Men Like This

by Roxanne Smith

  She agonized over what to wear. She needed something to repair the damaged self-esteem that came with realizing she’d never be steamy. Twenty minutes later, she emerged wearing jeans, high black boots, and a fitted, long-sleeved, cotton scoop-necked top. Nothing particularly sexy, but faking seductiveness had to be worse than simply lacking the quality in the first place. She and Jack said good-bye to Biscuit as they stepped outside and directly into the beginning of a downpour.

  Jack dashed back inside for the umbrellas she kept in a large vase near the door. They’d been novelty purchases when she’d first moved in, more of a design element than anything. She’d been shocked at how often she had to use them. Reading about the annual rainfall a place receives doesn’t necessarily prepare one for living with it.

  She peered out miserably from beneath the little yellow umbrella he’d opened and passed to her. “Okay, let’s get this over with. Where are we going?”

  He admonished her and waved for a cab. “Pretend this is one of your stories, yeah? Slow down and feel the scene.”

  “It’s raining. I don’t write in the rain.” The umbrella did an awful job of protecting her. She shivered and wished for a thicker top.

  She cast a wistful glance at Jack’s leather jacket and found herself struck by his incredible profile, not for the first time. If she stared long enough, she’d be warmed straight through and never mind an umbrella, she’d need the rain to cool her off.

  He laughed, oblivious to her uncomfortable awareness of him. “You’re in London, of course it’s bloody raining. You won’t melt, will you?”

  She wanted to elbow him but leaving her shelter didn’t seem worth it. “I’m from California, remember? The most southern, desert-y end of it.”

  “I vow to conveniently forget that unfortunate fact for today. Ask nothing so gracious of me tomorrow.”

  A cab finally approached through the drizzle and Jack held the door for her. She happily folded herself into the warm, dry cabin.

  He climbed in next to her and shut the door against the rain. “How many of the boroughs have you visited?”

  Quinn held her chin high. “All thirty-two. Except Chinatown. Nicholas said I wasn’t missing anything, and I don’t do much exploring without him.”

  Jack grunted. “You do now. Does most of your research involve London?”

  “A great deal of it, yes. A small portion of the plot plays out in Ireland, and I spent a few weeks there with Nicholas. Everything else happens here.”

  “Okay, then. First stop, Chinatown.” He addressed their driver who nodded and merged into traffic. Jack sat back and threw an arm over the seat behind Quinn.

  She braced for contact in case it found its way around her shoulders. They were supposed to be a couple, weren’t they? It would be a perfectly natural thing for him to do in his role.

  “Why doesn’t Old Nick like Chinatown?” Jack mused. “Everyone loves Chinatown. I find myself intrigued by the mysterious Nicholas.”

  Her mouth opened in surprise, and she snorted. “Mysterious Nicholas? Are you joking? He’s the least mysterious man I’ve ever known.”

  “The man is an enigma.”

  This time she outright snickered despite being thoroughly puzzled. “How do you figure?”

  Not one aspect of Nicholas had ever crossed her as mysterious. He hardly registered as interesting in her book. Lovely and one of the kindest people she’d ever met, but not particularly enthralling.

  “For one, he landed you. Beyond his boring, dad-like exterior, there lurks a man intriguing enough to lure you in and keep you. How does one like him develop a relationship with one like you?”

  She cut her eyes to him. She was annoyed but slightly fascinated by his deductions, utter nonsense though they were. “You’re making a lake out of a puddle. First, I find Nicholas attractive. He’s a gentleman, and he’s kind. I’m not even going to address your ‘dad-like’ comment because I’m pretty sure you’re referring to his sweater vests, which I happen to find charming and well suited to his personality.” She demurely studied her fingernails. “As for luring me, he did no such thing. I asked him out. You realize he sells writing materials, right? Our professions alone offer a common thread. I hope that helps absolve you somewhat of your Nicholas obsession.”

  “Fair enough, fair enough. I only meant he wasn’t the type I’d imagined to have won your affections.”

  “Well, that’ll teach you to have predetermined ideas about people, won’t it?”

