I took a reservation for a weekend in January and then sat back down.
"Sorry about that. How is- oh, you've finished," I had barely had time to touch my food. "Was it OK? Would you like more?"
"No, not OK, fantastic. Seriously the best roast chicken I've ever had. And whatever voodoo you put in the salad with your hands, that salad rocked. I would love some more, but- no, don't you dare get up," he placed his hand on my shoulder and squeezed lightly. "Eat, please! Before the phone rings again, or someone stops by, or sends up a smoke signal. I'll get it."
"I'm sorry, Quinn. I didn't think it would be this busy. I-"
"Don't apologize. You're working, I get it,” he said over his shoulder as he refilled his plate. “I should apologize, I didn't mean to heap more work on you."
"Oh no, I-"
"Don't worry, I won't. This food is way too good." He grinned as he put his plate down, then refilled both of our wine glasses before sitting again.
"So I started to ask you what you did today," I said.
"I know, but that was so long ago. I can't even remember," he winked at me. "Tell me something about you, please. Shari says you're going to culinary school."
"How did that come up?"
"Shari and I are like this," he crossed his middle finger over his index. "We talk about everything."
"Ah, I see," I said, shaking my head. "Well, I'm planning to go at some point."
"Why not now?" He tucked into his second plate of food.
"I'm still saving. Cooking generally doesn't pay enough for me to take on a ton of debt, so I want to have it in the bank when I go. Plus, I want to be, um. You know, better."
"Smart, about the tuition part. But better? You're great now. Plus, isn't that what school is for, to learn?"
"Well, yeah. But I think a lot of people go who already have a ton of experience, and-"
"Right, like being the chef at a hotel for years?"
"I'm not a chef."
"You know what I mean."
"I do, but I'm just not ready. Maybe when I've saved enough it will feel more real, not so intimidating."
He looked at me quizzically.
"What?" I asked.
"Nothing," he said after a minute.
"Were you wondering what's for dessert?" I joked.
He smiled. "You read my mind."
Quinn polished off two bowlfuls of ice cream doused in bourbon caramel sauce and hot fudge and piled with strawberries before sitting back from the table.
"Oh my God, Em, I'll never eat again."
"It was that bad?" I smiled.
"Awful. Really, just terrible. Ugh. Make sure you don't give any of that to anyone else. I'll finish it all tomorrow to make sure no one else has to eat any of it."
"That's big of you."
"What can I say," he shrugged. "I'm a giver."
I stood up and stretched, then started to clear the table. Quinn stood up, too.
"Em, you have to let me help you with the dishes. I insist."
Big points, not that he needed them. "No way. If anyone saw that Elaine wouldn't just fire me, she would kill me. There really isn't much to do, I promise. Thank you for offering."
He stood there, contemplating.
"Seriously Quinn, there is no chance you are doing any of these dishes. Do you want to go into the living room and relax?"
"No, I’d like to stay and keep you company. Is that OK?"
"You want to see me wear the dishwashing gloves, don't you? That's what this is really about," I joked, pulling them on mock-seductively.
He closed his eyes. "Oh Em, you know just what to say to get me all turned on."
Of course we were joking but suddenly it didn’t sound like a joke. There was an awkward silence for a second, then his phone buzzed and we both turned away.
He sent a quick text and then sat back down at the island while I loaded the dishwasher.
"So do you know already what you'll be working on next?" I asked. I wasn't sure if he'd want to discuss work, and I wasn’t supposed to ask, but I figured Quinn would just say so if he didn’t want to talk about it.
Though he was clearly a nice guy, as Julianne had told Elaine in the conversation I’d overheard, I had seen for myself that he wasn’t as clueless as she made him sound. As good-natured as he seemed, I didn’t get the sense that he was too polite to stop something that was bothering him.
He sighed. "The guy who wrote Kill Switch has another script, and the whole thing was greenlit, cast, ready to go, but when the studio saw what Kill Switch had become ..."
"They killed it?"
He gave a rueful chuckle. "Oh yeah, they killed it dead."
