by Alison Kent
Hugs, Shandi
BY THE TIME THURSDAY evening rolled around, Shandi was a nervous wreck. She’d barely been able to keep her mind on this morning’s environmental-fragrancing lecture for thinking of Quentin coming over tonight.
So silly to be that way.
It wasn’t as if Quentin hadn’t seen her naked…how many times now? Still, this was different. She was baring her passion, and it left her feeling vulnerable. He could think her idea ridiculous. He could laugh at her dream.
But worst of all he could reject her. And that she wouldn’t be able to stand. Not when such a rejection would be cutting so close to the bone, reducing all she held dear, all she’d been working for, to rubble.
And not when she was on the brink of falling for him—a tumble she was going to have to find a way to halt.
She had room in her life for a fling, not for a romance. Especially not for a romance that would leave her brokenhearted. How could it not when after next week he wouldn’t even be around?
She saw how miserable April and Evan were when they went a day without seeing each other. If she and Quentin were to become involved, their schedules would keep them apart for weeks, months even.
That was not her idea of a relationship.
As much as she’d hated working in the Thirsty Rattler, she’d loved the end of the day shift, when her brother’s wife Shelly would come to pick him up and take him home.
The gleam in Matt’s eyes at seeing his woman had never failed to prick Shandi’s heart with envy. She’d so wanted what they had, found herself insanely covetous of what they shared.
Thing was, she wanted it all.
The relationship, the career. A man loving her as wholly as she loved him. Clients clamoring for her services. Until she was fighting off her own groupies. Oh, but for the exposure.
Wouldn’t that show her family that she wasn’t wasting her time reaching for the stars? That she had talent for more than drawing a beer, pouring shots and spinning whiskey bottles as if she’d walked off the set of Coyote Ugly?
Pushing aside thoughts of her family, she returned to the present and admitted that taking off tonight and inviting Quentin into her home was more risky than embarking on their affair.
Sexually they were equals. Professionally she was a novice to his seasoned performer. At least April and Evan would be here to cushion the fall should Quentin drop her. And really, wasn’t that what she was expecting?
She was doing what the Mrs. Cypruses of the world did. Using him for what he could do for her. Why wouldn’t he tell her to take a hike as he had with all the others?
Uh, maybe because you’ve got something more going on with him than that, girlfriend?
No, she didn’t. She couldn’t. It was a fun fling, an affair. He’d said so himself. That was all.
He’d tie up his business early next week, finish the last of the meetings that were the only reason he was in the city and then he’d leave Hush and leave her.
And because she wasn’t ready to deal with that, she got back to the reason she was here.
Standing in the kitchen that opened right off the living room, chicken breasts pounded flat on the cutting board next to the sink, a mixture of spinach, ricotta, eggs and mozzarella in one bowl, seasoned bread crumbs in another, she set to work assembling ingredients.
She knew how to cook, she just rarely did—and was nervous the lack of practice was going to show. At least, until thirty minutes later, when she found her stomach growling from the aroma of chicken, oregano, basil and fresh garlic bread filling the air.
Now if everyone would get here so she could eat, she thought as she tossed the mixed greens for the salad.
The doorbell rang, as if on cue.
She hooked the utensils on the rim of the salad bowl, smoothed down the gauzy white toga-style shift she wore with Roman sandals and prayed it was April and Evan—though she knew it wouldn’t be.
Evan lived here. He had a key and no need to ring for entrance. Quentin, on the other hand…
They hadn’t talked since the middle of the night, that conversation filled with uncertainty and lust and frustration. The desperate need to understand what was happening gnawing at both of them. The desire that was more than physical need binding them. She took a deep breath and opened the door.
His suit was a deep chocolate, almost black, the brown noticeable only because of the way she saw strands of the same color woven through his hair.
He wore it down, and it skimmed his shoulders, that soft lion’s mane of chestnut and coffee hiding beneath the blond.
She curled her fingers into her palms and invited him to come in. “I like your hair down.”
He handed her a bottle of Chablis and a bouquet of six daisies that made her smile. “I like what you’ve done with your face.”
Tonight she’d used silver paint, gold flecks and black kohl to create a Greek-goddess look. It had taken her hours. Having him notice made every minute, every used sponge, brush and tissue worth it. “Thanks. I like showing off.”
He laughed at that. “You do a damn good job. And the honesty doesn’t hurt.”
“I hope not,” she said, returning to the kitchen and searching in a lower cabinet for the cobalt-blue bud vase that was the only one she had. “What you see is what you get. Well, except for the lie of the makeup.”
“Ah, so you’re hiding behind a veneer of what?” he asked with a suspicious lift of one brow. “Exaggeration? Half-truths?”
She straightened to find him standing directly in front of her, the corners of his eyes crinkling with the laughter he held in. “Actually this would be MAC Studio Tech NC 15, along with Sea Me and Electric Eel.”
“Touché,” he said, offering her a smile that had her melting like the cheese in her spinach and chicken. “Food smells great.”