  He scratched his chin. “No, probably not. Want my theory?” He swiveled to look her dead on. “I bet Blake is one sexy bloke. And a bastard. Nicholas, he’s no Orlando Bloom, yeah? Maybe it follows he isn’t a bastard. On a subconscious level, you’ve come to believe pretty boys like Blake and Richard speak for us all.”

  She rolled her eyes to break the intense contact. “What a ridiculous hypothesis. I’ve already told you Nicholas is attractive to me, thus debunking your little theory.”

  “Maybe, but c’mon. People tend to couple with a mate on their same level of hotness, if you will. You’re a ten. He’s a five on a good day. The sweater vest has the potential to bring him down to a four.”

  “I’d give him a seven.”

  Jack gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Sure, and he’d give you a twelve.”

  She looked back at him. “What are you?”

  He grinned, and she would’ve given him a fifty on the spot had he asked. “Better question, what’s Blake? Go on, prove my theory wrong. Tell me he’s a two.”

  She turned to stare out the window at the dreary, dripping city and summoned an image of her ex-husband’s face. Sandy-blond hair perfectly styled, those gorgeous hazel eyes and square, manly jaw. She sighed wearily. “Blake is a twenty.”

  She didn’t like the idea of Jack’s silly theory one bit. It made her relationship with Nicholas seem weirdly calculated. She’d asked a friendly shopkeeper to show her around the neighborhood sometime, and it had turned into more. She hadn’t deliberately pursued him because he wasn’t as handsome as her ex-husband. The more she mulled it over, the more it rankled.

  A smile began to spread across Jack’s lips. Suddenly, it stopped and a concerned frown took over. “Wait, a twenty? I’m a twenty, too, right? Lie if you must, Quinnie, but don’t tell me he’s prettier than me.”

  She refused to put his mind at ease or feed his ego. In fact, a total change of subject promised the best results. “If you’re surprised I haven’t been to Chinatown, what will you say when I tell you I haven’t made it to the Natural History Museum, either?”

  Jack closed his eyes and slowly shook his head, a man in obvious suffering from the ignorance of another. “Woe is you, my friend, woe is you. You’ve been keeping the wrong company, love.” He swung his gaze to her abruptly, the poetic image gone. “I should’ve rescued you sooner.”

  “Or the British Library.” She was unable to keep a note of longing from her voice.

  A doubtful frown curled his lips. “Library?”

  She patted his shoulder. “You have a lot to learn about hanging out with a writer.” She cast her eyes to the passing scenery and back to him. “This is my surprise?”

  An uncertain expression danced across his face and disappeared before he answered. “Yep. There’s a plan and everything. I have an intimate relationship with this city, like the streets themselves are etched onto my heart.” He held up a finger. “Excuse me.”

  He bent forward and tapped the cabbie on the shoulder to issue new directions. “The museum first. Apologies. When I said I had a ‘plan,’ what I really meant was ‘rough idea.’”

  She laughed and shoved him playfully. “You’re something else, Jack Decker.” She swore he blushed on the other side of his three-day stubble.

  He leaned in and swept a light kiss on the corner of her mouth.

  Her breath caught. She’d grown accustomed to his friendly pecks on the cheek. They were nothing more than the trendy custom of hello and good-bye the chic and fa
bulous adopted to set themselves apart as chic and fabulous. But this was a kiss. Soft, sweet, and deliberate. A true kiss.

  She did her best to ignore her spiraling emotions and turned to the window as if some riveting scene had captured her attention. She hated the word bouncing around in her head, hated what it meant, and the sense of loss it inspired.

  Rebound.

  Jack was on the rebound. Kissing another woman mere days after his broken engagement didn’t speak of heartfelt attachment; it spoke of trying to blunt the hurt by any means necessary. He hid his pain well, but Quinn knew better. She’d been there.

  Denial served a purpose in coming to terms with heartbreak, but Jack’s wouldn’t come at her expense.

  Her enthusiasm dropped several degrees. She and Jack weren’t well suited in the greater scheme of things. She’d accepted it the first time they met. Besides the obvious roadblocks—he got dumped by his cheating fiancée less than a week ago—there were the practical aspects. He was a globe-trotting, model-dating, charm-ridden actor accustomed to a flamboyant and glamorous lifestyle.

