Loving the Chase (Heart of the Storm #1)

by Sharla Lovelace

  “Hi,” Quinn said, smiling, unable to recall her name. “Good to see you. Sorry I’m late, y’all. I had to work.”

  Yep. There was the look. Work wasn’t something most of these women had a clue about.

  “What’d you bring me?” Phoebe whispered loudly with a wink at the others. She took the box from Quinn’s hands and tilted it back and forth. “Feels like the new baby playtime station—y’all know the one? Attaches to the car seat and the stroller?”

  “And it has the baby-to-mommy talk button on it, like a baby cell phone!” cried a redheaded woman with a perfect chignon. “Carter loves that!”

  “Megan does, too,” said a brunette in a red dress that looked party-ready for a whole other kind of party. “She can entertain herself for hours.”

  “Probably does,” Quinn mumbled to herself.

  “What?” Phoebe asked.

  “Oh, I was asking, where’s Doug?” Quinn said, thinking quickly.

  Her sister waved a hand. “He’s in the kitchen,” she said. “Probably eating all the hors d’oeuvres.”

  “Sounds like the place to be,” Quinn said, chuckling. Alone. No one else found that funny.

  “Quinn,” said a voice behind her that sent her hands in search of each other. She clutched them together as she turned. “I didn’t hear you come in, honey.”

  “Mom, hey,” Quinn said, moving to hug her carefully. “I know I’m late, we had to work, and I had the guys drop me off—”

  “Drop you off?” she asked, pulling back.

  “So I could give Pheebs her present,” Quinn finished.

  “Looks like the playtime station,” Phoebe said, widening her grin like a child at Christmas.

  Phoebe was a child at Christmas. All her life, Quinn’s younger sister was the epitome of the sweet, naive, helpless rich girl, and everything made her happy. Gleefully happy. And why wouldn’t it? She had a beautiful home, a beautiful man, and a beautiful life unencumbered by things like financial worries or stress. Now she would have the beautiful child, too.

  And Quinn wouldn’t have it any other way. She adored her little sister and had spent her life looking out for her, but consistently hearing how she herself fell short did wear on the occasional nerve.

  She noticed her mother’s mental note-taking of her outfit. She knew it didn’t measure up, but—

  “Lovely shoes, Quinn,” her mother said.

  “Thanks,” Quinn said. “Phoebe, why don’t you open your gift.”

  “We’ve already done the gifts,” her mother said. “The guests are eating.”

  “I don’t think anyone will be offended if she opens another one while they eat,” Quinn said softly. “It’s okay.”

  “Works for me,” Phoebe said, maneuvering her body down onto a chair and balancing the package on her knees.

  “Phoebe, where are your shoes?” her mother asked.

  Crap.

  “My feet hurt,” Phoebe blurted.

  “Well, you can’t just walk around in your bare feet,” her mother said under her breath.

  “Sure she can,” Quinn said. “She’s pregnant and home and among family and friends. Who cares if she has shoes?”

  Phoebe glanced up at Quinn as she ripped into the purple paper, an eyebrow cocked as if to say listen to your own words.

  “And pregnant,” Quinn repeated, for her benefit.

  “So you had to work at that place?” her mother asked. “You couldn’t ask off? I mean, this has been planned for months, honey.”

  That place. It was bad enough in her mother’s eyes that Quinn chose to work after getting her fine arts degree. The least she could have done is take a position as a media consultant or something in her father’s company if she was hell-bent on working. But choosing to forego that route and struggle with a job search on her own—taking some business courses and settling for a management position at a big-box media store like Snap Depot—was tantamount to treason.

  If Quinn didn’t favor her mother so strongly, she was pretty sure there might have been DNA testing done around age nine.

  “Wasn’t there today, Mom,” Quinn said. “I told you, they dropped me off. We had a shoot today on the other side of Fort Worth, and it ran long.”

  “Ah, your little show,” her mother said, picking up an abandoned plate. “Have you ladies heard about Quinn’s TV show?”

  “Um, it’s not my—”

  “I’ve seen it,” a pretty blonde said, raising her hand like she was in school. “Very exciting!”

  “How much of that is real?” the redhead asked.

  “All of it,” Quinn said. “What you see is what we’re doing.”

  “Seems a crazy way to spend a rainy day to me,” the redhead said.

  “I’d be terrified,” the blonde said, smiling. “That first episode where y’all nearly got taken down? The one with the cell phone video? Oh, my God, I couldn’t breathe through that.”

