by Lily Everett
“It’s not full-time because the rest of the hours are spent on the certification course,” Marcus put in, as if he were reminding her, and Quinn glanced up at him from beneath her lashes. She was grateful for the support. And she couldn’t help noticing that Marcus seemed to know an awful lot about this job, considering she hadn’t started it until after they’d broken up.
“Oh, another class.” Daddy was nodding as if everything made sense now, disappointment stirring in his gaze. Quinn’s stomach dropped.
“I don’t know why you say it like that. Quinn loves to learn, don’t you, sweetie?” Her mother’s mouth had tightened and now she put down her piece of fried chicken to cross her arms over her chest as she glared at Paul. “There’s nothing wrong with a young woman pursuing an education.”
“Of course there isn’t,” Dad said wearily, “so long as that young woman ever plans to use all these classes she’s taken over the years for more than just a hobby.”
“Hobbies aren’t such terrible things to have,” Mom said. “You could stand to look into getting a hobby yourself, now that you’re retired.”
“That’s probably true, but I’m not a young woman starting out in life,” Dad pointed out. “And our daughter needs to learn to commit to something. We won’t be around forever. She needs to be able to build a life for herself so we know she’ll be okay without us.”
The words landed in the middle of lunch like a giant spoonful of mashed potatoes plopped right onto the table. Quinn, who had slowly slid lower and lower in her seat as her parents volleyed back and forth, shut her eyes and wished for the floor to open up and swallow her.
When she felt Marcus shift next to her, his large, superheated presence at her side moving away as he stood up, she tried to feel surprised. But she couldn’t. How could she expect him to stick it out through this unpleasantness? If it were an option, Quinn would run away, too.
But Marcus wasn’t running away.
Quinn opened her eyes to a world gone bonkers. Marcus wasn’t running away—he wasn’t even standing up.
He was kneeling down.
Chapter 5
Marcus ignored the gasps of shock and excitement from all around the restaurant. He stubbornly kept his eyes fixed on Quinn’s reddening cheeks and slightly parted lips peeking out from between the fingers she’d brought up to cover her mouth.
This was the stupidest thing he’d ever done. And he’d once run straight at a man holding a gun.
But just like that day, the day he’d caught Buttercup’s eye and gotten assigned to her detail permanently, Marcus was committed now. There was no turning back.
The thought reminded him of why he was doing this. He turned to lock eyes with Quinn’s father and said, “You don’t know me well—but you don’t know your daughter well, either, if you think her life is only about messing around with unimportant hobbies. She can commit to things. When she wants them bad enough. And she’s fully capable of standing on her own. But she doesn’t have to, when I’m here.”
Acknowledgment and a complicated mixture of respect and chagrin darkened Paul Harper’s eyes.
“Marcus, what are you doing?” Quinn said, her voice a low thread of husky sound.
He looked back at her. “I guess I’m hoping I’m one of those things you want bad enough.”
“You mean…?”
He reached for her hand, feeling like a total idiot still propped up on one knee on the sticky diner floor. Her fingers were cold and a little shaky in his. He gave them a reassuring squeeze and allowed the thrill that went through him every time they touched to show in his smile.
“Quinn Rosalie Harper. Will you marry me?”
She nearly fell out of the booth. Marcus managed to catch her handily, hauling her wriggling warmth in to his chest and smelling the sweet sunshine scent of her hair. He wasn’t expecting the roar of happiness that swept through the restaurant, people cheering and clapping and banging their empty plastic cups on their tables.
Over Quinn’s shoulder, Marcus saw her father’s jaw clench while her mother squealed in unrestrained delight, the feathers in her hair quivering with joy. Quinn had thrown her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder, but she lifted her head to press her lips to his ear and say, “I can’t believe you did this. You’re insane.”
Marcus cupped the back of her head in his broad palm and nuzzled her temple. To anyone watching, it would look as if the couple were exchanging blissful coos of mutual adoration. No one could hear them over the din of congratulations.
