by Max Monroe
He gave me a hard smack on my shoulder pad. “Shower up.”
I nodded and turned up the dark beckoning of the tunnel at a jog. Jell-O legs or not, I had a date to get ready for.
I was trying on my third shirt of the evening when Jilly slammed my front door so hard the house rattled.
An interesting way to enter a house, for sure, and an entire hallway and flight of stairs away from me, but I still knew it was her.
One, she was the only one with a key; two, she had a lot of rage toward me currently; and three, she’d made this exact entrance several times before.
Temporarily satisfied with the shirt on my back since it covered all my flesh, I hustled out of my room, through the hall, and down the stairs.
Jilly was waiting at the bottom, as expected, her toe tapping furiously on the travertine tile.
“Hey, Jilly-willy,” I greeted playfully, watching as the tops of her ears turned a burning hot red.
“Cut the crap, Quinn,” she replied. Her tone was remarkably less friendly. “Nathan’s been chasing me around like a rabid dog since he can’t get ahold of you.”
I shrugged.
Her head looked like it might explode as she shook it violently back and forth, her blond ringlet curls bouncing as she did. Her hazel eyes looked amber and a whole lot pissed. I semi-feared she was going to transform into a werewolf, they were glowing so hard.
“I know you didn’t just shrug,” she said, eerie calm making me take a step back before responding.
“You need to make yourself less available like I do. It solves a lot of problems when it comes to Nathan.”
Publicists, man. Hopped up on gossip columns, and like scavengers, they hunted everywhere for issues, opportunities, things to slide under the rug. They were an entirely different breed, and with as much as mine called me, I often wondered when Nathan found the time to sleep or take a shit.
“You pay me to be available!” she shouted.
I smirked shamelessly. “Oh, yeah, that’s right. So what is it you’re complaining about again?”
“One day, I’m going to murder you,” she threatened and I laughed.
“Probably not a good long-term employment plan, but hey, you do what you gotta do.”
For the first time since arriving, she noticed my appearance. From the button-down shirt to my nicest pair of jeans to the product in my hair, it was obvious I was making an effort. At least, it would be to her. She saw me on a daily basis in my regular gear, and trust me, this wasn’t it.
“Where are you going?” she asked suspiciously, drawing a figure eight over my body with a point. “I don’t like this.”
I shook my head and headed for the kitchen, avoiding her eyes as she trailed me. “What’s not to like? I’m wearing clothes. No big deal.”
“Uh, no,” she spewed behind me. “Those aren’t just clothes. Those are going-somewhere clothes, and I’m still dealing with the somewhere you went yesterday.”
I rolled my eyes, but in the interest of full disclosure, she was behind me. She couldn’t actually see the action. I didn’t have a death wish.
“What were you thinking, getting on a fucking plane to Alabama yesterday? Did you think no one would notice? That there wouldn’t be videos of you all over social media? Because there were, trust me. I know because I’ve been fielding calls from your publicist all day about it!”
“Jilly, relax,” I coached, pulling two bottles of water out of the fridge and sliding one across the island to her. She unscrewed the cap and took a big gulp, all while shooting laser beams out of her eyes at me. “I’ll call Nathan.”
“Tonight,” she ordered, but I shook my head.
The lasers became death rays.
“I have a date tonight,” I admitted. “So, no, not tonight. Tomorrow.”
“I knew those were going-somewhere clothes!”
I laughed. “Come on, Jilly. Don’t you want your best friend Quinn to meet a nice lady? Someone you can inspect carefully, fall in love with, claim as your new best friend, and then occasionally loan out to me?”
She shrugged and popped her eyebrows, grumbling, “Well, that doesn’t sound bad.”
I smiled, biting into my bottom lip as I did. “You’re going to love her.”
She rolled her eyes, disbelieving, so I pulled my phone out of my pocket and quickly clicked through to Cat’s Instagram profile.
“Here.” I shoved my phone across the island, and she caught it on the other side before it hit the ground—thankfully. “Look at her profile.”
