“I’m being serious.”
“I’ll let you know.”
“Thank you, Anthony. For everything.” Natalie stood. “I’ll let you get back to work.”
“You want some olive oil cake to take back to the city with you? Fresh made this morning.”
Did all chefs want to fill everyone up with food all the time? Natalie wondered. Vivi did the same thing.
“No thank you.”
“Ah, well, your loss,” Anthony teased. He rose.
She came around the table and kissed him on both cheeks. “Tell Michael it was wonderful to see him.” She wagged a finger at him as she departed. “And no more breaking up!”
Quinn was sitting at Longo’s having his coffee and a cinnamon roll, reading that morning’s edition of the Sent. He nearly choked on his pastry when he saw a cover story about a three-alarm fire in Chelsea that killed four and looked to be the work of an arsonist. These were his stories. Yet the byline read Chris Truelsen—a goddamn new hire, a kid straight out of J school. Pissed, he finished his breakfast, making a beeline for Cindy the minute he hit the newsroom.
He tossed the newspaper down on her desk. “Care to tell me why I wasn’t sent out to cover this?”
Cindy looked up at him wearily. “Your cell was off. Truelsen’s was on.”
Shit. He knew he shouldn’t have turned his phone off. He knew it.
Quinn glanced back down at the story. “Has it got legs?”
“Don’t know yet,” said Cindy, looking like death warmed over.
“Give me the follow-up,” he demanded.
Cindy looked incredulous. “Quinn, it’s Truelson’s story. He does the follow-up.”
“You’re not looking too hot,” he noted with concern.
“Thanks a lot. In case you haven’t noticed, since the cuts I’ve been doing the work of three damn editors. I still can’t believe they let Rogan go and that they’re not refilling that position. I don’t care what kind of rag Hewitt wants to turn us into; we need a Metro editor.”
“Mmm.”
Cindy looked troubled as she put her computer to sleep. “Look, there’s a couple of things I need to talk to you about.”
“What’s that?”
“Lewis from the Times beat you out on two stories in the past month. Neither were earth-shattering, but that’s not a good trend. Is something going on?”
Yeah, Natalie. Distraction. Being stupid enough to turn his cell off. Shit.
“It’s just this article I’m working on,” Quinn lied. “I’ve been really absorbed in it.” That much was true.
Cindy rubbed her eyes. “Please tell me your magnum opus is almost done.”
“Oh yeah.” Another lie.
“Because Clement’s been on my ass about it. Which is weird.”
“Let me handle Clement,” said Quinn.
Cindy glanced away uncomfortably. “The other thing is . . .”
Quinn tensed. “What?”
“Clement’s pushing me to use Truelsen more. He told me to start giving him more of the hard news assignments, even if you’re available.”
Quinn didn’t bother saying anything to Cindy. He just barreled down the hall and, without knocking or even popping his head in the door, barged right into Clement’s office. Clement was on the phone, his feet up on the desk, the very image of a casual commander in chief, which annoyed Quinn no end. He waved Quinn in, pointing at the chair in front of his desk, but as usual, Quinn rejected the offer to sit. Clement wound up the conversation quickly. He doesn’t want me to figure out who he’s talking to, thought Quinn.
Clement smiled pleasantly as he hung up the phone. “What can I do for you?”
“What’s this I hear about you pushing for more assignments for Truelsen?”
“You’re going to be an editor soon, Quinn.” His mildly condescending tone prickled. “I’m going to need someone to replace you, and I think Truelsen has potential.”
“Give me a break. You and I both know this is about you breaking my balls, pure and simple.”
“Actually, I’m trying to help you. I figure the less you have on your plate, the sooner you’ll hand in that master-piece you’re working on, and the sooner you’ll assume your duties here in the office. Believe it or not, this paper doesn’t revolve around you. Cindy is swamped. The sooner you join her in editorial, the less the odds the poor woman is going to have a nervous breakdown.”
That he was in part responsible for Cindy’s currently insane workload filled Quinn with guilt.