“You want to prove to your parents that you can commit? This is how we do it. You’re welcome.”
Before she could reply, Marcus rolled to his feet in a single motion, heaving Quinn up with him in a princess carry. Turning to face the crowd of well-wishers and fried-chicken enthusiasts, he shouted, “She said yes!”
“Put me down,” Quinn demanded, wriggling like a hooked fish. Every move seemed to press her gently rounded curves up against him in new places, electrifying him with memories and desires that he had no business thinking about in public.
Or anywhere. That part of their relationship was over, Marcus reminded himself sternly. Unfortunately, it was going to take more than a stern mental talking-to before his entire body got the message, but removing temptation would help.
He loosened his hold and let Quinn’s toes kiss the worn linoleum of the café floor. Their gazes caught and clung for a brief, electric moment. It felt as if the raucous celebration of all the people around them faded away and suddenly Marcus and Quinn were the only people in the restaurant. Marcus’s hands tightened on her shoulders, his palms shaping the warm, slim roundness of her and aching to pull her closer. To kiss the soft, shocked mouth and hear her throat-deep whimpers of pleasure. Her eyes darkened to cobalt, lashes sliding low, and he knew she was thinking about it, too.
How good they were together. How they’d made each other moan.
He bent down slowly, fighting the magnetic pull of her lips as they parted temptingly—and jolted upright as a pair of bangle-braceleted arms encircled them both with startling strength.
“Congratulations!” Quinn’s mother said, all but vibrating in place. “Oh, my dears, my very, very dears! You’re going to be so happy together.”
Quinn pulled back, a tremulous smile surfacing as she tucked her hair nervously behind her ears. “Thanks, Mother. I don’t know how you can be so sure, since you’ve spent about ten minutes watching us together, but I’m glad you approve.”
“It only took me ten seconds to see how melded and complementary your auras are,” Ingrid informed them airily. “To the experienced eye, your compatibility as a couple is completely obvious.”
Wry amusement dimpled Quinn’s cheek, but she didn’t let it into her tone. “Well, that’s nice to hear. Now can we sit back down and eat our fried chicken before Marcus is overwhelmed by all this excitement?”
Ingrid laughed and sat, but as Marcus stood aside to let Quinn climb into the booth across from her, Paul said, “I’m sure he can handle it. He’s a grown man. Very grown.”
“Dad, don’t start,” Quinn begged, her eyes flicking to Marcus, who gave an easy shrug.
“He’s not wrong, Quinn. I’m older than you. By a lot.”
“Ten years isn’t that much,” she argued, casting a glare at her father. “Not in the grand scheme of life. Besides, if we’re okay with it, there’s nothing more to say. It’s no one else’s business but ours.”
She said it as if she thought that should be the end of it, but it was one of those moments that reminded Marcus painfully of just how young and inexperienced Quinn was. Marcus sat down and met Paul’s eyes across the table. Paul raised his brows slightly and Marcus dipped his chin in a reluctant nod of acknowledgment. That was going to be a fun conversation.
He hadn’t thought this through—hadn’t had time to think about more than the fact that he hated the way Quinn’s parents were hurting her without meaning to. And he could stop it.
Maybe it was true that she was young—inexperienced, and innocent, and too damn sweet for her own good. But in that moment, all Marcus could think about was shielding Quinn from pain.
At least for a while. When they broke off their engagement, it was unlikely to be simple, but they’d figure out how to cross that bridge when the time came. And Marcus would make sure her parents would see that she’d be better off living life without a man as broken down and damaged as Marcus Beckett.
“Let’s see the ring,” Paul said with forced cheer. It was an obvious effort to change the subject, but it was doomed to failure because Marcus didn’t have one.
“Oh, yeah.” Quinn laughed, a little shrill with nerves. “A ring.”
“You do have a ring for her.” Paul frowned. “Don’t you?”
“Ugh, do you have to be such a traditionalist, Paul? The kids are in love, isn’t that enough?”
