Sweet Stuff

by Donna Kauffman

  That made her cheeks darken further, only he wasn’t sure it was due to embarrassment. Not if the quick flash he’d seen in her eyes was any indication.

  “So, after you safely determined that your PA couldn’t have possibly hired me to see to your ... personal needs—and by the way, is that a service he performs often for you? Because I have a really hard time believing, even if you were stranded in the remotest part of the desert or at the ends of an arctic tundra, that somehow, someway, you wouldn’t find a willing partner, all on your own.”

  “First, no, he never has. He’s just been more than typically concerned about me lately, and ... well, his skill set runs more to the logical, linear solution than to the more socially acceptable ones. And, secondly, thank you. I think.” Quinn had no idea how he’d arrived at this particular conversational juncture, but knew he had only himself to blame for the understandably wary concern still on her face. So maybe Finch wasn’t the appropriate go-to guy for Quinn’s Getting a Life campaign after all.

  “So, when you ruled out the Julia Roberts Pretty Woman gig, and the J.Lo maid gig, what did you think I was doing there?”

  “Working for Lois, I guess, in some capacity. Assistant? I wasn’t certain. But I wish I hadn’t brought any of this up, because clearly I’ve offended you and I sincerely didn’t mean to. All I wanted to tell you was how impressed I was with everything you’ve done. I hadn’t looked at the entire house while I was there—”

  “Wait, back up.” She frowned as if something had just occurred to her. “You sort of fudged over it, but how could Finch have already reserved some kind of ‘maid service,’ ”—she used air quotes around that last part, and for the first time in pretty much as long as he could remember, his cheeks were the ones growing warm—“and had me already there before you’d even decided to lease the place? Didn’t you put that into motion while I was getting Jeffy and T-Bone to set up the baby grand?”

  “Right. That. Well, actually, I’d already put David in touch with Scary Lois. He handles all the personal contracts, my regular agent only handles dealings that directly relate to the work itself.”

  “You know, you really have to stop calling her that or somehow, someway, it will come back to bite me. I can’t believe I ever said that out loud. Only, of course I did.”

  He smiled at that. She was such an unusual woman, this odd mix of someone with easily tweaked red cheeks but otherwise outspoken and pretty direct about most everything else.

  “I’ll do my best. And if I screw up, I’ll take the blame. Just tell her I’m developing this amazing real estate character or something.”

  “I don’t know that she’d be flattered to think you’d be making her some kind of intimidating villain—wait a minute, what am I saying? She’d be all over that.”

  Quinn laughed. “Then we’re covered.”

  “So, then, you’d just leased the place sight unseen?”

  “Well, I’d seen the brochure photos and write up, but, to be honest, I would have taken any place available on Sugarberry where I’d have unlimited privacy. You can’t get that at a bed and breakfast, which was all that was available.”

  “It’s true. Once folks come here, they tend to stick around. I can speak to that personally.”

  “I was excited when I found out there was a place available. When you were with the movers, I confirmed with David and Finch that after seeing it, I hadn’t changed my mind. I told them to finish up the paperwork.”

  “And to politely decline the maid service.” She didn’t use air quotes that time, and her self-deprecating smile had returned in full. “Thank you. For the good review to Lois. Your endorsement means a lot. Especially considering the ... uh, work-jogging.”

  He grinned and her cheeks warmed a bit again. She felt it and purposefully turned around, ostensibly to keep track of Brutus, who had paddled around to the other side of the dock, but Quinn was pretty sure it was to hide her face from him.

  Given his cloddish, ungentlemanly commentary, he could hardly blame her, but he wished she wasn’t self-conscious about the blushing. It wasn’t like she could help it. It was the contrast between the old-fashioned courtesan curves and straight-shooter personality that made her all the more interesting to him.

  “The good review was sincere,” he said, shifting so he stood beside her. He noted she kept her face framed from the sun as she looked over the water, but switched to using her left hand, to block her face from him as well. It shouldn’t have bugged him. He shouldn’t have cared if she wanted to hide. From him, or anything else. But it did bug him—which meant he did care.