  Money, nice as it was to have around, didn’t equate to glamour in her world. He’d be bored to tears after a month in her life. He’d never be the hang-out-at-home-with-the-kids kind of father figure Seth needed.

  Also, despite her current poor prospects, she fancied the idea of having another child someday. Jack might enjoy the novelty, but she wouldn’t want to test his follow-through.

  The Natural History Museum, London’s crown jewel. A fairly lofty statement considering it completely discounted Big Ben, the Tower of London, London Bridge, and the actual crown jewels, but Quinn decided being a foreigner gave her the power of ignorance to use as she pleased.

  She loved everything about the museum: the grand entrance, the ornate, superfluous architecture, the history of the building itself, the library accessible by appointment alone. She only regretted not having time to take in everything—they’d need days—before Jack whisked them away for lunch in Chinatown.

  They arrived at an Asian-themed restaurant called The Seasons and were seated across from each other in a dark, secluded corner with a small scentless candle providing most of the light, a surprisingly intimate atmosphere for the middle of the day.

  “Cozy.” Quinn took her chair and reached for the bamboo chopsticks resting on a fine cloth napkin.

  Jack’s eyes gleamed with mischief as he leaned forward with a dramatic frown. “You won’t make me request a fork, will you?”

  “White bread American that I am, I do know how to use these.” With a cocked brow and ominously narrowed eyes, she held them up to showcase her expert handling. “And well.”

  He sat back, the frown replaced by his signature charming grin. “Oh, dear, don’t tell me I’ve inspired you? Death by Chopstick.”

  “I could begin research right now.” Click, click.

  Jack raised his hands in surrender. His eyes sparkled from amusement and the lit candle between them. “You win. I’ll never look at a chopstick the same again. Maybe I’ll request a fork.”

  A waiter dressed in solid black came with a warm greeting. He presented no menu, but it turned out her companion didn’t need one.

  The waiter bobbed his head with some familiarity when Jack ordered a bottle of their house Pinot Grigio, lobster rangoons, and a dozen steamed oysters and quietly disappeared. Quinn tried not to imagine Vickie sitting here in her stead, eating the same food, drinking the same wine.

  Jack seemed to read her mind. “My mother’s caretaker, Dawn, loves this place. Every time we do lunch, we end up here.”

  “Oh?” She glanced around at the intimate setting. His mother’s caretaker. Sure.

  “Vickie doesn’t appreciate Asian food. In fact, it might be fair to say she doesn’t appreciate any food.” He grinned, once again reading her like a mystic deciphering a rune. “At any rate, I never wasted my time bringing her here. The wine has calories, the rangoons have carbs, and the oysters are squishy and gross.”

  “What does she like?”

  He shrugged as though he’d never considered the answer. “Coconut water? Lemongrass extract?”

  Quinn stuck out her tongue. “Ugh.”

  He vehemently agreed. “Thank you. I never made her breakfast, either, and if you ever ask me to make an omelet using the whites alone, you’ll find yourself back to oatmeal in a flash.”

  She laughed and shook her head. “Not this girl.”

  The waiter reappeared with their wine and opened it in front of them with practiced ease. He filled their glasses with a little flair to show off his expertise and left the chilled bottle on the table.

  Jack sipped and fumbled with his napkin. “There’s something on my mind.” He caught her off guard with his seriousness. Jack didn’t do serious. “I’ve wanted to ask you something since we left the museum, and it’s driving me mad. Not that the trip is a long one,” he deadpanned.

  She presented him with her sweetest smile. “You’re already there in my book. Ask away.”

  He eyed her with an almost scholarly interest. “What’s with the maggots?”

  Her mouth fell open. “Maggots? That’s your big question? I mean, I’m the girl to ask, but a Google search can probably tell you more than I can.”

  “No, no, no. Not maggots in general. What’s with you and maggots? You made goo-goo eyes at them, Quinn. Actual goo-goo eyes. Who makes goo-goo eyes at maggots, and by everything righteous and holy on earth, why?”

  She might’ve laughed were she not stunned by his fervent curiosity.

