by May Sage
Quinn stared at his twin, eyebrow raised.
“Come on, don’t give me that look. I know you as well as I know me.”
Quinn had to consider it. He supposed she was pretty enough. He stopped to think of her breast and smiled. Definitely not porn-star size, that was for sure. Just a handful. With a dark nipple. He recalled it and his dick twitched in response. Oh. Maybe his brother did have a point; he liked what he saw, then.
Or maybe he just liked boobs. He was a straight male, after all.
“I swear, Stella broke you, man. When was the last time you actually looked at a woman?”
Quinn shrugged. “I’m not touching anyone while I’m, you know, married.”
Vincent accepted his excuse, but Quinn asked himself if it really was the reason behind his eleven months of celibacy. Vincent could be right about this too. There was a chance that he purposefully didn’t look at women because the last one he let in had ended up being a pool-boy-fucking viper. He guessed he’d know for sure in just under a month. His marriage was getting dissolved the day after the anniversary of his separation. Stella was as eager as he was to sign on the dotted line—he’d limited her allowance over the last year, but when they signed, she’d get the big pile of alimony they’d agreed on.
They went in the meeting room and thoughts of his failed relationship disappeared. Their new movie was going to be incredible. The director’s idea was amazing; they’d brought in the best team for the job, and today was the day when they’d cut the story down to the bone and decide what they were going to show. Their creative team was bouncing around ideas excitedly. Quinn and Vincent were the wallet rather than the brains behind the operation, so they often took a step back, but they’d never miss a key meeting like this. This really was their idea of fun and the reason why they’d started WE in the first place.
Four hours later, they knew what direction they were taking; the script writer would implement his notes and get to work. Quinn lingered, purposefully letting everyone get out before him. When the main meeting room and every adjoining corridor had cleared out, he made his way to the reception area. He needed to speak to the poor girl without charismatic, manipulative Vincent hanging around.
“Hey.”
She lifted her gaze and blushed when she saw him. Which was charming. Quinn found himself smiling easily.
“Oh, hi.”
“Listen, I just wanted to say—about next weekend? No pressure. You really don’t have to come. In fact, I wasn’t going to go at all.”
Her mouth hung open. “And miss a dinner by Hugo Wolf?”
He had to smile. “He’s kind of my father, you know. I’ve had a fair few dinners made by him, growing up.”
“Not a valid excuse,” she shot back.
He smiled. “You like your food.”
She shrugged like it was nothing; it probably was, but after two years married to a model he could appreciate that.
“Well,” Quinn said, carefully weighing his words, as he asked himself if he really wanted to go there. He did. “If you do want to come along, we should meet up before. So it doesn’t sound like we know nothing about each other in ten days.”
“Of course,” she nodded like it made sense.
It didn’t. Not really.
“Dinner?”
The second date he’d asked of her. This time it was all him, no Vincent pulling the strings.
Maybe he really did like the girl on a basic level. He knew that was entirely unnecessary. He could have just walked in at Thanksgiving and told his mom Leila was a scapegoat so that she didn’t set him up. Cynthia Wolf would have been a good sport and laughed it off, admitting defeat this time. And she would still have hoped for a blooming romance between him and Leila, of course. His mother was a romantic like that.
“You mean, tonight?”
He could have offered any other day, but yes, now that she asked, he found that he liked the idea of seeing her sooner rather than later. That very night sounded like a good idea.
“Sure. Unless you have plans.”
“I have three cats, two TVs, every mainstream gaming platform, and an R2 Robot,” she retorted. “I never have any plans.”
He should have known then that she was going to be dangerous for him.
Like most gamers, she’d played all his games. He expected her to fangirl over it, or gush, like everyone who figured out how much he was worth. She shrugged at the mention of his latest game.
“I mean, don’t get me wrong, Zombatron is okay. I like that you don’t distribute too many cheat codes on the online version, either—it evens the ground. But come on—just having the choice between two women? Out of three dozen characters? That’s so… Mortal Combat. Which is fine in their case, as they released in the nineties.”