“Oh, great,” she groused as she lifted the phone. “Probably some fucking YouTube star with forty million—” Her eyebrows drew together so sharply the gap between them disappeared. “Does that say she has fifteen followers?”
I grinned hugely, thinking about Cat’s profile picture. Hair pulled back off her face, she grinned into the camera with paint streaks all over it and her shirt. She was a mess, but the light in her eyes was fucking brilliant.
“Yep,” I confirmed, rounding the counter and snagging my phone from Jilly’s hands.
“Hey!” she snapped. “I was still looking at that.”
“Time’s up. I have to finish getting ready and pick her up in Hoboken.”
She sighed, but most of the fight had left her. Her scrutiny remained, however, and I shifted under her stare. “What?” I asked.
“What exactly do you have to do? You look ready to me.”
I looked down at myself self-consciously. “I thought I might wear a different shirt.”
She shook her head immediately. “Wear that one. The lavender goes with your eyes.”
I scoffed playfully. “Are you saying you’ve noticed the color of my eyes?”
“Shut up.”
I laughed and stepped forward, ruffling her hair and pissing her off enough to last the next two months. “Don’t wait up, Jilly. I’ll make sure you meet your new mommy soon enough.”
She flipped me off behind my back as I strode from the kitchen. I could feel it burning heat through the fabric of my shirt, but nothing could break my stride. I tucked my phone into my pocket, grabbed my keys from the entryway table, and headed out the front door to my truck.
I started the engine and then had a thought before I left. I was a couple minutes early thanks to Jilly’s arrival and interrogation—and her dismissal of my plan to try on forty other shirts.
I shifted in my seat, digging for my phone and squeezing it out of my pocket by a sheer miracle. A few quick taps and I was back on Cat’s Instagram, where I clicked to open a direct message.
Phone up in front of my face, I pointed the camera at myself and tapped the button to record.
“Hey, Kitty Cat,” I greeted. “I hope you’re ready because I’m going to see you real soon.”
The intercom buzzed, and unless someone had sent a Chinese delivery to the wrong apartment, those sounds signified Quinn’s arrival…for our freaking date.
Holy moly.
“It’s Quinn,” he said through the speaker, and I tapped the intercom to let him inside.
I hurried my ass back into my bedroom, my heels click-clacking across the hardwood floor, and took one last look in the floor-length mirror beside the door.
Hair shiny and sleek? Check.
Makeup intact? Check.
Little black dress and heels? Triple check.
It’d taken two hours of fashion analysis to come up with the easiest, most clichéd choice: my one and only black cocktail dress paired with my favorite pair of nude pumps.
Honestly, I still wasn’t certain it was the right choice, but I knew time had obviously run out when two knocks reverberated from my door. I couldn’t dillydally any fucking longer; my date was here.
“Just a minute,” I called out as I practically skidded across the hardwood floor of the hallway and toward the living room.
As I gripped the door handle, I gave myself another two seconds to take a big, calming breath and silently pray, Please let tonight go
well.
The instant I turned the knob and opened the door, the nerves in my belly fluttered and flopped around at such an intense pace I felt like squealing. Son of a nutcracker, I was nervous. I hadn’t planned on this much anxiety when I’d initially said yes.
It’s because you like him so much…
Another calming, yet very discreet breath, and I schooled my face into a soft smile. “Uh…hi,” I said lamely and instantly felt like face-palming.
Uh…hi? I was the queen of un-smooth and awkward.
And good God, why did he always have to look so fucking good?
Perfectly kempt yet shaggy light brown hair, those intense blue eyes, and a body that looked good underneath pretty much anything—especially his current choice of casual yet sexy attire of a lilac collared shirt and jeans—Quinn looked good.
And not just good, but good with an extra-long O.
“Hi.” He greeted with a sexy little smirk. “Wow, Kitty Cat. You look amazing,” he said, each word coming out of his mouth at a smooth and steady pace, mimicking his eyes’ perusal.