  Quinn’s stomach still tightened at the memory of that day. She’d been in the other vehicle with Eli while Zach chased down Maddi in the Infinity van, but when they got to them and Simon was missing? Quinn swallowed hard against the sour taste that filled her mouth. She’d never felt fear like that before. The absolute devastation of thinking someone you care about might be—

  But he wasn’t. He was okay. She’d latched on to him that day like never before. Quinn was normally careful around the Chase brothers to avoid any impropriety. She did have to work with them after all, and they were her best friend’s brothers. But Simon was different. He was her friend, too. And on that day, in that moment, nothing had mattered except feeling him wrapped around her, alive and breathing.

  Nothing inappropriate about it. Celebrating a return from the dead warranted a little boundary crossing.

  “But you don’t have kids to worry about coming home to, I guess,” the blonde woman continued.

  Quinn pasted on a tolerant smile. “Yep. No kids. If I die, no one cares.”

  “Quinn!” her mother admonished. “That’s not—”

  “Oh, my God, this is better than the playtime station!” Phoebe squealed. She held up the box for the room. “A foot-massage kit!”

  There were some definite ooh’s that time around, as the spoiled genes poked their selfish little heads out.

  “Thank you, Quinny!” Phoebe said, leveraging herself to push out of the chair. “I will use it every night!”

  “What are you using every night?” said Doug, Phoebe’s husband, as he entered the room with a smile and a plate of hot, steaming crab, drizzled in butter.

  The way all the women’s heads swiveled, Quinn figured they were picturing him drizzled in butter. Doug was quite the eye candy. But Quinn hadn’t eaten anything more than half a bag of Fritos all day, and her stomach grumbled at the aroma.

  “For me?” she asked, putting on a cheesy grin.

  Doug’s face fell. “No.”

  “But you love me,” Quinn said, reaching out and gently tugging the plate out of his hand. “And I’m starving. I’ve been out in the rain all day.”

  “Fine,” Doug said with a wink, huffing and pretending to be put out as he turned around and headed back to the kitchen. The longing sighs were heard around the room, and Quinn had to restrain herself from rolling her eyes. “You Parker women, your powers of evil know no boundaries.”

  “Just think if the baby’s a girl,” Quinn called after him with a mouthful of crab. “You’ll be voodooed in your sleep.”

  “Won’t be long, and you’ll be having some little voodoo-ettes yourself, Quinn,” Phoebe said. “Wouldn’t it be fun if you and Eric got pregnant right away and we had back-to-back babies?”

  Quinn stared at her. She couldn’t imagine anything less fun than that at the moment. Yes, she wanted kids. Eventually. Maybe. She was thirty, so it was . . . kind of . . . time to
start thinking along those lines, probably. But being someone’s mother? That thought was terrifying.

  “Let’s just get through the wedding for now,” Quinn said, her smile weakening. “And work all the bugs out with your kid.”

  That brought some laughs, and Quinn felt the tension ease up in her neck.

  “Speaking of,” her mother said quietly. Oh, hell, she had spoken of it. “Are those invitations in the mail yet?”

  Sigh. The crab no longer tasted appealing. “No.”

  “Quinn Elizabeth Parker,” her mother hissed. “Six weeks! Those were supposed to go out six weeks before the event!”

  “Well, I happen to think that’s—ridiculous,” Quinn said, setting her plate down. “I throw things away if they’re on my counter or fridge that long. I’ll send them out this next week. I’ve been busy.”

  “I hope with something more important than those silly jobs of yours,” her mother said. “Thank God that’s about to come to an end.”

  Quinn frowned. “What’s coming to an end?”

  “That Snap place job and the running around chasing tornadoes with the Chase family,” she said, gesturing with her hands.

  Quinn laughed, a quick sound that sounded more acidic than humored. “Yeah, that’s not likely. Snap Depot pays my bills, and we have a contract for the show.”

  Her mother looked at her with a patient smile. “Eric may have something to say about it once you’re married,” she said.

  “Eric is fine with it,” Quinn said. “We’ve been together for three years, Mom. He knows me. He knows what’s important to me.”

  “So have you been packing?” her mother asked, clearly deciding on a detour.

  “For—the honeymoon?” Quinn asked. “No, that’s a month away—”

  “Not for the trip, honey,” her mother said. “To move into Eric’s house.” She gestured as if that were the grandest plan on the planet. Darting a glance around to ensure the guests were talking amongst themselves and not listening, she continued. “Honestly, honey, in this day and age, with everyone living together first, I’m surprised you’re still batting about that dingy little apartment.”

  Quinn absently ran a hand over her hair and then pulled her hand away as her fingers landed on the precariously placed clip.

  “I like my dingy little apartment,” she said. “And you know most parents don’t want their daughters shacking up.”

