be wholly blamed on the booze. She was sober as a monk, and those delighted Caribbean eyes still sent a sprawling warmth right down to her toes.
She blinked. “Wow. I’m . . . You’re . . . What’re the odds?”
Fair, she supposed, considering he did live in London. Still, a chance encounter had never occurred to her. Simply being near him was downright eerie after spending eight intimate months with a character she’d designed after him.
She liked his deep, conspiratorial laugh as he leaned forward with round eyes.
“You haven’t the foggiest, love. This is my spot. I’m here every day. One morning, I walk out of the loo and find none other than Quinn Buzzly filching my paper.”
She joined in the laughter to hide her embarrassment. “I assumed someone had left it. I’m—”
His hand shot up. “Don’t dare say you’re sorry.” He excused himself to fetch his coffee and rejoined her. He bought her a second, as well. “Nasty stuff, but you acquire a taste if you’re not careful. I noticed your cup scribbles, no worries. Latte, cream, and sugar. So, how ’bout it? What brings you ’round, Quinnie?”
Memories of Hollywood flashed in her mind. “You’re so damn curious.”
“You’re so damn interesting.”
She ignored him for sheer lack of reply. Interesting? Her? She’d understood the allure when she’d been done up in a ball gown, throwing fits, and drinking beer straight from the bottle. Hell, she’d even felt a little mysterious and intriguing.
But here? Now? In faded jeans and a sweater, no makeup, and her hair a barely managed length of tangles down her back? “I’m writing. I bought a place a few blocks from here and moved in about eight months ago. I’m practically a local.”
“You’re not a local until the accent starts to creep in, and your American friends make fun of you for it.” He leaned forward, sipped again. “What’s the new book about? Trailer-park massacre in your beloved South? Wall Street serial thriller, perhaps? Rabid Playboy bunnies?”
Sheepishness kept her from laughing. She looked at him from beneath lowered lashes and cleared her throat. “Historical romance.”
He sat back. His free hand formed a fist on which he rested his chin. She’d stunned him.
“Did you say romance?”
She nodded.
He took a moment to consider. Every trace of a smile vanished.
It occurred to her she dealt with a true fan. This mattered to him. Equal parts fear and determination eroded her shame. Yes, shame. Shame at delving into a genre some of her readers didn’t merely disrespect, but straight deplored. She didn’t have time for being ashamed. She had to own up to her creative whims. Be herself. She’d accept his judgment as a fan but she wouldn’t apologize.
“Damn, Quinn. I can’t say if I’m curious to the point of catching fire or plain disappointed. I haven’t been this emotionally confused since puberty.”
Relief flooded her. Disappointment was doable. A disappointed reader might at least read her book, and that’s all she intended to ask for—a chance. “I expect the same apprehension from every loyal reader I have. You, however, should feel nothing but honored.”
“Oh? Have you named the knight’s dashing steed after me?”
She smiled pityingly. “I gave it some thought but went with Reginald after much deliberation.” Jack grimaced, and she laughed. “Actually, your distinct accent inspired me. The main setting is eighteenth-century London, but the characters originate from Ireland.”
He gave her a genuinely pleased smile. “It’s quite romantic, isn’t it? I hadn’t pegged you for the type to care for such things. You’re impervious to my foreign charms.”
“Are you kidding?” Her answer came automatically. “I’m a sucker for charming. Gets me every time.”
He straightened. The smile on his lips fell from his eyes. “One might argue I didn’t really get you. My definition may somewhat differ from yours. Perhaps it’s a cultural thing.”
Quinn shifted uncomfortably but leveled her gaze at him. “You had that flight to catch.”
He didn’t flinch. “It was a late flight.”
Chapter 6
“You’re still acting?”
Jack allowed Quinn’s clumsy and painfully obvious attempt at changing the subject pass for now.
The two of them were due for a reckoning. Quinn didn’t owe him an apology s
o much as she owed him the right to defend his honor against her sexist assumption he’d have dumped her the next morning or never called after their night together in Hollywood.
He was a gentleman. He didn’t take a woman to a place where she’d have the right to expect things he had no desire to give. He’d made his mind up to give them an honest go at the same time she’d made up her mind about his intentions, apparently.