“I hope it tastes great.” She carried the flowers to the table set with cantaloupe-, avocado- and plum-colored flea market Fiestaware knockoffs. The vase fit right in. “We also have salad and bread, and the corkscrew’s hanging on the side of the fridge if you want—”
His hands at her waist, he spun her around and into his body. She gasped as her breath was crushed from her lungs, her hands curling into the fabric of the tan dress shirt he wore sans tie.
She slid her hands up to cup his nape and slowly lifted her gaze, caught by his tongue wetting his lower lip, by his eyes that sizzled.
“I want to kiss you, but I don’t want to ruin your face,” he said, stroking a hand over her hair that hung straight down her back past her shoulders.
“You won’t.” She raised up to her tiptoes, dropped a kiss on his lips. “As long as you keep it sweet and simple and save the tongue for later.”
He leaned down, smiling, nibbling at her mouth. “Does that mean there’s going to be a later?”
“We probably should wait and see.” She kissed him, rubbed her nose against his, threaded her fingers through the strands of his hair. “You may hit the door at a run once I tell you about my class project.”
“Not a chance.” He slid his hands to the small of her back and pressed her close, kneaded the muscles there. “You’ve got my curiosity up.”
“Be careful there,” she whispered against his mouth, “or it’s going to be more than your curiosity we have to worry about.”
“There’s a reason I haven’t let you take my coat.”
She felt the heat of the blush she knew was staining her face with a rosy pink glow. “You mean, besides the fact that I’m hopeless as a hostess?”
Quentin leaned forward, nuzzled the skin beneath her ear. “You’re good in bed. That’s all that matters.”
“Is it?” She pulled away, staring intently into his eyes as she did. “Because Mrs. Cyprus can always help you out if that’s the case.”
“You know it’s not,” he said gruffly, reaching down to slap her on the ass. “And if you say anything about that woman again, I’m afraid I’ll have to turn you over my knee.”
“Promises, promises,” she replied and had just slipped her own hand to his backside to return the spanking favor when the door opened and Evan and April walked in.
“Uh, is this a bad time?” Evan asked. “Because I’m pretty sure we were invited for dinner. No one said anything about seeing a show.”
Laughing, Shandi pushed away from Quentin, though she didn’t argue when he kept hold of her hand. She gestured with her free one. “Quentin Marks, this is my roommate, Evan Harcourt, and our shared girlfriend, April Carter.”
“April, Evan.” Quentin let her go and extended his hand to shake the others’. “It’s nice to meet you both.”
“As it is you,” April said. “I can see why Shandi’s been keeping you a secret.”
Shandi sputtered and headed for the kitchen and the corkscrew about which she’d so quickly forgotten. “I haven’t been keeping anything or anyone a secret. Good grief, Quentin and I only met this week.”
He followed her, took the corkscrew from her hand and nodded toward the wineglasses hanging from the stemware rack beneath one of the cabinets, glancing at April as he said, “It just seems like we’ve known each other forever.”
And it did, Shandi mused, sliding four of the eight glasses free. Especially when they were already communicating silently and working together without a hitch, teasing their way through a task as simple as opening and pouring wine.
“Yeah,” she said, setting the first two glasses on the countertop. “The newness is already wearing off. Boredom setting in and all that stuff.”
Evan pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat. “So that groping we saw when we came in was about putting the spark back into the relationship, huh?”
April gasped. “Evan!”
Quentin winked at Shandi, sending a thrill to her toes.
“Something like that. We were trying out one of those Cosmo tip things.”
“Right,” Quentin said. “‘Ten Ways to Spice Up Your Kitchen.’”
Shandi held out the second set of glasses, her hands trembling a bit as Quentin wrapped his over hers and poured. Passing those off to the other couple, she picked up the glass Quentin had filled for her, met his eyes over the rim as she sipped. He did the same, the sharp intensity of his gaze making it hard for her to swallow.
She had no idea how she was going to manage to make it through this entire meal—much less the evening—if he didn’t stop with the sexy, smoky I-know-what-you-look-like-naked looks.
Except those weren’t the looks that were giving her the most grief.
What she was having trouble dealing with was how he saw beyond her mask to her soul that tonight felt inordinately fragile.
Setting her glass on the table because she suddenly needed space, she motioned for April’s help. “If you’ll grab the bread out of the oven, I’ll finish the salad and we can get started here.”
“It smells fabulous,” April said.
“Agreed,” Quentin added.
“And since neither April or I cook,” Evan said, turning in his seat to set his glass next to his plate and catching April’s eye, “we’ll have to pick up extra slack at the new place and let you feed us.”
Shandi looked from her roommate to her girlfriend who was suddenly busy slicing bread. “What new place?”
“The one the three of us are going to move into.”
QUENTIN WASN’T SURE WHEN he’d shared a better home-cooked meal or sat down to one more interesting. Evan’s moving announcement had caught Shandi totally off guard.
Rather strange that her roommate would announce such a decision in front of a disinterested audience, but then what did Quentin know about the relationship Shandi shared with the other couple?
Meeting the two, he would have thought April to be the roommate and Evan to be the visiting boyfriend. That wasn’t the case at all.