  “I’m serious. I’ve been dying for you to ogle me like that, and you go and give it away to worms. How, exactly, does a man compete with something such as a maggot? What have the little buggers got that I don’t? I’m a sexy bloke, right? A twenty if I recall correctly.”

  He stopped to watch her cover her mouth with her hand to stop the wine from sputtering out like a lawn sprinkler. She finally managed to swallow. “The answer’s not worth hemorrhaging over, I promise. They’re part of my job. I write horror. Maggots are horrifying.” She lifted her shoulders. “They aren’t star players, but I’ve yet to write an entire book without bringing them into one scene or another. The museum display gave me an unexpected punch of nostalgia. It’s been over a year since I wrote anything to do with maggots or decay, and I found it inspiring, which means something crucial. It means Clementine isn’t done yet. I’ve worried about it, wondered if moving to another genre would render me inept at my original talent, but I got such a rush from reading new information I can use and manipulate. Suddenly, I can’t wait to be done with this love stuff and move on to my next horror novel.”

  Jack’s head rested in his open palm, elbow propped up on the table. “It’s remarkably easy to forget I’m with Clementine Hazel when I’m around you. I’m a huge fan, yet I forget.”

  She cocked her head to one side. “A huge fan, you say? I’m pretty sure you said your mother’s the huge fan.”

  “Well, yeah, sure, but I’ve got to read the books I buy for her, of course. It’s a quality-control thing. Can’t have Mum reading rubbish, can I?”

  Quinn merely grinned, openly amused.

  He drummed his fingers across the tabletop. “What I’m saying is, after watching you fall in love with creepy-crawlies before my very eyes, it struck me for the first time since our night in Hollywood that you are Clementine bloody Hazel. But you aren’t. You’re Quinnie. It’s the oddest thing, but I’m utterly incapable of bringing you and your alter ego together as one in my mind. I can’t look at your pretty face and imagine you writing the things you do when I can hardly read them. Am I less of a man for it?”

  She let out a small snort of laughter. She’d had this conversation before but doubted it had ever gone quite like this. “It’s not your fault. I’ve had years to cultivate iron nerves, and it’s not nearly so creepy when you’re on the designing end. I’ll also point out they’re called alter egos for a reason. They’re a self apart from
the original self. Otherwise, the whole purpose is null and void. That said, Clementine Hazel isn’t an alter ego. It’s only a pen name. I am Clem, Clem is me. You’re dealing with one, not two halves.”

  “My brain refuses to accept that. It can’t accept it. Might as well tell me the sky is orange.”

  “The sky can be orange.” She raised her eyebrows. “Sunrise. Sunset.”

  He sipped his wine. “Poor example. What I need you to explain is how you came to the subject matter of blood, guts, murder, and maggots. Your image and your career path don’t gel.”

  “You’re really hung up on the whole image thing.”

  He held his wineglass by its delicate stem and swirled the contents. “I only mean I imagined Clementine Hazel a tad on the mental side. I assumed she’d—you’d—have to be, right? A gothic misfit with daddy issues and a collection of creepy porcelain dolls.”

  Quinn frowned. Was this how her readers imagined her? “Ouch.”

  “Right, sorry. But you’re none of those things. That’s my point. You’re normal, a perfectly well-adjusted adult who enjoys an ideal father-daughter relationship, and I’ve yet to come across a single doll in your flat, porcelain or otherwise. What gives?”

  She mulled it over while their appetizers were delivered, and Jack divvied up small portions between them. “There’s no fascinating answer. I don’t secretly worship Satan or kill people in my basement for research. Be sure you truly want my secret because I’d hate to disappoint a fan.”

  “Don’t be absurd. I don’t ask frivolous questions.”

  She ignored the blatantly false statement and confessed. “It was a calculated decision in the beginning. I had no idea I’d come to love the writing style so much or become so passionate about the subject matter.”

  She stopped and plucked a particularly crispy rangoon from the platter. The man of her dreams—literally, she went to bed every night obsessing over every detail of the character she’d designed after him—revealed he was mystified by her, and what did she do? Why, willingly scrub away the shroud surrounding her until there was nothing left for him to ponder over. In no time, she’d be seeing the backside of Jack’s curiosity as it turned toward some other, more formidable challenge.