"I'm really sorry."
"Thanks. It sucks, because it would have been something really different for me. An actual role."
"What do you mean? I feel like you're always the lead in every movie."
"I know but..." He hesitated. I turned off the sink, turned and looked at him, cocking my head to indicate that I wanted to know more.
"Have you seen any of my movies, Em?"
I rolled my eyes. "Yes, Quinn. I live in the world. Of course I have. Maybe not all of them, but-"
"So you know, I always play the same character."
"That's not true. You-"
He shot me a look.
"Well, I guess there are some similarities," I conceded, shrugging.
"That's being generous." He hesitated again, looking away.
"What is it?" I said, as gently as I could. It seemed like he wanted to go on, but maybe I was prying too much? "I mean, unless you don't want to. I don't mean to be nosy."
He looked at me with a sad smile. "You aren't. I just… I don't really talk about this. I don't want to come off like an asshole, or some kind of pompous jerk who takes himself too seriously."
"You mean, like a Hollywood movie star?" I joked, trying to lighten the mood. He didn’t chuckle, so I pulled off the gloves, walked over and sat next to him. "It's OK, just tell me. I don't think you're a jerk."
"But a pompous asshole?"
"Well, nothing you can do about that now." I shrugged and we both smiled.
He furrowed, looked away for a second, then stared into my eyes again.
"What is it, Quinn?"
Silence for a minute. He took a deep breath and dropped his gaze to the floor. "You may already think this, but. Uh. Look, I'm just not. I'm not..."
"Not what?" I asked softly.
"Not, you know…that good."
"What?" I was incredulous.
"No, it's OK." His words started to come out in a rush. "I'm not bad, but I'm just not good. Not really good. I play the same part over and over because I can do it, and no one has to know the truth. God, I can't believe I'm telling you this."
"But you're so successful. Your movies always do great."
"I have something," he replied with disdain. "Julianne and my agent call it 'star quality,' charisma, whatever. They say I'm blessed, it can't be taught. I don't want to sound ungrateful, but it's not enough. I really want-"
He stopped. A moment passed.
"Go on, Quinn. What do you want?"
He looked up, though not at me. In the dim light I thought I saw a glimmer, as though he had tears in his eyes. I couldn't help myself, I had to go for it. Who knew if we'd ever be this close again? I reached out and lightly touched his forearm. "It's OK. Just say it. I'm listening."
He took my hand off his arm, but then held it gently. God, his hand was big and so warm. Electricity shot through me. Focus, Emmy!
"I want to get better,” he said, so quietly it was practically a whisper. I leaned a little closer to hear him better, and my pulse raced from the proximity. “I really want to, like, study with a great coach or take on a meaty role in an indie or even do some theater. Doesn’t have to be a big Broadway thing, just a little play somewhere."
"So why don't you?"
He shrugged. "Why do you think? What I do now, I mean, it ain't Shakespeare or Henry Jam
es. But it's fine. I mean, I can probably go on doing it. Maybe get into producing."
"But you said it yourself, you want more."
He shook his head. "I do. But what if I fall on my face? Even the stupid shit I'm doing now could dry up."
I took a deep breath. "Look, I don't know anything about the movie business. But people love you. The fans, I mean. I think they would overlook a movie they didn’t like. And that's assuming they wouldn't like it. I mean, what if you tried it, and it turned out you were great? You never know. You just have to give it a shot."
"You don’t understand, Em. I never get offered those parts, even a chance to audition. Directors just don't take me seriously. I'm not-" he hesitated. "I'm just, not. You know. That good."
I squeezed his hand, trying not to show surprise. He seemed so confident and relaxed all the time. I would never have guessed he felt this way.
"I can't shake the feeling that I could be,” he murmured. “If I got the chance, and I felt, I don't know. If I felt like a director believed in me, believed I could do it. Maybe-"
The phone rang.
Dammit!
"Do you need to answer it?" Quinn whispered.
Yes, I do.