I didn’t know what to do underneath the intense, warm gaze of those blue eyes of his. So, I did the only thing I could think of. I motioned for him to step inside, the exaggerated movement of my arm more awkward than anything else. A bystander from the hallway probably thought I was inviting him inside for some line-dancing and a good old fashion hoedown.
“Please come in,” I added. “I just need to grab my purse and keys.”
He stepped inside my home, and I wasn’t sure what he could possibly be thinking in that moment.
“So…this is where I live…” I said, and even I could hear the uncertainty and nervousness in my voice. Surely, my quaint little first-floor apartment inside a Hoboken brownstone-style building was nothing in comparison to his place.
I didn’t have to know his net worth to understand a professional NFL quarterback could afford a whole lot more than my humble abode.
Stop being so self-deprecating, Cat.
My subconscious was right. Quinn knew I wasn’t rich and my life wasn’t surrounded by fame. I was a twenty-four-year-old flight attendant. The fact that I’d already achieved as much as I had, all without the help of my parents, and in my early twenties at that, was a huge accomplishment in my opinion.
He looked around my home, taking in the white walls and eclectic yet colorful furniture and accents. A soft smile kissed his lips when he noticed my favorite spot in the entire apartment—the picture wall I’d created. Various, candid photos, all of my closest family and friends, they took up the entire wall space surrounding my mantel.
“I love your place.” Realness and authenticity coated his words like caramel. His eyes met mine, and I shrugged.
“It’s a bit random for some people’s tastes…”
“Really, Cat. It’s fantastic, and I’ve only seen the living room.”
“Thanks,” I said in a small voice, his enthusiasm throwing me off guard a bit.
He smiled, and I strove to regain my equilibrium.
“I’d offer to give you the tour, but I don’t kiss-and-tell or show my bedroom on the first date,” I teased, and Quinn chuckled.
Wait…what? I don’t show my bedroom on the first date?
Where in the hell had that come from? If this date went well, I’d be an idiot not to show Quinn my bedroom.
“I guess I’ll start crossing my fingers for a second date now.”
Giggles left my lips in a wave of melody and amusement. “How about you make yourself comfortable for a minute while I grab a few things?” I suggested and motioned—casually, this time—toward the small white sectional in the living room. “Can I get you anything to drink while you wait?”
Stop being weird, I mentally chastised myself for all of a sudden turning stuffy and formal and silently prayed he hadn’t sensed my weirdness. Although, I knew that was probably an impossible feat, but who knew, maybe the Big Guy upstairs was feeling generous tonight.
“I’m good,” Quinn answered and winked at me over his shoulder. “I’ll just stalk your wall of photos until you’re ready to go.”
I smiled and headed back into the hallway. “You know, you’re surprisingly good at the stalking,” I called toward him once I reached my now-mess of a bedroom.
Clothes scattered across the floor and my bed like rag dolls, it looked like a bomb of H&M had gone off.
Quinn’s chuckle echoed down the hall. “You say stalking, but I say tenacious!”
I grinned, but once my eyes took in the disaster of my bedroom again, it quickly faded. What in the hell had happened in here? It was like I’d deconstructed my entire closet and relocated it to my bed and floor.
I did my best to straighten up—because, yeah, I didn’t know how the date would end—while Quinn remained safely unaware in my living room.
Once I’d tossed everything back into my closet and managed to shut the door, I grabbed my purse, keys, and phone and headed out.
“Okay, I’m ready whenever you are,” I announced as I walked back into the room. Quinn still stood by my picture wall, his eyes intently examining each photo.
“Are these your parents?” he asked and pointed toward a picture from a beach vacation in Gulf Shores. With the sun in our eyes and the beach at our backs, the three of us stood huddled together, smiling down at the camera in my father’s hand. I’d been twenty at the time, still unaware of who or what I’d wanted to be.
“Yep.” I nodded and stepped beside him, my bare arm brushing softly against the soft fabric of his lilac shirt. “That’s Martin and Gail.”