“When’s the big exposé going to be done?” Clement pressed.
“When it’s done,” Quinn maintained obstinately.
“You can keep working on your story, but you’ve got to assume some light editorial duties here in the office right now. You can leave if you get some tip or info that relates to your story so you can wrap it up as soon as possible. But otherwise? I want you here—say, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings.”
“I’ll do two mornings a week: Monday and Wednesday. Any more than that, and I walk.”
“You’d best stop threatening that, because one of these days, I might take you up on it.”
“Go ahead. It would be your loss, and we both know it.”
“I’ll see you here bright and early Wednesday morning, O’Brien. Enjoy the rest of your day.”
“You, too.”
Quinn walked out of the office. Bastard thought he’d won. But he didn’t know Quinn O’Brien.
27
“Go on. Open it.”
Sitting together on the couch at her place, Natalie excitedly thrust a Bloomingdale’s box at Quinn. She’d been waiting all day to be able to give him the present she’d bought him, her first ever.
Quinn picked up the box, shaking it. “Well, it’s not a computer. Or a pet parrot.”
“I can’t believe all the grieving that’s still going on over that ridiculous parrot. It’s madness.”
“Haven’t you ever loved and lost a pet?”
“No. My mother thought pets were disgusting, and when I was on my own, I didn’t have enough time to care for a pet properly.” She tapped the box. “Stop torturing me! Open it!”
Quinn smiled wearily and opened the box, pulling out the beautiful Marc Jacobs shirt she’d bought him. It was a long-sleeve, blue-and-white-striped button-down with a chest pocket, and it would go beautifully under that blue blazer he raced around in. Quinn held it up for inspection.
“Wow. Nice.”
“It’s a Marc Jacobs,” Natalie said excitedly. Quinn’s face was a blank. “He’s a very popular designer.”
“Oh.” Quinn carefully folded it back into the box.
“That’s it? Just ‘Oh’?”
“It’s nice, Nat. But I don’t get the point of designer stuff. I mean, who’s going to know, unless I walk around telling people, ‘Hey, I’m wearing a Marc Jacobs shirt.’ ”
Natalie felt stupid. “I can take it back.”
“No, no, I like it. I just hate the thought of you spending a lot of money on something you probably could have gotten at half the price at L.L. Bean.”
“Who is L.L. Bean? Is he American?”
“It’s a what, not a who. It’s a catalog company that puts out all sorts of clothes at an affordable price.”
“This was affordable.”
“Really?” Quinn’s gaze was uneasy. “How much did this set you back?”
“Not a lot. Besides, it’s a present. I’m not going to tell you what it cost.”
“You didn’t put it on your credit card, did you?”
“No,” she lied. She had put it on her card, but it was such a small amount—$79—that it would be no problem paying it off. She was insulted that he still assumed she couldn’t handle money. She could.
Quinn looked relieved. He leaned over and kissed her. “Thanks for the present, Nat.”
“I can’t wait to see you in it! You’ll look so handsome. The sleeves of your other shirts were beginning to fray.”
Quinn grinned that teasing smile of his that always made her heart skip. “Still tryin’ to make me look presentable, huh?”
“As much as I can. Especially now that you’re going to be an editor.”
It was the wrong thing to say. Quinn’s gaze hardened. “Clement tell you that?”
“Yes. Was he not supposed to?”
“Hell yeah, he wasn’t supposed to! He’s got no right telling you things I haven’t had a chance to discuss with you yet.”
“But it sounded like it was a very big deal, you becoming an editor. He said it was a step up.”
Quinn’s voice was vehement. “It’s not a big deal. I’m only editing part-time. And contrary to what your boyfriend thinks, I’ve been using the time in the office to work on my own stuff, not direct editorial traffic.”
“Why do you still insist on calling Mason my boyfriend? He never was.”
“Yeah, well, sometimes . . .” he muttered.
“Sometimes what?”
“Sometimes I think he’s better suited to you than I am.”