Quinn’s parents had turned toward each other, another argument in the works. Beside him, Quinn tensed unhappily. Before Paul and Ingrid could get going, Marcus said, “I thought we could shop for the ring together. So Quinn can get exactly what she likes.”
That was a thing people did, right? Marcus thought it sounded okay. Plausible.
It shut Quinn’s parents up, at least. Even Paul softened visibly, the worried lines smoothing from his forehead. Marcus had hoped for that. What he hadn’t prepared for was the way Quinn turned to him, eyes shining, and said, “That’s perfect! You’re perfect.”
For the space of a heartbeat, Marcus wanted this moment to be real so badly that if he’d had his mother’s engagement ring in his pocket, he would have handed it over.
But in the next breath, Quinn leaned over to kiss his cheek and took the opportunity to whisper, “Very smooth, mister. Where did you learn to be such a good liar?” in his ear. And that brought Marcus back to reality with the unpleasant thud of his dumb, daydreaming ass hitting the floor.
Get your act together, he told himself harshly. This is a harebrained scheme, not a real engagement. And you wouldn’t want it to be real, anyway.
He pulled away from Quinn with what he hoped was a neutral smile, and tried not to think about how much that felt like a lie.
*
Quinn was so impressed by all this quick thinking Marcus was doing. Right around the time their food arrived, she’d started to realize that maybe she was out of her depth when it came to running a con on her own parents.
If Marcus hadn’t been at her side, ready with a believable answer to every question, she probably would have given up and blurted out the truth already.
Maybe if she treated it like a game, it would be easier. But the shock of Marcus’s proposal had thrown her off course and it was hard to get back on track. So when her beaming mother picked up her biscuit to slather it with honey butter and asked, “How did y’all reconnect, anyway? I can’t believe we haven’t heard this story yet,” Quinn blurted out the first thing that came into her head.
Well, the first thing that wasn’t the truth. She obviously couldn’t tell her mother that she’d jumped Marcus’s bones with a box of “Welcome Home” cupcakes.
“Marcus is a client out at the therapeutic riding center,” Quinn said without thinking. “I mean, not one of my clients, obviously. That would be unethical. Because I don’t have my equine-assisted therapy license yet. And also because we’re dating. Engaged. And it would be a conflict of interest.”
Below the table, where her parents couldn’t see, Marcus laid his hand on her nervously jittering knee to stop its bouncing. Above the table, Mom’s entire expression melted like warm wax. “Oh, Marcus. We heard you went into the military, and then another dangerous job—wasn’t it the Secret Service? So impressive. Were you wounded at some point?”
Marcus went still at her side while Quinn fought not to let her surprise show. Her fake boyfriend—ahem, fiancé!—used to be a Secret Service agent. She felt like she probably should have known that.
Of course, back when he was her real boyfriend, they hadn’t spent a lot of time talking. Not that Quinn hadn’t wanted to, but Marcus was so closed off. Like a fortress with extremely high, thick stone walls. She’d been working on chipping away at those walls through a combination of strictly enforced cuddling and determined pillow talk, but evidently she hadn’t even scratched the surface.
Questions swirled through her like petals blown from the trees outside, blanketing every memory of their time together. Who had he guarded? What had it been like? She made a silent vow to find out more about that time in his life, the minute they were alone together.
Marcus coughed. “No, I was one of the lucky ones. I left the army on my own terms, under my own steam, barely a scratch on me.”
Quinn noticed he didn’t mention leaving the Secret Service unscathed.
“Oh.” Mom glanced at Quinn with the bright, embarrassment-proof curiosity of a bird. “I thought Quinn mentioned that the therapeutic riding center works with physical disabilities and rehab.”
“Mostly, but we have some PTSD cases, too,” Quinn said, then snapped her jaws shut on the realization of what she’d implied about Marcus. “Sorry, I probably shouldn’t have said that.”
But instead of getting angry or denying anything, Marcus gazed at her parents with that steady, implacable stare he’d probably perfected in basic training. And Quinn could’ve leaped over the table and planted a kiss on her father for saying, gruffly, “No need to apologize, Quinn. There’s no shame in a PTSD diagnosis. Especially for a man who worked to defend our freedom.”
