Brew Ha Ha Box Set: Books 1-4

by Bria Quinlan

  As a character trait, that smooth charm would fit perfectly against my new heroine, Marley. That was the key to my high school, high drama—No one ever fits with. They always fit against. Against shared a wall, had a starting point, but didn't match up. It left lots of room for working things out while falling in love.

  Marley was a bit of a control freak. She didn't like the idea of anyone else telling her what to do, when to do it, or how it should be done. The idea that a guy could swoop in and make her shift her plans around with a smile and some charm would just about kill her.

  And, I could use this as research without breaking our agreement. He’d even said I could ask him about his world. “Connor, if a woman didn't give you your way and you absolutely had to have it, what would you do?”

  “Is this still about the bed?” He glared at me from where he reclined, graceful yet alert.

  That expression I recognized. It was pure suspicion.

  “No.” I couldn’t help it if he didn't believe me.

  “Is it something important?” he asked.

  “Let's say, no. It's not something important. Just something you want.” Like the bed.

  “Then, I'd try cajoling a bit. Bring my flirt out. If I got the idea it was important to her, I'd let her win.”

  Let her win. I made a note of that. It was important in Tucker's viewpoint. He was letting her win. He wasn't letting it go or any other expression. It was about winning. Tucker likes to win. Even when he lets Marley win, he's winning because he chooses to let her win so he didn't really lose.

  “What are you writing down?”

  “Nothing.” I made a final note and then asked. “What if it was something important?”

  “What is this nothing you're doing?”

  Connor started to get up and I waved him down again. I didn't like people looking over my shoulder when I was working.

  “So, let's say it’s something important and the girl—I mean, the woman—you're dealing with is the one who's stopping you from getting what you want, then what do you do?”

  “I guess I'd just ask. Explain to her what I want and expect once she saw my side, she'd understand and give it to me.”

  Hmmmm...Interesting. Tucker doesn't comprehend that sometimes getting his way isn't possible. To him, Marley must not understand the situation if she won't let him win.

  This was going to be good. These two were going to chew each other up pretty good before they started falling for each other. Maybe this setup wasn’t such a bad deal on my end. Research is your friend. It wasn’t like Tucker was Connor. They were really different except in a few personality ways. Connor was just a resource, not an inspiration.

  Maybe I needed more guys in my life just to get the details of the inner-workings from them.

  “Hailey.” Connor was off the couch, stretching his arms over his heads, his t-shirt riding up to show a ridiculously flat stomach that had me thinking of Ryan Gosling again. Thank goodness that boy made more movies than just The Notebook or my TV would be living with the mute button on.

  I slammed the new binder shut before he could get a look.

  “I'm good. Ready for ice cream?” I shelved the binder with the bazillion others. Target had been having a sale on the left over school supplies. Binders were down to twenty-seven cents and I couldn't help myself. Although I was working hard at avoiding the one with the dancing bears on it.

  They kind of freaked me out.

  Connor stayed where he was, half-stretched out on my sofa eyeing me.

  “What were you doing?” His glance strayed toward the robot binder leaving me with no doubt what he was asking.

  “Oh. Brain flash. I get them sometimes for a story.”

  “And that had to do with how I'd get my way...how?”

  This was going to be sticky. People didn't always like being the inspiration for a character. Even if the character was the hero. People never saw what you expected them to.

  And the truth was I'd never stolen a person—maybe a character trait, but not a whole person. But by the time I wrote the story, the person had disappeared and left a new, true-to-himself character behind.

  Instead of trying to explain, I just answered the short, honest answer. “It's always good to have a guy's perspective.”

  Speaking of which...

  “Do you always approach the most attractive woman in the room first?”

  “What?”

  I was a little surprised at his disbelief.

  “When you're somewhere and you're picking up a woman, do you always zero in on the most attractive woman first?”

  “Why would I hit on a woman I didn't find attractive?”