Natalie stared at him, speechless. “What are you saying? Do you want to end things? I must say, you seem very miserable lately.”
Which was painful but true. She was giving him space, vigilantly holding to the schedule they’d worked out, even though she wished they could be together every night. But instead of him being happy with this new arrangement, he seemed more preoccupied than ever. It was beginning to make her nervous.
“The misery has nothing to do with you,” Quinn assured her, looking apologetic. “It’s being stuck behind a fucking desk at the Sent two mornings a week. The prick is doing it on purpose, the same way he continues to come to the Hart every night to chat with you. He’ll do anything to piss me off.”
“May I point something out to you?”
Quinn looked guarded. “Sure.”
“You are, without a doubt, the most egotistical man I’ve ever met.”
Quinn laughed loudly. “You’re just figuring that out?”
“I’m not just talking about your feud or whatever you want to call it with Mason. I’m talking about you and me.”
“Explain.”
“You, you, you. It’s always about you,” Natalie said quietly, surprised to find herself blinking back tears. “You say you love me, but do you ever ask what is going on in my life? Non.”
“I know what’s going on in your life,” Quinn protested. “We talk about it every night at the bar.”
“No, we don’t. You come in with your friends, and you ask what’s new at the bar, or what’s new with your family since I see them more than you do. We come back here and you complain about Mason or brood over your article. The only time I have your full attention is when we’re in bed. But never do you ask me how my job hunt is going, or how the planning for Vivi’s wedding is going.”
“Why don’t you tell me about it, then?” Quinn offered softly.
“I shouldn’t have to tell you,” Natalie replied tearfully. “You should be asking me! You should be as interested in my life as I am in yours.”
“I am interested. I’m just a little preoccupied right now.” Quinn wrapped his arms around her. “I’m sorry, honey. I’ll try to be more attentive, I swear. Just be patient.”
Natalie swallowed. Be patient—the same thing Vivi was always telling her. But when did patience cross over the line to becoming a doormat? She had rights, too, but she felt so shrewish bringing them up to him. She did not want him to think she was a demanding prima donna who needed his attention all the time. All she wanted was a few small glimmers of hope that when this damn story was done, she might figure more prominently in his life.
A friend of hers in Paris had once told her that all women wind up with men like their fathers. Like her father, Quinn was addicted to his job. Her father loved what he did, but work was also a way to spend time away from her mother. Natalie had always been desperate for her father’s attention, and now she was desperate for Quinn’s. The parallel unnerved her.
“Please be patient, Natalie,” Quinn repeated. He sounded vulnerable, which shocked her.
“I’m trying. I’m trying so, so hard, chere.”
“I know you are. And I’m going to try harder, too. I promise.”
“Might I have a word with my eldest son?”
Quinn had been sitting at the bar politely listening to PJ Leary talk about his tedious leprechaun chronicle when his mother snuck up behind him.
“Hey, Ma.” He kissed her cheek. “What’s up?”
“I need a word with you. In private.”
Quinn slid off the stool, trying to ignore Mason Clement at his usual seat at the end of the bar where he appeared to have gotten somewhat chummy with the Mouth. Of course, the bastard still spent half his time watching Natalie. The fact that he’d told her about his supposed editing gig—info that wasn’t his to tell—made Quinn despise him all the more.
He followed his mother into the kitchen, lightly brushing Natalie’s arm as he walked by where she stood tallying up a bill. He was trying to be less self-absorbed, more tuned in to small, simple gestures like this that seemed to let her know he cared.
He had a feeling that his mother was going to give him her “All work and no play will leave Quinn a lonely man” speech, and girded himself. Instead, she looked excited.
“I’m planning a surprise party for Natalie.”
Quinn was confused. “What?”
“I overheard her on the phone with her sister the other night during a break. Her birthday is in three weeks. I want to have a wee party for her here that Sunday afternoon. Nothing huge, mind.”
Quinn nodded cautiously. “Sounds good.”