From what Quentin had managed to gather before the subject had been dropped, Evan’s grandmother owned the apartment he and Shandi shared and allowed them to live rent free since their relationship was platonic.
Though the details were fuzzy, never having been completely spelled out, it appeared Shandi was going to have to come up with cash she didn’t have for rent and living expenses for a move she clearly didn’t want to make.
He couldn’t blame her, standing as he was in her kitchen that reminded him of the set from Friends and pouring her another glass of wine.
They were alone again at last, the other couple having left after the four of them had worked together to clean the kitchen. Shandi hadn’t said much while scraping dishes and loading the dishwasher.
He could tell her mind was elsewhere, no doubt calculating her schedule and her finances, time taken away from school in order to move, extra time put in at work to afford the change.
Picking up both of their glasses and crossing the room to where she stood in front of the wall of windows looking out into the night, he realized they never had talked about her class project.
The evening’s conversation had instead been casual banter sprinkled with queries about his career and several stilted references to Evan’s announcement.
It was time for a distraction, he decided, handing her the wine. “Not a bad view except for the buildings in the way.”
“Funny guy,” she said, taking the glass and holding it close but not drinking. “I’m looking at the sky. Or what I can see of it anyway.”
From here there wasn’t much. A few stars was all. A sliver of moon. “What’s on the roof of the building?”
She thought for a moment, then shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never been up there.”
“So? Let’s go.”
She glanced over. “To the roof?”
“Why not? More sky to see from up there.” He held out a hand. She hesitated briefly but then took it.
They made their way to the apartment’s front door, where she grabbed her keys off a hook beside it, locked up and showed him the way to the building’s stairwell.
Four flights later and they walked out onto the rooftop, where Shandi was surprised to find a vegetable garden flourishing in one corner between rows of potted palms that eerily complemented her costume.
“Wow. I had no idea,” she said and laughed softly in that way she had that reminded him of crystal clear bells. “I’ve been spending all that time at the apartment window after work when I could’ve been unwinding up here.”
“Except I doubt being up here alone in the middle of the night would be particularly smart.”
“Well, yeah. I know that. I wasn’t being literal.” She shrugged. “Just dreaming.”
She struck him as too practical and focused to dream. She was diligently working at her job and toward her degree; both played a part in the pursuit of her career.
Dreaming didn’t fit the profile. “Do you dream a lot?”
She sputtered. “Who has time?” That matched his assessment, but then she added, “Or enough time, I guess I should ask, because I’ll admit to doing my fair share.”
And just when he thought he knew her. “What do you dream about?”
She rolled her shoulders, sipped her wine, crossed in front of him to step underneath the palms, looking as if she belonged on the set of a movie, Troy or Alexander or even Cleopatra. “A Tony, an Oscar for Best Makeup. Just your average makeup artist’s dream.”
He chuckled when he really felt like groaning at the tension drawing his body tight. She was so stunning, so beautiful. And he loved that she made him laugh. “Okay, I’ll give you that.”
“As if you have any say in my dreams?” She gave him a look over the rim of her glass as she sipped, then shook back her hair and sighed. “What am I saying? I obviously have no input in where I live, forget controlling my fantasy life.”
He’d wondered about that, how close to the surface her vulnerability ran. “Is that going to be tough on you? Moving and paying rent?”
“Name me one struggling-artist-student type in this city who doesn’t have it tough.”
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She glanced over at him, the moon turning everything about her—her hair, her clothes, the makeup on her face—to a silvery-white. A delicate, ethereal, near gossamer mix of stars and moon.
“Never mind,” she said moments later. “I doubt there are many of us who run in your circles.”
He glanced down and considered the glint of light off his own glass of wine. “Are you calling me a snob?”
“No, I’m being a realist,” she said as a breeze rustled the palms and lifted the hem of her dress and a few strands of her hair. “And I’m pissed that my two best friends have put me in this situation. If they’ve decided to bite the bullet and move in together, why didn’t they include me on the plans? It’s not like I’m a totally un-involved bystander here.”
“Doesn’t seem very bestfriend-like,” he mused, drinking again because he was having hell with all the things she was making him feel. “But that’s just me looking down from the loft of my ivory tower.”
“Figures you wouldn’t be content with an average tower. Nope, gotta have a loft.” A dry smile spread over her mouth before she seemed to deflate. “I’m sorry. None of that came out the way I wanted it to.”
“Then why don’t you explain it to me,” he said, because he wanted to know her, what made her tick, what she was going to do now that she’d been dealt this blow.
“Okay,” she agreed, raising one finger of the hand holding her wineglass. “But only if you agree that I get to call in the marker anytime I want.”
“What marker?”
“I give you a piece of who I am, you have to do the same. And,” she rushed to amend, “by piece I don’t mean sex.”
He’d always kept his past to himself, his private life private. So it made no sense that the idea of revealing to Shandi what she wanted to know wasn’t all wrapped up in that same shield of self-preservation.
But what he told her or didn’t was moot anyway. He was leaving next week, a thought that caused a strange pang to the center of his chest. “Sure. Why not?”
She twisted back and forth, as if shaking her whole body and not only her head, while she considered him. “Hmm. That was too easy.”