“So you think a lot of women would survive a zombie apocalypse?” he challenged, earning him a glare.
“I think if a fat middle-aged scientist with glasses made it, I certainly would have a chance, yes.”
Thinking back, he visualized his choice of characters and internally winced. Why hadn’t anyone pointed that out to him before?
He nodded. “I’ll get an update set up. Add a few women.”
“Awesome. And as you already have two white women, try a few other colors of the rainbow, would you?” she added, making him feel a little defensive.
“There’s one Asian guy. And a Black guy, too.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes, the designated diversity characters. Don’t be a dick, Wolf. Kids over the age of thirteen play your game all around the world—they cosplay it, too. Latina, Asian, and Black women would also love a kickass zombie-fighting character they can look up to.”
If the speech hadn’t come from a Caucasian woman, it probably wouldn’t have been as impactful. Quinn watched her, curious.
“Amelia, my best friend, is Black. And a massive geek. And a gamer. Spend half an hour with her with a controller in your hand, and trust me, you’ll learn a thing or two.”
They arrived in front of Per Se—Quinn had texted his secretary, who’d gotten him a table on short notice. Again, he probably expected awe, but he’d picked the least impressionable woman in NYC, it seemed. She was excited, though.
“I’m not dressed for this, but I don’t care. This is going to be soooo good!”
Leila was ridiculously excited, practically rubbing her hands together when they’d ordered.
He was learning that food was indeed very important to the woman. He just smiled and watched her enjoy every mouthful, moaning around her fork.
Yeah, that made him a little uncomfortable. Quinn adjusted himself in his seat.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone enjoy asparagus quite so much.”
She shrugged indifferently. “Then you haven’t cooked any as well as this kitchen did.”
He chuckled. “I suck at cooking,” she confessed. “My mom’s version of cooking dinner is ordering takeout. My dad’s answer is getting us to a diner. I tried to learn by myself when I left home, but I’m useless.”
Quinn thought back to his very different formative years.
“Our dad made Vincent and me help in the kitchen—before it was even legal. He gave us a bigger allowance when we assisted him, so we ended up at the restaurant four, five nights a week. When it was legal, he paid us the same wage as any of the kitchen porters. That adds up after a couple of long shifts a week—we saved up most of that money and by the time we were out of college, we had enough to start our businesses.”
She lifted a brow, impressed. “No one gave you a handout.” And she added, “And you can cook.” There was longing and admiration in her voice. Quinn had to sternly stop himself from offering up a portion of his precious free time to give her lessons.
He grinned. “No takeout in casa Wolf, that’s for sure. Vincent and I are quite impossible when there’re guests. We compete. I do starters, he does main, we each make a dessert—the guests have to rate us.”
She lifted bot
h hands in the air. “I volunteer. Please. Pretty please, pick me. I can totally be your guinea pig.”
So cute and refreshing. There was no eyelash batting from that girl, just plain, old fashioned honesty and humor.
Halfway through the main course, he knew he wanted her—every part of her. Right there, right then.
So he had to tell her, “I’m married.”
Both of her brows rose and her eyes widened in surprise. “Then why…”
“Separated. Divorced in a little over four weeks. Still. Just telling you now so you know I’m not going to make a pass at you.”
Even if it killed him.
She bobbed her head up and down three times. “Right. Of course. Didn’t expect you to.”
But she was lying. She knew. The chemistry between them was intoxicating, volatile, palpable. If he could, he would have pulled her on his knees and dropped his head to her neck, sucking at it as he parted her legs and touched her right there. Right here in the middle of Per Se.
She bit her lip and looked away as though she’d read his filthy fantasy.
After an awkward beat, she fired, “So, let’s get this out of the way; Marvel or DC?”
