Men Like This

by Roxanne Smith

  Chapter 8

  Quinn was torn.

  She wanted Jack to leave as much as she wanted him to stay. She craved alone time to come to terms with the consequences of Blake’s strange, asinine behavior. At the same time, she didn’t want to step away from the only person going through the same ordeal she was. They needed to stick together. They needed a game plan.

  She needed a drink.

  The smart thing would’ve been to kick him out, but he was Jack—her muse, her inspiration. She couldn’t ask him to leave any more than Quentin Tarantino would turn away Uma Thurman.

  She excused herself from their sad little huddle to put on real clothes. She traded the lavender velour bottoms for a pair of holey jeans and finger-combed her hair into a messy bun on the top of her head. She’d given up on ever finding her brush.

  She returned to the kitchen to find Jack half-hidden behind the pantry door as he rummaged through her shelves.

  He peeked around the door. “They’ll find us in a matter of hours. It took little effort to discover your address using your real name.”

  She gazed longingly at the coffeepot. She limited herself to two cups for supposed health reasons, but it was shaping up to be a three-cup kind of day. She chewed the inside of her cheek and went over the pros and cons.

  He persisted in a muffled voice from the innards of the pantry. “The longer I’m here, the better their chances are of catching me, thus confirming the swirling rumors.”

  “Probably.” Did it matter? The rumors were going to fly no matter what.

  Damn it. A third cup it was. She fixed the dark brew to her specifications and reclaimed her spot at the table.

  Jack finally emerged from the pantry with a canister of flour in one hand and a large skillet in the other. He fired point-blank. “Do you want me to leave?”

  Had she ever met a more honest manipulator? If he left now, she’d lose the benefit of whatever was about to come from the stuff in his hands, which in her estimation would be something delicious because what else were skillets good for. “Let’s talk after you’ve told me what you’re doing with my flour.”

  “Breakfast, of course. I’m brilliant in the kitchen.” He grinned and her stomach fluttered. Okay, it did more than flutter. It jiggled like dancing gelatin. Jack Decker in dark denim jeans, his signature plain white T-shirt stretching pleasantly over well-formed arms, arms it took little effort to recall the feel of, grinning at her with a skillet in his hand . . .

  She turned away abruptly. “Holler when it’s ready. I’ll be in my office.”

  “Fine, but you’re doing the dishes.”

  She didn’t argue. A fiery debate with Jack was a bad idea, especially since she was one precocious step away from jumping his bones. A little heat would be all it took.

  Jack stole a glance through the crack in the door.

  Quinn sat with her face inches from the computer monitor. A deep frown wrinkled her features. Precisely what he’d hoped for. He tiptoed down the hall, to the farthest corner of the living room and pulled his mobile phone from his pocket.

  Disaster situations called for Code Mum.

  She answered on the first ring. His mother didn’t suffer the same English influence his upbringing had afforded him. Her lilting Irish accent came over the line clear and crisp. “Hello, Jack. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “You say that like I only ring you when I need something.”

  “Well, don’t you?”

  He grinned. He thanked his stars every day to have been born to a mum with a sense of humor. “It won’t do for you to be smart with me. That’s my job, and you can’t have it.”

  “Sorry, dear. I’m hoping you’ll retire soon and pass the torch. Now, lad, what is it? I’ve got things to do, you know.”

  He peeked down the hall. Nothing. He lowered his voice. “Do you recall when I told you I spent the night with Clementine Hazel, and you didn’t believe me? Remember the napkin I brought you with her autograph?”

  “Of course. I never forget a good forgery. Nor does any mum worth her salt forget when her son’s convinced he’s fallen in love with a total stranger.”

  “How can you say that about Clementine Hazel? Technically, she’s been a part of our lives for years. And yes, I fell in something. Maybe love. Maybe something less intense, but definitely something. Then she told me to go away. It’s bothered me ever since. How can two people go through the same experience and come out the other side on opposite ends? I saw a future. She saw, nothing, obviously, since she never wanted to see me again.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “All right, it’s crazy, but I’ve never been more serious. Vickie and I . . . Okay, let me start over. Vickie cheated on me. She thinks I cheated on her. With Clementine, I mean Quinn. Quinn’s here, you see, and we had coffee. Someone took a photo, so it’s sort of a thing.”