  He should probably cut that out. Any time now.

  “The thing I made sure David mentioned to Lois specifically was how much the house felt like a home, like someone had already been living in it. You did a wonderful job keeping it sophisticated enough to match all the over-the-top upgrades, but you did an even better job of keeping it comfortable. I’ve rented other places that looked great in a magazine layout, but I couldn’t sit anywhere, or touch anything for fear of leaving footprints or fingerprints. Those places leave me feeling like an intruder. But the bungalow ... I really like it.”

  He hadn’t mentioned to Finch or David that perhaps he really liked it because he knew she’d had a hand in designing the décor. Or because his recollections of her being in the house made him smile. Mostly because he hadn’t been aware that was true until this very moment.

  “Why do you lease places that leave you cold?” she asked, still without turning to him. “At the very least, why not refurnish it to your own taste?”

  He laughed at that.

  “What’s funny? I mean, I don’t want to be rude or indelicate, but I’m guessing it’s not a financial worry for you. Is it that you don’t stick around long enough, so it’s not worth the effort?”

  “Sometimes, but it wouldn’t matter. Because I haven’t the first clue what my style is. Other than I know it—”

  “When I see it,” she finished, nodding. “It always amazes me how many people are like that. I mean, I guess I understand it doesn’t matter to everyone, but, speaking for me personally, I can’t imagine not being influenced by my surroundings. As a writer, I’d think it would be imperative to be comfortable, or to set a certain tone or vibe. Or whatever it is you need to get your head in the space it has to be in.”

  “I don’t know if that’s so much a thing for me. All I really need is quiet. When I sink into the work, the world around me goes away. All I see is whatever I’m writing. The rest of the time ... yes, I guess I do notice. And I want to be relaxed, comfortable. But I don’t know that I’ve put any real energy into figuring out what works best or why. All I can say is, I knew I liked the cottage the moment I saw it.”

  She glanced up at him, then back at the water again. “Even the baby grand?” she asked. “You don’t strike me as a baby grand guy.”

  “Why not?”

  “No particular reason. I guess it’s that comfortable, lived-in vibe you spoke of. If that draws you, then I’d think the baby grand would be a little over the top. I worried about putting it in there, but Lois was adamant about having a few big statement showpieces. I was going for something more like a pool table or even foosball, but she—”

  “Foosball,” he repeated, with fond reminiscence. “Haven’t seen one of those, or played on one since college. That would have been classic.”

  “I could have the piano removed. Put the foosball in, or the pool table, or maybe some more workout equipment. It shouldn’t take more than a day or two, to—”

  “No, no, I’m good. Actually, I like the piano. Statement piece and all.” He grinned and looked more directly at her. “Does that change your opinion of me?”

  She looked right at him then. “No.”

  He laughed outright.

  “What?” she said. “I said it didn’t change my opinion. My opinion wasn’t a bad one.”

  “You just said it straight out, like having an opinion of me doesn�
�t come into play because that’s not part of the job.”

  She eyed him. “You got all that out of a simple no?”

  He studied her face for a long moment. “I’m pretty good at reading people.”

  She started to turn away from him again just as the pink rose to her neck, but he found he really didn’t want her to escape. So, without thinking, he reached out and touched the side of her cheek, turning her face back to his.

  “Mr. Brannigan—”

  He rolled his eyes, but didn’t take his hand away. “We’re not business associates. Quinn. Please.”

  “As long as you have leased furniture in your bungalow, you’re a client.”

  “I signed waivers on all of that. If anything happens to any of it—”

  “That’s not what I meant. I just meant ... you’re a client. You leased a home I staged, with pieces I’ll still be responsible for again at some point, and that’s business, so—”

  “So, you can still call me Quinn. Unless you really want me to call you Miss Brown.” He tilted her cheek a little. “The scratches have healed up fast. Doesn’t look like they’ll leave any permanent marks.”

  She shifted away from his touch. “They have, thanks, and yes, it’s all going to be fine.” She turned again, watching Brutus as he came toward the dock.