His mother pressed her lips into a thin, disapproving line. “You had no idea it was her birthday, did you?”
“How would I?” Quinn retorted. “She hasn’t said a word to me!”
“Maybe she did, and someone wasn’t paying attention.”
“You don’t think I’d remember if my own girlfriend told me her birthday?”
“No, I do not.”
She folded her arms across her chest. That’s when Quinn noticed her frosty pink fingernails. He tapped a shimmery index finger. “Well, well, what have we here?”
Quinn’s mother flushed, looking defensive. “Natalie took me for a manicure.”
“I see.” Quinn couldn’t resist a good tease. “I seem to remember you telling me that you thought manicures were frivolous. A waste. Especially in your line of work.”
“Well, maybe I’ve changed my mind.” She held out her hands in front of her admiringly. “Looks nice, no?”
“Very nice.”
She lowered her arms. “It’ll chip off in no time, but no matter.”
So, Natalie had bought him a shirt, and she’d taken his mother for a manicure. She seemed to be getting very generous.
He glanced around the kitchen. “Where’s Dad?”
“Upstairs watching the Mets game, lying on the couch like a lummox,” his mother said affectionately. “He hurt his back.”
Quinn sighed heavily. His father’s back had been bothering him more and more, and it concerned him. His parents were getting on in years, yet they showed no signs of cutting back on the time they spent at work. Even when they were exhausted or under the weather, they soldiered on, spouting that “the devil makes work for idle hands.” Well, apparently the devil could also throw your back out.
“He should see a doctor.”
“Who’ll do what? Tell him to rest it the way he is right now.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do, and so does your father. Waste of money.”
Quinn gave up. This was an argument he couldn’t win.
He squeezed his mother’s arm affectionately. “I’m really touched you want to throw Natalie a party, Ma. That’s very sweet.”
“Well, I like her.” She held up a hand to stay him. “I know I didn’t at first; you needn’t remind me. But all
in all, she’s a lovely girl, and she genuinely seems to love your sorry arse, which is all a mother could hope for. That and grandchildren.”
Quinn groaned. “Talk to Maggie and Brendan about that, okay?”
“You’re not getting any younger,” his mother reminded him.
“Neither are they. Let’s get back to the party. If there’s anything you need me to do, let me know.”
“As if I wouldn’t.” She paused. “You know what would make a lovely gift?” she said brightly. “An engagement ring.”
“Ma.” Now he was getting annoyed. “Stop pushing.”
Getting engaged—as if they were even remotely ready for that. As if he could afford a ring, or even want to take on that whole premarital headache. In his efforts to pay more attention to what was going on with Natalie, he’d been hearing all about the high drama of Vivi and Anthony’s wedding plans. The amount of time being eaten up, the money being laid out on everything from flowers to catering was mind-boggling as well as scary. Half the reporters he knew were divorced as a direct result of their jobs. He was in no rush to say, “I do.” Thankfully, Natalie wasn’t, either.
He was beginning to get restless. “Anything else?”
His mother looked amused as she raised an eyebrow. “Being dismissed, am I?”
Quinn put his hand over his heart. “My sainted mother? Never.”
She rose up on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “Go up and see your father.”
“I was planning to.” He loved the way she still tried to boss him around.
She patted his cheek and then moved off to deliver an extrathick slice of brown bread to the Major, as she did nearly every evening. “You’re a good boy, Quinn. I raised good boys. Now, if you’d just get your priorities—”
He put his index finger to her lips, shushing her. “Night, Mom. See you soon.”
28
“Tommy fucked me over. I’m screwed. You’re screwed.”
Quinn watched in alarm as Liam paced the length of Quinn’s tiny living room like a caged animal, his voice sawing back and forth between anger and incredulity. It was one of Quinn’s “work nights,” and when his cell rang at 2 a.m., he was wide-awake, hours into doing research on the ’net. He assumed something had come in over the police or fire scanner at the Sent, and one of the overnight editors was sending him to check it out.
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