“Certainly there’s no shame,” Quinn’s mother exclaimed, rearing back. Ingrid’s hair beads clattered with her agitated head shaking. “When I think of what you men and women go through in the armed forces, and how badly we as a society care for you when you come home … well, I’m just glad you’ve found a place to get the care you need.”
“I think we should change the subject,” said Quinn. “This is a very personal topic and Marcus doesn’t need to explain himself to us.”
Marcus’s jaw hardened. “It’s fine. What do you want to know?”
Quinn’s heart sank. She should’ve known he couldn’t stand for her to try to protect him. Sometimes he was such a guy, it made her want to scream.
And sometimes it made her want to climb him like a tree. What? She never said she was well adjusted.
Across the table, her father pushed his nearly untouched plate away and leaned his elbows on the table. “So tell me, Marcus. How does a man go from the Secret Service to working as a bartender?”
“There were a few steps in between. And I’m not a bartender. I’m a bar owner. There’s a difference.”
“I didn’t mean that the way it came out. It would probably be a lot easier to tend bar for someone else. Take it from someone who owned his own business for thirty-five years. It’s no walk in the park.”
There was a brief pause, then Marcus smiled slightly. “You miss it.”
“I miss it like hell,” Paul sighed. “Every damn day.”
“Daddy!” Quinn blinked. “I thought you were looking forward to being retired.”
Paul shifted in his seat. Beside him, Ingrid stared down at her plate with an unhappy curve to her mouth. “It’s been a bigger adjustment than either of us anticipated.”
Obviously sensing the tension, Marcus said, “The bookstore is still open, though. I was in there the other day.”
“I sold it,” Paul confirmed. “To a young lady from Quinn’s high school class, actually. Very impressive, to be ready to own and operate your own business at that age. She has her MBA and everything.”
“Please, no more about Perfect Poppy Pringle.” Quinn groaned, sucking up the last of her sweet tea with a loud crack of the straw. “It was bad enough when we were in school and she beat me in every subject, and got elected class president and landed the lead in the school play.”
“Don’t be bitter, sweetheart,” Ingrid advised, amusement lightening her tone.
“Bitterness is a poison. And Poppy is a lovely person.”
“I know,” Quinn said glumly. “She’s wonderful. Smart and funny and thoughtful and kind. I was sure once we graduated, I’d be rid of her. But no, you had to go and sell the bookstore to her.”
“Well, I had to leave it in good hands, didn’t I? Of course, I always pictured passing the family business on to my daughter, but as I recall, you were planning to go back to school at that time. Art school, wasn’t it?”
Marcus turned to her. “I didn’t know you were an artist.”
Embarrassment heated the back of Quinn’s neck, but it was Ingrid who jumped in and said, “Oh, Quinn is very talented. She has an eye for beauty—she always has.”
“I was interested in curating, actually. It’s a fascinating field, when you dig into it—how museums and galleries choose what pieces to feature, how they arrange them and how they put them in context for the viewer.”
“So why didn’t you pursue it?” Marcus asked.
“Why doesn’t she pursue anything?” Daddy shook his head in fond exasperation. “She moved on to the next thing.”
Quinn resisted the urge to squirm in her seat. “I realized that all the real opportunities for a career in curatorship were in New York, Chicago—big cities. And I didn’t want to leave Sanctuary Island. I love it here. This is my home.”
“You could’ve opened an art gallery on the island,” her father pointed out, doggedly rehashing the same argument they’d had at the time. “Owning your own business is very rewarding. It would have been a good experience for you.”
Quinn bit her lip, not sure how to say that the life her father had chosen and loved wasn’t what she wanted for herself. She didn’t have to figure it out, because her mother jumped in with, “Oh, Paul. Let it go. So Quinn didn’t want to stay up nights balancing her books and worrying about how to give her employees benefits and I don’t know what all. It’s not a crime for her to want to have a life.”