  “So, it’s just the business thing, then?” he asked.

  She looked back at him. “Is what just the business thing, then?”

  “You retreat if I get close.”

  “You’re right, I do. Partly because it’s a business thing, but mostly because ... well, I’m otherwise not—”

  “You’re not available,” he finished for her. Of course she wasn’t. He thought about his behavior with that cupcake. He was lucky she hadn’t pushed it in his face and kneed him in the groin. Wow, he normally wasn’t so slow on the uptake.

  It shouldn’t matter. This was the wrong time to play anyway, and she was the wrong woman to play with. He should be relieved. Game over. Back to work. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed otherwise. You’re clearly—I mean, any man would be lucky to—”

  He broke off as her cheeks bloomed anew. Her pupils slowly dilated—like they had over the cupcake in his dining room. Yeah, he definitely didn’t need that to be happening, especially knowing she wasn’t available. To him, that put her off limits even for fantasizing—which he really had to knock off. If he was going to fantasize about anyone getting any, it should be his characters. His needs could wait. As usual.

  “I’m shutting up now,” he said with a small grin, wondering if she remembered saying those same words to him, post treadmill launch.

  She smiled briefly, letting him know she did. They didn’t need things like in-jokes and meaningful looks between them. Not when he had a book to write and an entire career path to figure out.

  And she had some other man to go home to.

  They fell silent, and then Brutus hit the dock, making them wobble on their feet. Riley was still wobbling when she awkwardly knelt to heave the beast’s hulking wet frame onto the dock, prompting Quinn to kneel beside her. “I can get him. Will he let me?”

  “If he wants to get out, he will. You take that side, I’ll take this side.”

  Quinn grabbed the side of the dog’s collar with one hand and braced the other behind his front haunch and pulled as Riley did the same on the other side.

  Brutus grunted, then scrabbled once his front paws hit the dock, half climbing, half leaping out of the water. It sent Quinn and Riley sprawling onto their backsides, where they got to suffer the further indignity of Brutus extensively and quite enthusiastically indulging himself in a rather long, full-body shake, sending a cascade of seawater all over them.

  “Brutus!” Riley spluttered, blocking her face from the spray. “Seriously?” She spit out the briny seawater and clambered to her feet, slipping a bit as she did. Quinn, having just made his feet, grabbed her elbow to steady her.

  They stood like that for several moments longer than either of them needed to. Drop your hand, Brannigan, he thought, while simultaneously very aware she hadn’t shrugged him off as she had before. Spoken for, his little voice reminded him, and he let his hand fall to his side, dismayed at how reluctant he was to do so. Relief, Brannigan. That’s what this is supposed to feel like. Relief.

  She stepped back, but not before he noticed the flash of color on the back of her hand. He reached for it without thinking, lifting it between them, holding on when she would have pulled it back as he saw it was an oversized Band-Aid. “What happened?” he asked, smiling briefly when he noticed the bandage sported Minnie Mouse faces all over it. “Are you okay?”

  She slid her hand from his, but her smile was a rueful one. “Kitchen burn. Hit the back of my hand on an oven rack. It’s fine. Happens. More often to some of us than others,” she added dryly. She took the dog by the collar, turned to go, then glanced back at Quinn. “You really are soaked. And I know he got you when he first went in, too. Do you want to come aboard? I have dry towels, at least. Wash seadog off your hands? I’ll be happy to have the shirt cleaned. The, uh, shorts, too, if you want.” She looked him up and down, as if noticing the rest of him for the first time. “He really did get you. I am very sorry—”

  “Aboard?” Quinn asked, as her words sank in. It had taken a moment because he’d been distracted by the fact that her shirt was soaking wet, too. If he’d thought her body distracting when it was clothed in dry, dirt-smeared cotton, well ... he’d yet to understand the true meaning of the word distraction. Other than the fact that he was a guy, and therefore appreciated the female form, he otherwise wasn’t typically a fan of women who were ... generously endowed. Mostly because he wasn’t a fan of plastics mixing with God-given body parts. But there was nothing plastic about Riley Brown. In fact, every last thing about her was about as non-plastic and God-given as possible. In fact, the big man upstairs had been most generous.