  “That's not what I'm asking. There's a difference between who you're attracted to and who you know is the most attractive person in the room.” I knew I was going to have to explain. “You see, I know Brad Pitt is attractive. Millions of women—and men—can't be wrong. I've even seen those studies on facial balance and blah, blah, blah. But, personally, I don't find him attractive.”

  “No?” Less disbelief, more confusion.

  I shook my head.

  “So, if Brad Pitt walked in here and he wanted to sleep in your bed, you'd say no?”

  “Beyond the fact that I'm pretty sure Angelina Jolie could kick my butt while wearing six-inch heels and holding an orphan? Yes, I'd say no.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Also, he may be Brad Pitt, but, like I said, I don't find him hot.” I didn't think this was such a hard thing to grasp. “It's like art.”

  “This I've gotta hear.” Connor stretched back out, crossing his hands behind his head.

  “Well, I know Picasso made amazing art. It's technically provable. It's also anecdotally provable. I look at it and appreciate it for what it is. I even understand it's beautifully done. But, me? None of his works really move me. No matter what I know about them. Some people like modern art, some like pre-Raphaelite. Etcetera.”

  “And this ties back to me hitting on women how?”

  “I'm curious if how you hit on women is personal or if it's more about social leveling.”

  “I thought we were just going to eat ice cream and watch a movie.”

  If he was begging to watch The Notebook, I had to have been hitting a nerve.

  “I have this theory—”

  “Oh geez.”

  “It's a pretty good theory.” I sat back down at my desk chair and swiveled around to face him. “See, everyone who looks at you—even guys—are going to realize you're good-looking. It's not that guys are attracted to you. Well, you know, straight guys. But any guy can look at you and say, Yeah. That Connor Ryan, he's a good-looking guy.”

  “You think I'm good-looking?” He was getting all smirky-smirk and missing the point.

  “Yes. Just about everyone in the western hemisphere would think you're good-looking. The point is, not everyone would be attracted to you.”

  “So, wait. You're not attracted to me?” He sat up a bit straighter, obviously trying to figure out how this could possibly true.

  I found it amazing that this seemed to bother him.

  “Do you need everyone to be attracted to you?”

  “No.” He shifted, looking more uncomfortable than when he'd suggested we just watch the movie. “Just the women.”

  I should have seen that coming. What was surprising was that he flourished in an all-male profession.

  “But that's not how it works. It never is. Tastes aren't universal. Even as people look at you—er, Brad Pitt—and know he's good-looking, that doesn't mean they find him attractive. We all have types. If we didn't then only absurdly good-looking people would find someone and the rest of us would live sad, lonely lives.”

  He gave me a look.

  The look said he doubted that we—the mere mortals of the world—didn't actually live sad, lonely lives.

  “I have to bring my A-game every time we go out for this to be acceptable to you. The girls you're used to can bring their I-Did
n't-Bother-To-Brush-My-Hair game and still look amazing. And yet, this may surprise you, but I'm not exactly dateless.”

  “I didn't say you were dateless. I—”

  I waved a hand between us. “I get it. I'm not dateless. You just wouldn’t personally date me.” Connor was too nice about everything except who he was going to date.

  And, hey, I wouldn’t date someone I didn’t want to either.

  Well, this fauxmance was the exception.

  Anyway, moving on.

  “But,” I continued. “That’s the point. I get asked out enough. I get asked out by guys I think are attractive who aren't anywhere near as good-looking as you. So, I think it's the hardwiring.”

  “It's not that you're ugly—”

  “Seriously, Connor. Stop while you're almost-kinda-not-really ahead.”

  “No. I mean…that wasn't what I meant when you came in that day.”

  I stood and headed toward the kitchen. “Honestly, I'm not doing this backtracking with you. Let's just leave it at I'm-not-in-your-hard-wiring and let it go.”

  I didn't need to deal with him trying to convince me of something he couldn't convince himself of.