Chapter 4
She shouldn’t have invited him in. He’d said it himself; he was married. He had acted like a gentleman from the beginning and here she was, asking him in for coffee. Coffee was generally a code word for something else entirely after a dinner date.
She was surprised to hear him answer, “Sure.”
He walked in her small apartment and the cats promptly ran away, amusing her. They were little hellions normally, but whenever someone they didn’t recognize appeared, they morphed into Cowardly Lions instead.
“They aren’t used to strangers.”
He followed her to the kitchen, passing through the living room, which wasn’t as tidy as she would have liked—but she’d never been a total slob, so it wasn’t too embarrassing.
“Cozy,” he remarked.
“I’m sure it’s not as fancy as your place.”
He shook his head. “I live in my brother’s guest room right now. I didn’t want to purchase a place before the divorce is final. Just complicates things.”
She tilted her head, curious—not so much about the divorce as about his life in general. It wasn’t every day someone like her met a Quinn Wolf. He seemed more or less normal, if a little too gorgeous, well-dressed, and gorgeous. Yes, she needed to mention that twice.
“Right now,” he explained, “my company makes a lot of money. I earn a salary—a large one—but the profits of the company are staying in the company. That way, my ex can’t demand more alimony.”
Leila frowned. Seemed like a way to con the system and pay his ex as little as possible. Reading her expression correctly, Quinn explained, “She’s getting five billion, Leila. And she cheated on me. We signed a prenup. She’s not entitled to anything. I’m just following the direction of my lawyer. If I took larger dividends, she might still try to grab some of the money I earned.”
How the other world lived. She felt a little inadequate when he threw words like billions, lawyer and dividends.
“I can go if you want me to,” he offered.
Quinn had a funny way of knowing what she thought.
“No, stay,” she replied, guessing that her sudden awkwardness had more to do with her own insecurities than with anything he’d said. “I promised coffee.”
* * *
Coffee was accompanied with a movie that night. By the time they were done, one of the cats had ventured out to sniff the intruder. The female. She decided she liked Quinn’s scent and proceeded to rub herself against his leg. Floozy.
Then, the following evening, they had takeout and played Battlefield. The third day, she ‘cooked’. Okay, so they had slightly burned grilled cheese. They talked about the upcoming Star Wars movie, throwing theories of what was going to happen from their understanding of the previous one.
He was a true geek, despite his appearance. The sharp suit and the polished shoes hid a kindred soul. It was physically painful to see how he’d friend-zoned her when her very core wanted her to reach out and pull his lips to hers. She hadn’t connected like that with anyone—ever.
“Is that you?” he said, noticing a picture on the kitchen island.
It had been taken the previous summer with her friend Amelia. At the time, her hair had been platinum and blue.
“Sure is. I was blonde and purple before I started at WE. Figured I’d better tone it down a little for the job.”
Quinn frowned. “If HR hired you when you were blonde and purple, I’m sure no one would have had a thing against it.”
Good point. “Maybe. But I wanted to make a good impression. It’s not just a job, you know? I have a degree in film making. Working there…Well, I just don’t want to mess it up.”
He nodded like he got it.
“Fair enough. But your hair color shouldn’t—wouldn’t—matter. Not in WE. The team we handpicked to take the lead isn’t that superficial. Only your competence will be taken into consideration. If you want another role, work well, and apply when something comes up in the creative department. Mary will always promote internally if she can.”
She beamed, not only because he was saying that her hopes weren’t misplaced, but also because he didn’t attempt a typical macho man move and tell her he could fix all her problems, get her the job she wanted by snapping his fingers.
“Now,” she said, smoothing her face into her most serious expression. “As we’ve just watched it, I need you to tell me what you think about The Force Awakens.”
She acted like it was a make or break moment because, honestly, it was.
As a proper nerd, Quinn understood the gravity of her question.
“Are you just asking me to comment on the movie’s effects and direction—or shall I pull my copy of Joseph Campbell’s work and analyze where we are in the hero’s journey?”