  Her mother gave a sound of disgust. “Quinn, don’t be crude.”

  “Just saying.”

  “Eric’s house is in a better part of town, more suited to you, is all I’m saying,” her mother said, holding up a hand to signify the discussion was over while others might overhear.

  More suited to you, Quinn thought.

  “Well, I called everyone yesterday to confirm everything,” her mother said. “The florist, the caterer, and the band—”

  “I told you I’d already done that,” Quinn said, patting her face. Was it warm in there? It felt warm.

  “Can never be too careful,” her mother said. “And good thing I did, too. The florist said the paperwork mentioned daisies at the reception and on the end caps at the church?”

  “Yes, that was my idea,” Quinn said.

  Her mother laughed as if she’d suggested live pigs. “Daisies, Quinn? Honey, you aren’t hosting a picnic in a barn. This is a wedding.”

  “It’s her wedding, Mom,” Phoebe piped in, earning their mother’s pointed look. Phoebe held up a hand to deflect the invisible darts. “I mean, you made me have roses.”

  “And it was beautiful.”

  “I hate roses,” Phoebe said, squinching her nose a little. “They remind me of funerals.”

  I love you, Phoebe.

  “Which is precisely why I went a different way this time,” their mother said, widening her eyes as if her daughters wore her out. “Orchids are just as classy.”

  “When you’re sixty,” Quinn muttered.

  “Or dead,” Phoebe quipped.

  The doorbell rang, and her mother’s forehead creased. “No daisies, Quinn,” she said, heading toward the door. She stopped and wheeled back around, holding up a finger. “Or how about this? Little individual guest gifts at the table with a daisy motif?”

  Quinn felt the heat rise to her neck. “Daisy motif,” she echoed.

  “I can have something designed for you to look at in a few days,” she said. “We’ll mix it up to match your invitations but with your little touch,” she added, backing out of the sitting room and toward the door.

  Quinn shook her head and blinked hard to shut out the impending burn. Her little touch? It was her little effing wedding—in theory. In reality, neither she nor her sister had any say in their nuptials. Adelaide Parker had designed, produced, and directed Phoebe’s wedding like a premiere event, and Quinn’s promised to be the same. Something for her to look at? Please. Like it mattered.

  “Simon,” she heard her mother say in surprise, opening the door. Quinn snapped out of her misery and propelled herself toward them.

  “Hi, Mrs. Parker,” Simon said, standing there with his cap in one hand and Quinn’s keys in the other. His clothes were still damp and one leg of his jeans had a mud smear, but somehow, even with hat hair, he looked as charming as ever.

  Quinn felt some of her knots melt away as he smiled at her knowingly. He could have stuffed them into a plant or under a brick and just texted her. But he didn’t. He came to check on her sanity. She sighed and chuckled.

  “Your keys, m’lady,” he said, holding them out. He glanced down at her feet and met her eyes again, nodding with a grin.

  She laughed and took the keys from him. “Thank you, sir,” she said, dropping into a mock curtsy.

  “How are you doing, Simon?” Phoebe asked, waddling up beside Quinn.

  “Perfect,” he said, smiling at her with that incessant Chase charm. “Phoebe, you look gorgeous as usual.” He did a little head bow. “Ladies, I can’t stay, but have a good rest of the day. Quinn?”

  Quinn gave him a head tilt, amused. “Simon?”

  “Drive safe.”

  She gave him a little salute as he turned and sauntered down the sidewalk. She closed the door and nearly ran into her mother.

  “Jesus, Mom,” Quinn exclaimed. “Back up a step, will you?”

  “You’re splotchy,” she said, glancing down at Quinn’s neck.

  Quinn’s hands automatically went to her chest and neck. “Well, you flustered me,” she said. “All that flower drama.”

  Her mother walked back into the sitting room, but Phoebe stayed where she was, chewing a corner of her lip and eyeing Quinn.

  “What?”

  “You’re splotchy,” she said.

  “We just covered this,” Quinn said.

  “Uh-huh,” Phoebe said, glancing from the door back to Quinn as she passed her. “I heard. Flowers.”

  About the Author

  Photo © 2011 Leo Weeks Photographers

  Sharla Lovelace is the bestselling, award-winning author of sexy small-town love stories. Being a Texas girl through and through, she’s proud to say she lives in Southeast Texas with her retired husband, a tricked-out golf cart, and two crazy dogs. She is the author of five stand-alone novels and the Heart of the Storm series. For more about Sharla’s books, visit www.sharlalovelace.com, and easily keep up with all her new book releases by subscribing to her newsletter.

 

 

 
grayscale(100%); " class="sharethis-inline-share-buttons">share