  And the dating thing was true. I was picky about who I dated. Writing was more than a full-time job. When a writer’s on deadline, she has zero time. A lot of guys didn’t get that. A lot of girlfriends didn’t get that. So, I kept my circle of friends to people who did. I went on dates after I'd turned a book. By the time another deadline rolled around, I either knew if I wanted to keep the guy around or not. And vice versa.

  I scooped out ice cream, filling his bowl with twice as much. After watching how he ate, I was pretty sure he wasn't one of those people to count calories. Unless he was counting to make sure he was getting enough of them.

  Putting two smaller scoops in my bowl, I grabbed some spoons and headed back to the living room—all of seven feet away.

  He was already digging into his ice cream by the time I settled on the other side of the couch and hit Play.

  The previews rolled and then the menu popped up and he turned toward me.

  “Terminator?”

  “Yeah. I kind of love action movies. My best friend and I live on them a little.”

  “Nice.” He reached across me and turned off the other light as the movie started. “But, you’re a cruel tease of a woman, Hailey Tate.”

  It was a 108 minutes of perfection. Ice cream, action flick, and a night to just stay in and veg. It almost made up for dealing with the guy taking up half the pillows and the majority of the couch.

  When Terminator ended, it was still early, so I slipped T2 in and watched as Connor grinned to himself.

  The familiar scenes flashed by, lulling me into a chance to consider my day and figure out how I was going to get through the next month.

  It was bad enough I was going to have to deal with book release stuff, but knowing there'd be the added bonus of dealing with the attention the bet would bring wasn't gearing me up for excitement.

  I must have dozed off, because suddenly the static menu of T2 was on the screen with the theme rolling on repeat. My feet were cozy-warm tucked under Connor's thighs as he sprawled at the far end, both arms wrapped around a pillow, his head thrown back against the sofa.

  I eased my feet out from under him and padded to the hall closet while trying to figure out if I should wake him up. The angle of his head was going to leave a horrible crick in his neck, but it also meant no more arguing about who slept where.

  I guess I was a nicer person than I thought, because I opted to wake him up.

  “Connor.” I gave him a little shake. “Connor.”

  One of those overly built arms let go of the pillow and pulled me down, tucking me against his solid frame.

  Yeah. No.

  I slapped his shoulder. “Connor, wake up.”

  He did that little snuffle thing people do when they don't want to wake up. But, when he glanced down at me, he looked confused. Like he had no idea where he was or who I was.

  Who knows how many times he'd been through that.

  The arm crossing my waist loosened, letting me pull away.

  “What, Hailey?”

  Or he did know.

  “We fell asleep. I brought you some sheets and a blanket for the couch.”

  I dropped them next to him and started toward my room. “You can have one of my pillows tonight. But if this is going to be a regular thing, you're going to need to bring one over.”

  I grabbed my second pillow, the one I usually slept cuddled up against, and brought it back to the living room...where there was a half-naked pro-athlete leaning over my couch tucking a sheet into the cushions.

  And, while I knew he wasn't the kind of guy I'd ever date, the sight of his black boxer brief clad rear end was a little swoon inducing.

  “What are you doing?”

  He straightened and glanced over his shoulder. “Making my bed.”

  Yeah, still not happy about that.

  “No. I mean, where are your clothes?”

  “I can't sleep in my clothes. What will I work out in tomorrow? I have three hours of swinging a bat in the afternoon. I’m not wearing slept in clothes to do that.”

  “You can't walk around my apartment naked.”

  “Sweetheart, this ain't naked.” He crossed his arms across an overtly impressive chest. “This is me politely not sleeping naked. Which is how I usually sleep.”

  “It's how you usually sleep at home or with your girlfriend.”

  “Who is currently you. But, here I am, sleeping on a couch, in my boxers and not doing any of the other things I could be doing with my girlfriend.”

  I threw the pillow at his head and growled when he caught it.