  “Oh. A thing. You made the paper again, is that it?”

  He scratched his head. He could talk to a tree stump and walk away smiling. Why was it so difficult to explain himself to his own mum? “Yes, but that’s not my dilemma. Right now, I’m in Quinn’s flat. I-I don’t know what to do. I need advice. I’m having those things. What’re they called?”

  “Oh, Jack.” The sympathy in her voice relaxed him. She’d help him sort through this mess. “They’re called emotions, love.”

  “Yes. Those. I’m having those, all sorts of them. I’m done with Vickie. It’s over. And that’s fine, but with Quinn here, I can’t help it. I’m questioning my motives. I didn’t ask for this, Mum. I swear. I did nothing to make this happen. We drank coffee. I even sang Vickie’s praises, what few there are to sing, and invited Quinn to the bloody wedding.”

  “Then why do you feel guilty?”

  He slid to the floor while taking care to keep the hallway and Quinn’s office door in view. “I don’t. That’s what’s bothering me. Running into Quinn made things happen. It exposed Vickie’s affair and left this wide-open door into Quinn’s life. Maybe I’m crazy for thinking we had some sort of special connection, but I can’t walk away without some answers. I need to know why she didn’t want to see me again. For a long time, I convinced myself it was a fluke, but you should’ve seen us together at the café. We’re like best friends who don’t know each other. It’s the strangest thing, too strange to ignore.” He steadied himself and said the words he’d never wanted to say. “You were right about Vickie. There, I said it. I’m not heartbroken. It’s like I don’t care. I mean, I feel stupid, obviously, but it doesn’t hurt like it should.”

  “Say I’m right one more time, would you? Does my soul good to hear the words.”

  “I’m serious, Mum. I need help. Quinn popping back into my life has to mean something, doesn’t it? Or am I supposed to have a period of mourning for my failed engagement?”

  “I’ll tell you something, lad. Fate is like a wise farmer who spreads out his crops so one blighted field don’t ruin the entire harvest. If Quinn hadn’t split the whole thing wide open, accidentally, as it were, then something else would’ve done it. Vickie might’ve called you by her lover’s name, or you’d have spotted them in a crowd holding hands. You and Vickie weren’t meant to be. If you don’t feel heartbroken, I suppose it’s because she’d need to have your heart to break it, wouldn’t she? What’s the point in pretending to be sad over something you’re okay with?”

  “Politics? The press is going to hate me.”

  “Screw the press. And screw politics.”

  Poetic as ever. “What if I’m just a crazy person, and Quinn doesn’t feel anything special toward me?”

  “Find out. It’s your own fault for letting her go in the first place, you know.”

  “She asked me—”

  “You’re supposed to follow your own heart, Jack. Not someone else’s. Not even hers.”

  He let a spell of silence go by while he considered his options. “I clearly need to do something, then. Something to keep Quinn around.”

>   “Are you going to ask her out on a real date this time?”

  “Too tame, I’m afraid. The situation calls for something more drastic. Do me a favor and don’t read the papers for a while.”

  Quinn sat to write in spurts, but her companion proved to be more than one kind of distracting. She hadn’t minded when he’d dragged her into the kitchen to taste a chutney he’d whipped up after once more raiding her pantry, but when he’d talked her into a game of Monopoly and proceeded to celebrate his ensuing win with gusto, she kind of wanted to strangle him.

  She forgave him after he offered to cook dinner, which they sat on the couch enjoying side by side. She had to hand it to him; the guy was a force in the kitchen. Not to mention incredibly appealing bustling around in her flowered apron. She toyed with the idea of asking him to wear it without a shirt on.

  Jack paused dramatically and then spoke. “I’ve been thinking.”

  She let go of the mental image of him shirtless in her apron and looked at him in mock surprise. “Are you capable of sitting still long enough to conjure a complete thought?”