He put on a playful air of condescension. “At a certain point in one’s acting career, should things go well, it becomes sort of a lifetime gig.” He nodded toward the entrance. “That man there? The one with the unnecessarily large camera as if a mobile phone doesn’t do the job these days? He’ll snap a few photos when I leave. Oh, look. He’s been joined by his mate carrying an equally inconspicuous piece of equipment.” Of course, they probably missed him terribly since he’d been off filming in the Hungarian backcountry. Not much chance of running into these guys in a place like that.
She turned and swung back to him with surprise blatantly etched onto her features.
He tried to appear wounded, but his constant grin, which he had zero power over, no doubt gave him away. “You didn’t believe me, did you? I’m offended. I wouldn’t lie about my occupation only to claim something lousy and typical like acting. I’d go for broke, say I was a physicist. Or aide to the prime minister.”
Hadn’t she Googled him? Even once? He’d Googled Clementine Hazel more times than centipedes had legs.
He wouldn’t call it stalking, exactly. Maybe more like monitoring. No, that seemed worse.
Light research. Yes, he’d lightly researched Quinn. She had no online presence, not even a Facebook profile. Light research proved rather difficult when there’s simply no data to collect. She hadn’t been kidding about her quiet life.
She blinked. “I’m sorry. I assumed you were an actor in the same way my cabbie yesterday was a model.” A cheesy grin exploded on her face.
Her ability to keep up astounded him. Someone capable of understanding his babbling flow of nonsense constituted an uncommon find. One quick enough to use it against him? Unheard of. “You cheeky girl. For your information, it turned out my grocery bagger was an artist.”
A withering glance didn’t entirely hide her amusement. She indicated the entrance with a flick of her hand. “Why don’t they follow you in?”
The photographers. He’d almost forgotten them. “We have an accord. I eat breakfast in peace. They get nice, sellable photographs when I leave. All smiles and waves, no hands over the face or crying about privacy.”
“That’s quite an arrangement.” She turned to study the men outside. “Doesn’t it drive you crazy?”
“Totally bonkers. But I have ways of going under the radar. By that, of course, I mean hiding out at my mum’s. Or, as is the case with my recent absence from the headlines, I get an acting gig that takes me somewhere very boring, very remote, or both.” Like the Hungarian backcountry.
She gazed back at him and cocked her head to one side. “It’s surreal. Being here, seeing you. I can’t get over the odds. I should be at Casey’s.”
He stuck out his tongue in disgust. “Casey’s? Their coffee is dismal, and the pastries are stale. Besides, the odds are always good if something’s meant to be. It’s a matter of fate. I met you in L.A., so you’d meet me here. Where might we meet next? It’s inevitable we should.”
“Fate, huh? I guess it works the other way, too. Meant to be, meant not to be.” She glanced at her hands resting on the table. “I wonder if Nicholas would fall for that.”
Jack bobbed his head absentminded agreement.
Nicholas.
It didn’t surprise him. Eight months plus single woman didn’t equal lonely in any book he’d ever read. He had no right to the envy swirling through his gut, especially considering his own circumstances, but there was no help for it. Quinnie had been his little secret treasure. Practically, he accepted the likelihood she’d remarried by now. Or at least met someone.
On the inside, he rejected this idea. Instead, he opted to imagine her in a constant state of pining for her lost Irishman.
He ought to have been a comedian. “There’s a Nicholas, eh?”
She smiled tightly and shook her head. He’d seen it coming. God have mercy on anyone ever tasked with interrogating Quinn Buzzly. She didn’t keep her cards close to the vest so much as duct-taped inside a zipped pocket with a combination lock.
“Your turn. Home on business or pleasure?”
“Can’t it be a pleasure to do business? Both, actually, although, it’s a bit of a secret.” His stomach clenched, but he had to tell her. The guilt wouldn’t go away until he did. It was the most absurd thing in the world because he hadn’t done anything wrong.
He rubbed his hands together and leaned in close. “Since we’re besties, I’ll tell you, but you must keep it a secret.”
“You mean I can’t share the big news with the two gentlemen outside?”
“Exactly.”
“I can probably contain myself.”
Jack inhaled dramatically and closed his eyes. “I’m getting married.”
His eyes popped open to take in Quinn’s reaction. What did he hope to see? Regret? Jealousy?