“The latter.”
“In that case, I think we’re not watching a new story—just the continuation of the previous one. Little Anakin was a good kid, fell in love, experienced fear and gave in to the dark side. Kylo Ren is his opposite. From a young age, he was manipulated by the dark side. It started where Anakin ended—now they’re reverse engineering this story. The one massive difference, of course, is that this time, the other side of the coin, his romantic interest, is stronger. More balanced. They’re going to make it a ridiculously amazing love story. People will hate it for it. Let me show you a few theories I’ve saved…”
As it turned out, he didn’t need to—because they’d saved the same videos and blogs online.
Married.
Married. Married. Married.
A little voice—her dark side—whispered, “Separated, woman. There’s a difference.”
But separated wasn’t divorced. It was still too married in her book, and his. So, somehow, she managed to stop looking into those dark, smoldering eyes.
“Shall we call for pizza?”
Chapter 5
Thanksgiving was hilarious for exactly one person: Vincent. Quinn was going to kick his balls for laughing at his distress.
Poor, poor Leila.
Cynthia Wolf was an elegant woman. Classy, some might say. She wore a little hat, her hair was always in place and her conservative A-line black dress didn’t have one single wrinkle. Her dark eyes remained unwaveringly fixed on Leila throughout the dinner. Her voice remained expressionless, aloof.
Quinn knew his mother. When she’d met Stella? She’d given her that look—the stink-eye women of higher class reserved for shit on the pavement. She wasn’t looking at Leila like that—not at all. Cynthia Wolf, born Cynthia Alden, from the Mayflower Aldens, basically was having a girly hard-on. Cynthia had chosen Hugo, a Franco-Italian chef, rather than anyone her family would have approved of. She’d chosen happiness rather than propriety.
Quinn understood she’d hated the very idea of Stella. Hated that her
son had done the opposite and attached himself to a symbol, someone he’d picked because she had the right looks and the right job—she was the confirmation that he’d “made it”. His trophy wife.
Leila was the opposite. She was a Hugo. A cute, bubbly, sweet woman, whose smile could illuminate a whole room. It would have been easy to pass by her without remarking her in the street. She approved. But Cynthia was still Cynthia.
So, it started. “Where did you go to school, Leila dear?”
She bit her lip. “NYU, ma’am—both times. For performing arts the first time and admin the second.”
“Hm. And no doubt my son could help you get a part in his next movie now you have a foot in the door, so to speak.”
Cynthia took a sip of wine. Leila ate a carrot. A beat passed.
“He hasn’t offered. Good thing, too, or I would have kicked him in the balls. If you’ll pardon my saying, ma’am.”
Yeah, Cynthia was beaming, to those who knew her. Quinn muttered in his chair an unconvinced, “Leave her alone, Mom,” all the while knowing he’d be thoroughly ignored on the matter.
“Besides,” Leila added, “I was always more attracted to the behind the camera kind of thing.”
“Ah. You write scripts? Direct indie movies? Something like that?”
She didn’t cave or give so much as an inch. “Something like that.”
Vincent, smiling like the betraying ass he was, said, “You should come with us once shooting starts. I’m sure you’ll love the atmosphere.”
“Sure. That would be amazing. Just give me some notice, I need to ask for some time off.”
She was saying everything right, whether she was doing it on purpose or not.
Finally, finally, Hugo came in with three plates balanced on his arms. He served Leila first, then Cynthia, before putting a plate in front of Vincent. “Dig in, dig in!” he ordered, heading back to the kitchen. “Don’t let it get cold.”
Leila was practically drooling over the lobster bisque, but she stopped to ask, “Aren’t we supposed to say grace first?”
“Leave the big talk for after dinner, girl,” Hugo shouted, coming back with Quinn’s plate and his. “The chef just gives his thanks for people eating the meals he slaved over while it’s hot. Let’s go.”