  “Bah.” He waved her off. “We had fun today, even if I was a bit underfoot.”

  She agreed. “But a few hundred words falls a mite short of my two thousand daily goal.”

  “Two thousand?” He shook his head. “You don’t fool around, do you? Fine, tomorrow I’ll let you work. No Monopoly. You have my word.”

  Her fork stopped halfway to her mouth. She peered at him. “Tomorrow?” The word prompted a sudden and unwelcome reminder of their current predicament. It was easy enough to avoid sitting indoors, but they’d eventually have to step outside and into the fray.

  “Yeah.” A beat passed. He, too, seemed affected. “That’s sort of what I wanted to talk to you about.” His smile widened comically. “I have an idea.”

  “That’s a pretty creepy smile you’ve got there. It’s not a good idea, is it?”

  “Well, at least it’s an idea, yeah? Perhaps we ought to give it a fair go since it’s the only one on the table at the moment. Now, I figure there’s no way out of this.” He raised his hand as if to cut off her protest before it began. “Contrary to popular belief, I conjure complete thoughts all the time, and one of them happens to be that just maybe we might consider, you know. . . .” He shrugged to convey the harmlessness of whatever he had built himself up to suggest. “Go with it.”

  For the first time since meeting him, Quinn had to ask herself if the man was playing with a full deck. She set her fork and plate down on the coffee table, folded her hands together in her lap, and said a small prayer for patience. “Are you mental?”

  “Your concern is touching, but I’m quite sane, thank you. Now, listen, and I’ll tell you how I arrived at my conclusion. Your name’s out there, Quinnie. You’re somebody and I’m somebody. Other bodies are bound to make a fuss. That’s the business of it. We can’t escape it, and we can’t pretend it’s not happening. The second I walk out your front door it’s all over. I’ll have been caught red-handed in your home. I say we beat them at their own game. I’m leaving to film in Portugal a month from now. After that, you’re headed back to the States. We pretend to break up, everyone wins.”

  “Pretend to break up?” She studied him dubiously. “What if Vickie wants to reconcile? It might put a crimp in repairing your relationship if she really believes you’re having an affair.”

  “You mean like the very real one she had? Continues to have? Forget it. Some things are beyond repair. Vickie and I are done.” The flat line of his mouth seconded his words.

  “How would I explain something so crazy and senseless to my family?”

  “Tell them the truth.”

  The truth? Her dad’s amusement would be Emily’s mortification, and in both cases her sanity would be called into question. “They’ll think I’m nuts.”

  Jack grinned. “You are nuts. A lucky thing, too. If you were even a tad bit sane, you’d have kicked me out hours ago.”

  Chapter 9

  Quinn found Jack awake and folding blankets. He neatly stacked them in the wide-brimmed wicker basket on the floor where she kept them as he had the previous two mornings.

  “Morning.” She tried not to stare at his rumpled boxers, or the pattern her couch had imprinted across his bare chest and cheek. “I’ll be in my office if you need anything. I’ve already gone for breakfast, but you’re welcome to anything in the kitchen.” Like he wouldn’t help himself whether she extended the invitation or not.

  He gave her a sleepy smile and stretched. It put the fine tone of his arms and sleek abdomen on display.

  She pressed her lips together to keep from licking them.

  “Work, work, work.” He winked. “No worries, love. I’m headed out. Got some business to tend to. Don’t wait up.”

  She ducked into her office seconds shy of offering herself up for matching couch imprints.

  Out of sheer will, she focused on her writing and only stopped when her cell rang and flashed “Blake Cobb” across the small screen. She answered happily. “Hey, Seth.”

  “Quinn.” Blake’s crisp greeting sent her uplifted mood flying out the window.

  “Oh. Hi. Is everything all right? Is Seth around?” Blake hadn’t personally phoned her since she’d moved to England. Either Seth was sick, or California had caught fire.

  “Fine, he’s fine. At a friend’s house doing homework or something.”