"No. Forget it. It's after 10. There’s voicemail. No more phones. Please, go on. You were saying that if a director believed in you..."
"I think if I felt like a director really believed in me, wasn't just taking a chance or letting me do it, maybe I could just let go and really do better. Does that sound crazy?"
"Not at all. It sounds like you need to feel safe, which is ultimately what we all need, no matter what we're trying to do."
He considered that, looking at me again. "Safe. Yeah, I guess that's it. I need to feel like the director believes in me so I can trust myself."
I squeezed his hand again, lightly this time. "So how do you find it? That kind of situation? Does your agent help with that?"
"My agent wants me to keep doing what I'm doing because it makes him a lot of money. No, if I want this, I have to find it myself."
We were quiet for a minute, each of us pondering what we had admitted and what we had learned about the other. Quinn gave me an enigmatic smile.
"Can I get you anything?" I asked.
"Holy shit, Em, no," he chuckled. "I might explode as it is."
I smiled. "Well, I'm just going to take the trash out, be right back."
As I stood, he did too. "I'm taking it," he said. I opened my mouth to protest but he gently placed his index finger over my lips. I froze. "No. You made this amazing dinner and didn’t let me help you with the dishes. I'm taking the trash out. Just show me where."
"OK," I held up my hands in surrender. "This way."
I led him out the back door and pointed around the side of the house where the Dumpsters were. I stood on the small back porch as I heard him toss the trash in one and the recycling in the other. A breeze came through with the beach smell on it, and I breathed in and looked up at the sky.
"Want to take a walk?" he said quietly, suddenly next to me.
"I'd love to, but I'm not supposed to leave the house." I sighed.
"You're grounded, you bad girl?" I could hear the smile, even though I wasn't looking at him, and it made me smile, too.
"I guess so."
Just then he turned toward me and slowly brushed his hand down my arm. That simple touch made me want to sink into his arms. This is bad, very very bad. I should not be crushing so hard on this guy. I’m just going to get hurt.
"Em, thank you for tonight. The dinner, the talk, the whole thing. I can't remember the
last time I had such a good time, or. Um." He hesitated. "Can I give you a hug?"
"Sure," I squeaked. A hug. That’s a friendly way to say goodnight.
He took a step closer and gathered me into his arms. With one arm wrapped around my waist and the other hand flat against my back, he squeezed me, and I melted against him.
Could he tell how wildly my heart was pounding? His body was so warm, his arms so strong. My temple brushed against the skin at the base of his neck where his shirt opened, and his scent so close was intoxicating. I could feel the muscles of his chest and stomach through his shirt, and it made me want to unbutton it, slide it off his shoulders and run my hands all over him.
"Em."
Oh no, did I hold on for too long? I started to take a step back, but his grip tightened. Suddenly I felt his fingers under my chin, gently tilting my head back to look at him. Quinn stared into my eyes, searching. His face was so close to mine, and he was breathing hard, like I was. He seemed to be moving closer…
Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God...
As his lips brushed mine, I thought my knees might give out.
The world disappeared. All I felt was Quinn, his fingers tangled in my hair, his soft lips moving over mine, his hard shoulders flexing under my hands.
I sighed, and his tongue slipped into my mouth, caressing mine lightly, expertly.
Heat enveloped me, engulfed me. A soft whimper escaped me as Quinn tortured me with the gentleness and aching slowness of his kiss. I wanted all of him, everything, right now. I had to focus on following his rhythm, not pushing myself into his arms and ratcheting up the speed.
He lingered, ending the kiss as slowly as he'd started it. Hugging me again, he buried his face in my neck. "God, you smell incredible," he whispered. I wanted to say no, he did, but I couldn't get any words out.
When he pulled back and kissed me again, it was more intense, insistent. He bit my bottom lip gently, and I licked lightly into his mouth, just barely touching his tongue with mine. He groaned softly and wrapped his arms around me again, pulling my whole body tightly against his, deepening the kiss.
"Emmy, are you there, dear?" It was Mr. Matthews, calling to me from the kitchen. I had forgotten to leave a snack in his room as I had promised. I pulled away from Quinn in a rush.