My mother was a beautiful, dark-skinned African-American woman, and my father was the complete opposite—a creamy, white-skinned Irishman. When you put the two together, you got me—a creamy, mocha latte mix of both.
“You’re a perfect mix of them,” he said and glanced between me and the photo. “You have your mother’s lips and your father’s eyes.”
“And a little bit of both when it comes to skin color,” I added with a cheeky grin.
“That too.” Quinn smiled knowingly. “Where did you grow up?”
“A little suburban town known as Mariemont. It’s just outside of Cincinnati.”
“Do your parents still live there?”
“Yeah. They’ll probably never leave Mariemont. I can’t really blame them, though. My parents’ house is adorable, and it’s located in this little ten-mile area where everyone knows everyone. Honestly, sometimes, it was like growing up in Stars Hollow on the Gilmore Girls.”
Confusion slid onto his face, and he quirked a brow. “Gilmore Girls?”
“It’s a TV show… Lorelai… Rory… Wait…” I paused and took in his now more puzzled expression. “You don’t know the Gilmore Girls?”
“Should I know them?”
“Are you kidding me?” I questioned in damn near outrage. “Everyone should know them.” I was only speaking facts. Gilmore Girls was one of the best television series ever made. Hell, I still watched reruns and was waiting on bended knee for yet another season to come out. And spoiler alert: I needed to know what in the hell was going on with Rory’s pregnancy.
Quinn took his cell phone out of his pocket and summoned Siri with two quick taps to the home button. “Siri, add a reminder for tomorrow at four p.m. Title it, Gilmore Girls.”
A shocked laugh left my lips.
“A reminder for Gilmore Girls added to tomorrow at four p.m.,” Siri confirmed, and Quinn waggled his brows toward me. “All right. Now that that’s settled, are you ready for our date, Kitty Cat?”
“You’re ridiculous.” I grinned and shook my head at the same time. “And to answer your question, yes. I didn’t get all dolled up to stand around in my living room and look at old pictures.”
“On the contrary, I like looking at your old pictures, but in the spirit of keeping my gorgeous girl happy, let’s go.” He smiled and reached out his hand, ready to start our date adventure together.
My go
rgeous girl? Oh my.
I faltered on my heels a bit, stepping to the side to regain my balance, but luckily managed to pull myself together.
“Okay.” I slid my hand into his, and the instant I felt the warmth of his skin against mine, I couldn’t stop myself from feeling just how good this—Quinn and me, together—felt.
He led us out of my apartment and out the main door and gently helped me into the passenger seat with his hand pressed at the small of my back.
And the entire time, I wasn’t thinking about the fact that Quinn’s version of a vehicle was a decked-out F-150 with black-tinted windows, or the fact that the man sitting in the driver’s seat next to me was an actual celebrity to the rest of the known world.
No. It wasn’t any of those things.
It was the fact that I was going on a date with the handsome stranger from 2A. The one who’d serenaded me on a midnight train to Birmingham, Alabama. The guy who’d inserted himself on to more than one of my flights because he wanted to see me.
Hot damn. Tonight, I was one lucky bitch, and it had nothing to do with Quinn Bailey’s celebrity status. It was just him, and everything that made him the man I was finding out had a heart of gold.
Two hours later, we sat inside a little art studio in New York, side by side on wooden stools, drinking wine from the bottle of Merlot Quinn had brought, and following Stella’s—our teacher for the evening—step-by-step painting instructions.
With purples, blues, oranges, yellows, and reds filling our canvases, tonight, our Paint ’N’ Sip masterpiece was called Times Square.
I had already finished up the billboard portion, but Quinn was a little behind, still focusing intently on the little people filling the sidewalks.
“Psst,” I whispered toward him, while Stella moved on to the taxis.
“What?” Quinn questioned quietly, but his eyes never left the strokes of his brush.
“You’re like way, way behind.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.” I giggled. “Look at mine.”
Considering that Quinn was still concentrating on the pedestrian portion of our painting, the one that had occurred three steps ago, he was most certainly behind. His canvas looked nearly bare compared to mine and Stella’s.