by Joss Wood
They could start off with her sitting on this island and then they could move onto that blocky couch. After that they could shower together; she’d seen his massive shower—all sorts of things could happen in that oversize space. Then they could nap before he woke her up for round three, or four...
“I think we should go to bed, separately, and get our heads on straight. Forget this ever happened.”
Cal’s eyebrows slowly pulled together as she made sense of his words. That sounded suspiciously like she wasn’t going to get lucky. Not tonight or anytime soon. There would be no couch or shower or nakedness and definitely no orgasms.
Forget this happened? How was she supposed to do that? He’d had his hand between her legs, for God’s sake!
“Sex is easy, Cal. Friendship is not. I’m not tossing a lifetime of memories away because we want to scratch an itch. This stops here, tonight. We are friends and we are not going to color outside the lines.”
Cal blinked. She definitely wasn’t getting lucky tonight, dammit.
“Uh...okay?” It definitely wasn’t okay! There was nothing remotely okay about this stupid situation!
“We’re going to forget this ever happened. We’re going to wake up tomorrow morning and we’re going back to being friends, easy with each other, the way we’ve been for the last twenty years. Clear?”
Cal glared at him. “Stop being bossy. I heard you the first time. You don’t want me and we’re going back to being friends.”
“I never said I didn’t want you!” Quinn threw up his hands and climbed off his stool, slapping his hands on his waist before dropping his head to stare at the floor. He always did that when he thought that his temper was slipping away, when he felt like he was losing control of the situation. Good, she wanted him to lose control. She wanted his reassurance that she wasn’t the only one whose world had been rocked by their kiss, by the passion that had flared—unexpectedly but white-hot—between them.
“Go to bed, Cal,” Quinn said. “Please. I don’t want us to do something we’ll regret. Sex has a way of changing everything, of complicating lives. My life is complicated enough and I’m trying to do the right thing here. Please, I’m begging you, go to bed.”
Her libido, long neglected, whimpered in protest, but her brain, slowly regaining control, insisted that he was right, that she had to be sensible. Cal pursed her lips, hitched up her skirt and walked away. Being sensible, she decided, was no fun at all.
Five
Quinn watched Callahan run down the stairs to the lower deck and when he heard her bedroom door slam shut, he grabbed his jacket and slipped into the night. He walked to the promenade, the popular walkway empty at this late hour. Most of the boats were dark, he noticed as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his pants. Ignoring the bite of the wind and the mist brushing his face with wet fingers, he walked to the nearest pier. At the end of the pier he rested his arms on the railing and took a deep breath of the cold, briny air. Three in the morning, the loneliest, most honest hour of the day, he thought.
Situation report, Quinn decided. He’d friend-zoned Callahan. He’d said no to some hot, bedroom-based fun with the woman he liked best in the world. He was as proud of himself as he was pissed off. Was he out of his mind? Or was he, for once, thinking with his big brain?
A little of both, he admitted, staring at the awesome views of the Vancouver skyline. He had the same views from his yacht, but because he didn’t trust himself not to run down to her room and sneak into bed with her and lose himself in the wonder that was Callahan, he was standing on a dock freezing his ass off instead.
Resigned to the fact that he was going to be cold for a little while still, Quinn watched the lights reflecting off the water and tried to make sense of the evening, trying not to imagine how it would feel to explore that luscious mouth, how she would look after he peeled that sinful dress off her equally sinful body...
Quinn’s groan bounced off the water and he gripped the railing, dropping his head between his taut arms. He couldn’t, shouldn’t, wouldn’t. Apart from what he had with Mac and Kade, his friendship with Callahan was the only relationship in his life that was pure, uncomplicated, based entirely on who he was as a person and not on who people expected him to be.
The rest of the world saw the pieces of him he allowed them to see. Depending on whom he was with, he could be the charming rogue, the life and soul of the party, the daredevil adventurer, the tough and focused coach.
Cal saw the big picture of who he was and he, in turn, knew what made her tick, understood what drove her. Well, he had up until she got engaged to her now-dead husband.
Quinn’s hands tightened on the railing. He still had no idea why she’d married Carter and why she still, to this day, refused to discuss him. Carter was firmly off-limits and Quinn wondered why. It wasn’t like Cal to keep things to herself.
Then again, Carter had always been a touchy subject between them. From the first moment Quinn heard she was dating the forty-year-old businessman, he’d mishandled his reaction. He’d told her, in fairly salty language, that Carter was an idiot and that she needed to have her head examined. Cal had told him to keep his opinions to himself. He’d tried, but when they announced their engagement, he’d told her, stupidly, that he wouldn’t watch her throw her life away and that if she married Carter, he was walking out of her life. In his youth and arrogance he’d thought that nothing could come between them, that their friendship was that solid, that important.
She’d married Carter anyway.
Carter, her marriage and his death were still taboo subjects. Was it because the pain ran too deep? Because Carter was—God forbid—her one true love, someone who couldn’t be replaced? Quinn hoped not. Unlike him, she wasn’t cut out to be alone, to flit from casual affair to casual affair, from bed to bed.