  Or something? She wanted to ask what exactly he meant, but it was too soon in their conversation to start a bickering match. She should at least let them get past the greetings. “Okay. What’s up?”

  His hesitation gave her a small idea of what had warranted the unexpected contact. Then he confirmed it. “I, uh, I had some words with your father. I wanted to apologize for giving up your identity. I understand it may have caused some problems.”

  Spoken like a true robot. “A few, yeah.” They were done now, right? She hadn’t relaxed her spine since his voice had come over the line.

  Quiet reigned before the dam of reserve burst. “Seeing you with that guy, I reacted. I really am sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

  Nope. Not done. “His name is Jack.” As if he hadn’t garnered the information already. “And you were thinking. Thinking a little media frenzy might scare me into coming home and taking Seth off your hands.”

  “Maybe.” He paused.

  He had two choices: admit he’d acted in a jealous fit or admit she’d nailed his motive on the head. She ascertained it was one or the other.

  He chose neither, and instead went with a change of subject. “An actor, Quinn?”

  Nostalgia came and went, like ripping off a Band-Aid—fast, painful, and managing to tug a few fine hairs on the way out. She tried to ignore the onslaught of memories it brought along; conspiratorial whispers in her ear at family dinners with her dad and Emily, asking how she ended up the smart and pretty one. She’d elbow him but smiled despite herself.

  The flashback put her on the defensive. When had Blake become an expert on the subject of suitable partners? “You realize half of your firm’s clients are actors, right? Are they aware of your low opinion of their occupation?”

  “I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with an actor. I mean for you. You’re an intellectual. Like me. You make a living with words. I hurt you, but it’s no reason to downgrade.”

  Her jaw clenched at the dig. “How nice you still hold me in such high esteem. Makes my day. Although, I’d like to point out that as an actor who must study scripts, Jack also makes his living with words, and if you saw him naked, I’m not so sure you’d agree I downgraded. Plus, he cooks.”

  Blake digested this silently for a full ten seconds. “Okay, fine. He’s Mr. Wonderful. I’m happy for you. Of course, as long as he is who he says he is. Have you considered he’s only looking for an in?”

  “An in?” she repeated. She propped her feet up on her desk to study her toes while she waited for an explanation.

 
; “Sure. An in. I’ve looked this guy up. He might be some big deal over there, but he’s nobody here in America where it counts. You’re a writer in L.A. You’ve got contacts. Rob Zombie’s latest film was based on one of your earlier novels, wasn’t it? Think about it.”

  Blake didn’t consider her worthy of Jack’s affections by her own merits. So much for holding her in high esteem.

  “Is this why you called? To rain on my parade? This is a pretty sucky apology.”

  “I’m not raining on anything. He’s shady, and I’m the only one concerned. Where’d you meet this guy, anyway?”

  “No one else is concerned because they’re busy minding their own business instead of mine.” That was a lie. Already she’d ignored several calls from Emily, her dad, Angie, and her agent. She was writing a book, people. She had every right to overlook their attempts at communication.

  No, not a right: a duty. “I met Jack in Hollywood last year where we hooked up at a nightclub, right there in sunny California. I bet he smuggled himself into the country to meet me. My incredible influence in the acting biz is, after all, legendary. Thank you, Blake. Your intense scrutiny of my personal life has really opened my eyes. I’m so glad we stayed friends.”

  “When has being a smart ass ever worked in your favor?”

  “Since I met a guy who likes it. Are we done here?”

  Blake’s patented world-weary sigh flowed through the line. “Whatever you say, Quinn. I suppose we’re through since you’re not interested in talking sense. Just don’t come crying to me when you get your heart broken.”

  “Says the man who broke it.” She angrily jabbed at the End button.

  Seeing you with that guy. Blake had probably never considered preparing for the image of Quinn with another man. Nicholas was a faceless name, easy to overlook, but Blake couldn’t overlook Jack Decker. He demanded a person’s full attention and now he had Blake’s.

  Well, good. She’d had plenty of Kira shoved down her throat, the last of which being the birth announcement for Hunter William Cobb delivered the day before. Premature, but healthy.