  All that, Quinn thought ... plus a gaze he recognized. Maybe he had from the first moment. He understood exactly what it was he saw there now—aware, attentive ... observant—because he’d been recognizing the very same things for the better part of the past thirty-four years. Every time he looked in the mirror.

  “My boat.” Her gaze grew quizzical the longer he looked at her. Then, just like that, she shifted it away, but not before he saw the guards go up again. “Oh.” She sounded ... disappointed? Or maybe embarrassed again, though he couldn’t, for the life of him, imagine why. “You didn’t know I live here. I thought when I saw you on the dock, you’d come down here looking for me because there was a problem—or because, ah—” She abruptly waved that away with her free hand. “Never mind. None of my business. I do have towels though, if it would help. Again, Brutus and I are sorry.” She tugged on the collar and gave the beast a pointed look. “Aren’t we, big guy?”

  Brutus actually looked slightly abashed. He hung his head a bit lower.

  “Apology accepted,” Quinn said. “And don’t worry. About the rest. It’s hot, so it felt good. I was heading back to the house anyway.” Because the very—very—last thing he needed to do was climb on a boat with her, into a small confined space, with them both wearing wet clothes clinging to every inch of her body. Er, their bodies. But mostly her body. Yep. Definitely a bad idea.

  Quinn reached out, started to give Brutus a pat on the head, then decided not to risk getting the dog wound up again, and sketched a quick salute to them. “Thanks, though.”

  “Okay, then,” she said, as he moved around them so he could head back down the dock. “Dunking notwithstanding, it was nice to see you again. I mean, it’s good to know that everything worked out okay with the house, not because it was nice to see you because I thought—” She stopped and he glanced back to see the blush—hot this time—creep up her neck. She made a self-deprecating face and ducked her chin. “Yeah,” she said quietly, then lifted her head with what he knew was her fake sunny smile. He’d seen the real one. That one came wi
th dimples. “Drive carefully,” she said.

  “I will,” he replied, wishing she didn’t feel so flustered around him. Not that he supposed it mattered. He wouldn’t be seeing any more of her. The thought drew his gaze down, whereupon he jerked it right back up again. Nope, definitely didn’t need to be seeing any more of her. He’d seen more than enough. He nodded again and started off down the dock. With every step, his shoes made a rather comical squishing-squirting-squeaky sound, like something out of a cartoon. He grinned, which changed to a laugh when he heard her snicker behind him.

  “You sure you don’t want a towel or something to at least put on your car seat?” she asked. “You’re pretty wet.” She smiled when he looked back, a truer one this time, though dry rather than dimpled. “I saw your ride when I left the bungalow the other day. Nice rental when you can get it. I know it’s just a short hop back home, but I’m pretty sure those were hand-tooled leather seats.”

  “You made a pretty quick exit.” If she’d been in even half the state he’d been in, the last thing she should have noticed was what kind of seats he had in his old Carerra. “How did you notice that?”

  “I’m a stylist. I pay attention to details. The smaller, the better.”

  “That’s a skill set I can appreciate.”

  “Yes, I guess you would, given what you do. It’s an entirely foreign concept for most people. I will say, I didn’t realize they rented out vintage sports cars.”

  “They don’t.”

  Her eyes widened slightly at that. “It’s yours? You drove all the way here from—well, again, I speak without thinking. I don’t even know where you drove from because I don’t know where you call home, if that’s even where you were. With your accent, it might only be Atlanta for all I know.”

  He tried not to grin, but she was babbling a little, as if she was nervous. The kind of nervous he was beginning to understand—intimately—when he was around her. Not that he had any business understanding it. Or enjoying it. “I guess maybe my accent has peeked out a bit since I’ve been back. Normally, I never notice it. My dad and his parents are from down this way, but I spent most of my life up north. My father has been up there for eons, since before I was born anyway. I have a place just outside D.C., in Old Town. Alexandria. That’s in Virginia.”