  I would have if he hadn't too—I mean, he's paid to catch things. With that, I headed back to my room where there was a perfectly good bed, and fell into it.

  And I didn't feel the least bit guilty.

  9

  I WOKE TO banging. Not building-something banging or someone's-at-the-door banging. I woke to cabinet banging.

  That's when the morning joy of my guest hit me.

  I’d hoped that comfortable truce we’d established the night before would carry over.

  I pulled my hair into a ponytail, wrapped my little robe over the pajama shorts set I was wearing, and headed out to the kitchen to see if he'd destroyed it already.

  “You don't have any coffee.” He had thankfully pulled the shorts back on, but between the naked shoulders and the mussed bed head, he looked like an ad for sex…I mean, something sexy.

  Yeah. Whatever.

  I glanced away because…yeah.

  “Good morning to you too.”

  “How can you not have coffee? I thought writers lived in weird, dark places and subsisted on coffee and cigarettes.”

  “And you thought wrong. I subsist on tea and chocolate when I'm not eating like a normal person.”

  “So, there's really no coffee?” He looked at me like I might be lying. Like there was coffee in some secret compartment he just hadn't found yet.

  “Nope.”

  “How do you live like this?” His voice rose with the accusation as if I was living without heat instead of a specific beverage.

  I guess we’d found his Achilles heel.

  “Pretty easily actually.”

  “We're going to have to go out. We need to get coffee. This is an emergency.”

  I almost thought he was joking, but he brushed past me and grabbed the bag he'd left in my room.

  “You need to get ready. Do your girl stuff so we can go.” He was already keying into his phone. “What's the closest coffee shop?”

  The weird, almost British female voice answered, "The. Closest. Coffee. Shop. Is. The Brew. Ha. Ha.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Did you just thank your phone?”

  I stood back in awe, watching him spiral into a crazed, under-caffeinated lunacy.

  “I need coffee, a
lright? What part of emergency did you not understand?”

  Oooookay. Coffee. Emergency. Got it.

  But I had needs too. “I need to shower.”

  He looked at me like I’d threatened to shoot him.

  “And to get dressed in Connor–acceptable clothing.”

  Now he was glancing toward the door.

  “Don't even think about it. You woke me up on my sleep-in day. You're buying me tea and a muffin and maybe even a cookie for later.”

  “Fine.” He pushed all the sheets and pillows down to the end of the sofa and reached for the remote. “But hurry up.”

  I shook my head, but he didn't notice. He already had his feet up and SportsCenter on. Which was funny because I was pretty sure I hadn’t even gotten SportsCenter in my package.

  The shower was easy. Even blow-drying my hair was simple since it was pretty much stick-straight. Getting dressed wasn't as straightforward.

  Luckily, almost as soon as I closed my door I heard the shower come back on. That gave me at least ten minutes to figure out what to wear.

  I grabbed the binder Becca created, pretty sure there wouldn't be a fake-morning-after outfit but was shocked to find a whole set of possibilities under “Casual Encounters.”

  Once my new clothes were on—and retail-gods willing I’d ripped off all the tags—I threw on light coats of mascara and lip-gloss and headed toward the living room, surprised to hear the shower just turning off.

  Connor took another ten minutes to get dressed, brush his teeth, and use my hair dryer. He'd probably end up using it more than me if he planned on staying over a few times a week.

  I'd actually just bought a new one. When Becca had come over to arrange my wardrobe in some type of order—not to mention kidnap some of my clothes she deemed unwearable—she'd insisted there was so much dust in my rarely used hair dryer that it was a fire hazard.

  When Connor came out of the bathroom, he tucked that darn bag back in my room before coming out to join me. I guess it was going to be living there for a while.

  He glanced my way and stopped, studying me. I was not going to change. This outfit was on the Casual Encounters/Daytime list. He'd have to have it out with Becca if he didn't like my outfits.