Hearing that it was extremely unlikely that he’d ever be able to father a child—amazing what routine blood tests could kick up!—just cemented his resolve to be alone, to choose when and how he interacted with people, with women. He’d trained himself not to think about what he couldn’t have—a wife, a family—and he’d never allowed himself to take a relationship further than a brief affair. What was the point? It couldn’t go anywhere...
But being attracted to someone who knew him so well scared him.
Cal was an essential part of his ragtag, cobbledtogether family and you did not mess with family. She was his best friend and you did not try and play games with something that had worked so well for so long. You did not break what worked...
It did not matter if she had a body to die for and a mouth made for sin. It didn’t matter that their kiss had been hotter than hell, that he’d been rocked to the soles of his feet. That he’d never felt so...
Quinn closed his eyes. He’d never felt so out of touch with himself, so caught up in the moment. A bomb could’ve dropped next to him and he wouldn’t have noticed and that...well...freaked him out. Callahan—dark eyes and a steaming-hot body, the only woman he’d ever kissed who made him forget who he was, who made the world recede, caused his brain to shut down as soon as their lips met—was an impulse he could not act on, a risk he could not take. Because he could not, would not mess with the only family he had...especially when he’d never been part of the one he’d originally been given and he was unable to create his own.
* * *
Fact number one: Quinn was a good-looking guy.
Fact number two: he was a superbly talented kisser.
Fact number three: he was her best friend.
Fact number four: she’d acted like an idiot last night. Worse, she’d acted like a desperate puck bunny who’d throw her mother under a bus to get it on with a Maverick.
She was mortified.
Cal wiped the perspiration off her face with the back off her wrist and waited for her heart rate to drop.
She’d pushed herself jogging this morning, trying to outrun her embarrassment. It hadn’t worked. Now she had to face the music. Frankly, she’d rather have her eyes pecked out by a starving vulture.
If she was really, really lucky, then Quinn would’ve left the yacht already to do whatever he did on Saturday mornings and she could delay the inevitable for twelve or fourteen hours or so.
Cal heard the hiss of the coffeemaker, the bang of a cupboard door and realized that bitch Luck was laughing at her. Maybe if Cal slipped her trainers off, she could sneak past him...
Cal sighed. Running away from a situation—or running into another situation because she was running away from another—was how she made things worse. She was a grown-up, and she faced life head-on. She took responsibility for her actions, for her choices, for her life.
But she just didn’t want to, not this morning. Cal lifted her foot to take off her trainers.
“Avoiding me, Red?”
Busted. Cal stared down at her multicolored trainers and eventually lifted her eyes to meet his. He was wearing his inscrutable mask, but his eyes expressed his wariness and more than a little confusion.
“Morning. How did you sleep?” Cal asked with false cheeriness.
Quinn lifted one mocking eyebrow. “About as well as you did.”
Which would be not at all. If she had the same blue stripes under her eyes as Quinn did, then there wasn’t enough makeup in the world that could do damage control.
“Coffee?” Quinn asked.
“Please.”
Cal walked over to the window and placed her hand on the glass, looking at the low, gray clouds. The wind whipped up little peaks of white on the waves and, under her feet, the yacht rocked. She longed for a day of pure sunshine and she felt a sudden longing for a clear, hot day in Africa, the sun beating down on her shoulders, the shocking blue sky.
Quinn cleared his throat and she turned to see him holding out a mug. Cal took it and her eyes widened when a zing of pleasure shot through her as their fingers connected.
Their attraction hadn’t dissipated in the cold light of morning.
Dammit.
Quinn leaned his shoulder into the glass and stared broodingly out of the window, his mouth a grim line. “We have a problem.”
Of course they did.
Cal took a large sip of coffee before wrapping her hands around the mug. “What now?”
Quinn gestured to his tablet on the island. “Your dress caused a stir with the press.”
Oh, that. Cal looked at the large clock on the wall behind him. “I haven’t even had breakfast yet and you’ve been online already?”
Quinn snorted. “As if. No, Wren emailed me the highlights. That woman is a machine.”
“I’d say,” Cal replied. “So, what are they saying about my dress?”
“A lot. Some columnists said it was good to see you pushing the envelope. Others said it was too much. One suggested it was a dress more suited for a...” Quinn’s words trailed off and he looked uncomfortable.
Ah, she’d expected that too. “A hooker?”
“A high-class one,” Quinn clarified.
Like that made a difference.
“It was on the Celeb Chaser blog. Don’t read the article—it was vicious.”
“Give me the highlights,” Cal demanded, her coffee sloshing in her stomach.
“You looked like a slut. Carter would be so embarrassed to see you like that. You’re a disgrace to his name.” Quinn scowled. “It also mentioned your dress is the first indication that my dissolute lifestyle is rubbing off on you.”
Come on, how could anyone be rude enough to write that? “Moron,” Cal stated, rolling her eyes.