She appeared surprised and a big grin brightened her entire face. “Congratulations! That’s great.”
It was the proper reaction but knowing that did nothing to soften his sense of deflation. He wanted her to care or give some sign it mattered. A stricken look, the smallest frown, a sad gaze, but she had only her sincerest felicitations to offer him.
“Thank you. I’m here for a month and then it’s off to Portugal. Two months into filming, I’ll take leave for the wedding. It’ll be a quick honeymoon, but waiting till the film wrapped didn’t suit her.” He went on to tell her about Vickie Lana, Venezuelan actress and model, who’d initially reminded him of Quinn with her long, shiny blond hair. Though, Vickie’s particular shade ran more toward wax-crayon yellow. “We met on the set. It happened rather fast. The rest is history, I suppose.”
History as written by a female, at any rate. Vickie was a woman who got her way. She embodied the definition of dynamo, both on set and off, determined and confident. He hadn’t stood a chance against the vivacious blonde once she’d set her sights on him, and he’d gone willingly. Holding out for Quinn after their one-night stand in Hollywood was a fool’s fate.
Yet here she sat. Less than a yard away. It was enough to make a man question the fate he claimed such adamant advocacy of, but Jack didn’t dare. He feared he couldn’t afford the answers.
“Now you can tell me about this Nicholas fellow.” He smoothly brought back the subject she’d attempted to drop. He lacked the superpower to go back in time to Hollywood and convince her to give him a chance but had the power to torture her here and now. “Oh, and how’s Richard? Still beating him off with a stick? Or does Nicholas handle verbal beat downs for you these days?”
Her eyes darted away. “Richard is long gone.”
She didn’t elaborate any further, but Jack had an uncanny intuition in his corner, a gift from his sixth-generation, full-blooded Irish mother. Quinn’s delightfully easy-to-read expression let him ferret out the goods with little effort.
“You fired him? Good for you, Quinnie, good for you.” He applauded quietly, something of a golf clap. “Brilliant. Inspired. Is Nicholas your new Richard? No, no. Boyfriend? Boy toy? Sugar daddy? Long-lost uncle? I shared some top-shelf intel with you. The least you can do in return is fill me in on this Nicholas bloke.”
She chewed her bottom lip and studied him.
He allowed his steady gaze to silently communicate his determination. He had no intention of dropping this particular bone.
“My boyfriend.” A self-conscious hand came up and tucked a stray strand of pale blond hair behind her ear. Real blond, almost vague in its color, but natural as the freckles dotting her nose and utterly refreshing. “Up until last night, anyway.”
Q
uinn recounted the events of the night before. She started out matter-of-fact but ended in a fervent show of self-doubt and worry.
He reached across the table, unwound her hands from her empty latte cup, and held them. “You’re killing me. Have a little faith in yourself. You can’t force a thing like love any more than you can fight it. You made the right choice.”
“But I do love him, in a way.”
Jack pressed on undeterred. “Your argument for passion is a valid one. Were it meant to be, you wouldn’t have questioned it. A ‘yes’ would’ve bubbled from your lips without warning or permission.”
She lifted her eyes back to his. Green, green eyes. Solemn and searching. “Did Vickie say yes right away?”
He grinned like a man caught. “Interesting thing, I don’t recall asking her. It’s one of those events that simply became so. I woke up one day to find myself engaged. Fancy that?”
“Where do you get your authority on fate and love if not from experience? Movie scripts?”
“Were I the romantic-comedy type, I should say yes. Alas, being more of a political-thriller, action-hero type I can’t give my job the credit, either.”
“Then where?”
Snoopy and unrelenting were traits he understood well and practiced even better. What a pair they’d make. Fate had thoroughly screwed him this time. She was right here, her hands in his, and it was too late. “Same place as everyone else, I s’pose.” He lifted his shoulders. “Daytime telly.”
Jack drummed his fingers across the table. “You’re only doing this to watch me beg, aren’t you?”
They’d been too busy arguing for Quinn to notice the hour slip by. A quick glance at her watch stunned her.
She’d love to share details of her work, except for one tiny detail. Telling him his accent inspired her equated to a mere drop in the proverbial bucket compared to revealing her lead character was Jack, from the color of his hair and his sea green eyes, down to the quickfire sense of humor and catlike curiosity.
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