"Sorry, I- sorry," I said to Quinn, backing away reluctantly and scampering inside. "I'm here, Mr. Matthews! I'm sorry, I forgot to bring the fruit plate up to your room, but I have it right here. I'll bring it right up."
"OK dear, thank you!" He shouted. "Oh my, don't you look lovely. I hope you're going out with some lucky fella tonight. Heh heh."
I blushed. "Thanks Mr. Matthews. You're sweet. Here, I'll walk you up."
I glanced over my shoulder to see Quinn at the back door. He smiled and blew me a kiss, and I almost tripped and dropped the plate.
CHAPTER 10
I was clearing up the serving table from breakfast, replaying the kiss over and over in my head, when Julianne glided in. As usual she looked effortlessly elegant and perfect, wearing a sleeveless floral blouse that draped just so over a coffee-colored pencil skirt. The turquoise of her strappy sandals set off specks of the same color in her top. Her sleek blonde hair was down around her shoulders, except for a small piece she had clipped off her face with a little sparkling bobby pin.
I tried smoothing my apron but let's face it, I was still short and ungraceful and wearing a Beach House polo shirt, my hair in a messy ponytail that was likely frizzing out in all directions by now.
"Good morning, Julianne," I smiled at her. "How are you? Would you like some coffee?"
"Hi Emmy," she wasn't unfriendly, but her smile was tight-lipped. "Can I trouble you for some green tea? I know you're busy."
She glanced around.
"It's no trouble at all. Where would you like to sit? I'll bring it to you."
"Thank you. I'm supposed to meet with Quinn. Where is he? I'll join him."
I smiled before I could stop myself, and Julianne winced slightly. "He isn't up yet. At least, I haven't seen him. But I can bring your tea to the living room if you'd like to wait there?"
"OK, thanks."
I felt nervous and shaky as I brought out the tray, with our nicest teapot and little dishes of honey and lemon slices. Julianne was clicking away on a tiny laptop, her brow knitted.
"Thanks Emmy. Hey
, can you sit for a minute? I'd like to talk to you."
Uh oh.
"Sure."
"I realized we haven't had a chance to catch up in a while," she said, setting aside the laptop, pouring her tea and sitting back, looking at me. Even her drink was delicate and pretty, green tea with just a single slice of lemon. I, of course, started every morning with a mug of strong coffee with a big splash of half and half, about as unsexy as it gets.
"That's true," I replied warily. Catch up? It’s not like we’re friends. "Uh, how have you been?" I asked.
"Oh, I'm fine, thank you,” she said, then took a deep breath. “But let's talk about you. We see each other all the time but I feel like I barely know you. How long have you worked here?"
"About six years."
"And you're from around here, aren't you?"
"I am, not far. I went back east for college, but I've been back here since I graduated."
"Were you homesick?"
"No, not at all. But it’s really expensive to live in New York or Boston, where I'd want to live, and I've been saving for culinary school."
"That's great," she said, eyebrows raised. I had this sneaky feeling that she was surprised I had ambitions beyond the Beach House, and it irked me. "What about you, where are you from?" I asked.
"I grew up in San Francisco, just outside actually. In Marin, just north of the city. Listen, Emmy, there's something I wanted to talk with you about for a second. It's, well, it's just a little awkward."
My heartbeat picked up its pace. "Is something wrong?"
"No, no, not exactly," she wrung her hands, as if she were nervous, too. "It's just that, well, I understand you and Quinn have been sort of, hanging out."
I swallowed hard. Was this the part where she was going to tell me that she had to tell Elaine, or worse, Dennis and Lauren, the owners? I would be fired for sure.
"Not really hanging out," I stammered. "We went running a couple of times. The roads wind quite a lot around here and I was concerned-"
"Look Emmy. I'm not trying to get you in trouble. I like you, and I know that you're the one who makes things run around here.
"I'm telling you this as," she paused, looking down at her hands, "well, as a friend."
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