“I’ll get my lawyers to demand they write a retraction,” Quinn told her, his lips thin with displeasure.
“I appreciate the gesture, but it’s not worth the time or the effort,” Cal said. “Were you embarrassed by what I wore?”
She didn’t give a damn about Toby and his opinions—being dead, he had no say in anything she did or thought anymore. But she did care what Quinn thought. She’d always trusted his judgment. Had she gone a little overboard in an effort to assert her independence?
Quinn looked puzzled. “Are you really asking me if I was embarrassed to be seen with you wearing that dress?”
Well, yes. Cal nodded, hesitant.
“Why the hell would I be? Yeah, it was—let’s call it minimalist—but you looked incredibly sexy.” Quinn’s mouth tipped up at the corners. “Hence me kissing the hell out of you on the terrace. I just wanted to get you out of it.”
Cal waved his words away. “Okay, I get that, but was it too much?’ She took a deep breath. “Did I look, well, tarty?”
Quinn’s smile was a delicious mixture of reassurance and male appreciation. “Red, you don’t have a tarty bone in your body. You are all class, no matter what you wear.”
Something hot and wicked arced between them and Cal found herself looking at his mouth, licking her lips. His eyes turned a deeper green, heated by desire, and she knew he was mentally stripping her, his hands on her skin, his mouth tasting her. God, she wanted him. Quinn broke their stare and she heard his long, frustrated sigh.
“Something else caught the press’s attention last night,” Quinn said. His worried voice broke the tense, sexually charged silence between them.
In the past eight hours, she’d kissed and groped her best friend and they’d upset the apple cart that was their relationship. She’d had no sleep and she wasn’t sure how much more she could take.
Cal hauled in a deep breath and rolled her hand. “Hit me.”
“Some reports are questioning whether there is trouble in paradise.”
“Our paradise? Meaning our marriage?” Cal clarified. Of course there was trouble in paradise but nobody should realize that but them. “Did they catch us groping on the terrace?”
“There’s nothing too unusual about a man and wife getting hot and heavy, Callahan. If anything, that would’ve reinforced the fact that we are crazy about each other.”
Oh. True. Cal wrinkled her nose, puzzled. “Then what?”
“I didn’t join you on the stage when you gave your thank-you speech. When you told the guests that they could take their masks off, I was, apparently, scowling at you and looking less than happy. And we didn’t dance and weren’t as affectionate as we usually are toward each other.”
Cal thought back and realized the reporters were right. She and Quinn usually had no problem touching each other. They’d always been affectionate. It meant nothing for her to hold his hand, for him to put his arm around her waist, to tuck her into his side. They enjoyed each other’s company and the world noticed that. Toby had certainly noticed and he’d loathed her friendship with Quinn.
Last night, she and Quinn—after leaving the terrace with the memory of what they’d done fresh in their minds—hadn’t known how to act around each other. She’d been both angry and turned on, both discombobulated and annoyed, and she knew Quinn well enough to know that, behind his cool facade, he was as unsettled as she was. The easiest course of action—the only way to get through the rest of the evening—was to ignore each other, to pretend they hadn’t just tried to swallow each other whole.
“We have no choice but to ride the storm. And, according to Wren, that means arranging another outing to show the world that we are happy and in love and that all is well with our world,” Quinn stated quietly.
A raindrop hit the window and Cal watched it run down the glass. “Except it’s not.”
“Yeah, but nobody knows that but us,” Quinn stated. “We have to do this, Cal. We can’t back out now.”
She had to ask, she had to find out where they stood. “And what about last night? What do we do about what happened on the terrace?”
“That,” Quinn said behind gritted teeth. “Now that we are going to simply ignore.”
* * *
Quinn sat on the corner of Wren’s desk, picked up her pen and twisted it through his fingers as Wren typed. After five minutes, she leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs.
“They can take potshots at me, Wren, but saying that Cal looked like a hooker is not, and never will be, acceptable,” Quinn stated, still fuming despite the fact that it was Monday and he’d had the weekend to work through his anger. “I want them to write a retraction or else I will sue them for libel.”
Wren placed her hand on his knee and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Hon, you know that won’t work and that it will just add fuel to the fire. Let it go.”
He couldn’t. He’d seen the worry in Cal’s eyes when she’d asked him whether her dress had been inappropriate, had seen that she was questioning her taste, her own judgment. He was so angry that one article—two hundred badly written words—had caused her to question herself.
“Trust me, there’s nothing you can do and you reacting to it is exactly what they want you to do.” Wren patted his knee again.
Quinn knew she was right and that still irritated the hell out of him. He wasn’t the type to walk away. He always preferred action to negotiation, doing to thinking. “Do you know who this Celeb Chaser is?” he asked, still not ready to let it go.
Wren didn’t answer him. “Do you want what’s best for Cal?” she demanded, her feminine face turning tough.
What kind of question was that? She knew he did.
“Not responding, in any way, to this article is what’s best for Cal,” Wren told him. “And that’s not negotiable.”