He bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing. “Large animal veterinarian.”
She narrowed her eyes, still moist with crying laughter. “Is that true?”
He furrowed his brow. “Seems a strange thing to make up in the interest of proving a point. The point, of course, being not every actor finds it their grand ambition. Some of us have other dreams. Some of us even have the wit to go after them.”
He’d successfully chastised the grinning woman at his side.
Kind of. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to laugh at you, but I’m from L.A. where everyone is out to get rich and famous. A basic secretarial position requires a head shot. Your case is unusual. And amusing. And I’m sorry.” She brushed a long strand of hair back from her face. “Tell me more about your mom. How’s she handled her condition?”
“She says it made her sit still for the first time in her life.” He intertwined his fingers and let his forearms rest on his bended knees. “I suppose she was a busybody like me before it happened, but truth be told I have a hard time remembering. Seems it’s always been this way. What she really loves to do, either by choice or resignation, I’ve never been told which, is read.” He nudged her affectionately. “You, among others. Imagine. If it weren’t for her hobby, I wouldn’t have cared who you were when we met last year. I’d have been a lot smoother, certainly. It’s hard to be Casanova when you’re starstruck.”
She nudged him back with a small, embarrassed smile on her face. “We might not be here now.”
“Bollocks.” The exclamation made her laugh out loud. “I don’t care about your profession. It’s fantastic, and I’m a fan, but if you were a taxidermist I’m quite sure I’d have been more than willing to leave with you on my arm all the same.” He paused and cleared his throat. “Speaking of, I still say we—”
“We don’t.” Her tone denied further discussion. “Don’t take it personally, Jack. I wasn’t able to withstand the walk of shame the next day at that point in my life. It had nothing to do with you, or anything you did or didn’t do. It was just how I needed it to be.”
Well, he had his answer, didn’t he? It might disappoint her to learn he didn’t care for it one bit, but he recognized a brick wall when he ran smack into one.
He slowly forced himself onto his feet, held out a hand for Quinn, and heaved her up. “Come on, love. We aren’t done yet. What do you say, takeout or a quick trip to the market? I’ve wanted to try clams with a white-wine sauce, but I inevitably add cream every time, wholly unable to help myself. There’s something about a rich, creamy—”
“Jack.”
She’d interrupted him twice in as many minutes. He stopped and waited with eyebrows raised in question.
“Your mother’s name is Madeline.”
A slow, wide grin spread over his face. “You remember? You must sign gazillions of autographs. I’m impressed.”
“Yeah, but I’ve only ever met one Jack.” Something heavy and important lay in the statement. Something that sent hope surging through his chest.
He was important to her. Not some guy named Jack.
The Jack.
He liked the idea very much. Very much, indeed. “No surprise there, obviously. I’m quite unique.”
How to tell her she was important, too? He stumbled over the invitation but somehow managed to get it past his blubbering lips. “Would you like to, uh, meet my mum when you have a little spare time?”
She grinned wide. “Why, yes. That way I can ask her in person.”
He settled a hand on her shoulder. “Darling, it’s too soon to ask my mother’s permission for my hand. We’ve only just moved in together.”
She shoved his hand away playfully. “Actually, I want to use her name. Madeline Hazel, my new romance pseudonym. What do you think?”
He gaped at her. “You’re serious? She’s going to have heart palpitations when she meets you. Asking to use her name for your next novel might actually cause her early demise.”
“Don’t go trying to change my mind, cowboy.”
He laughed. No one in his entire life had ever called him a cowboy. He liked that very much, too.
Neither Blake’s awkward teenage ventures nor Nicholas’s stale repetition of cafés and teatime compared to Jack’s idea of a date. What a wonderful, brilliant day. Then again, picking out car insurance with Jack would probably be a good time. He kept fun inside a little pouch tucked in his pocket and sprinkled it everywhere he went.
At least, that was one theory.
They’d returned to Quinn’s flat bogged down by paper sacks full of groceries. The few photographers mingling near her doorstep had been polite, even offered to hold her bags while she turned the lock. Jack, arms loaded, engaged them with his sunny personality and smiled for a picture.
She’d bet ten dollars tomorrow’s headline would accuse her of domesticating him.
The mood shifted when Jack left her alone to put away the food while he disappeared for a shower. He’d popped back in with wet hair and announced Biscuit needed a walk. He’d start cooking when they returned.
She stood alone in the kitchen with nothing but an air of deflation and a crowded countertop for company. She crossed her arms and examined the weirdly empty space, the marked difference between his absence and his presence.
Her flat seemed . . . flat.
Maybe checking messages wasn’t a bad idea. Her cell phone sat forgotten on the bedside table. Three missed calls met her, the first from her dad. Guilt swamped her. She made a solemn swear to try him first thing in the morning. Another missed call from Blake.
She dismissed it entirely. The lack of voice message awaiting her told her it hadn’t been Seth. Her son always left a colorful message when she missed a call.
Vickie had been the last person to try her.
Calling to gloat over her recent interview, perhaps? Accuse Quinn to her face of being a home wrecker? Ironic, since it was Jack who’d wrecked her home the day the story broke. Whatever she’d wanted, Quinn doubted it had been anything good. People like Vickie didn’t call to make amends.
Then again, what amends did she owe Quinn?
Her heart skittered as reality fell on her like a grand piano in a Looney Tunes episode.
She was the other woman. The mistress.
The Kira.
She lowered herself onto the bed. It didn’t matter if Vickie had a boyfriend on the side. Did it make her assumption Jack had been sleeping around any less painful? The sight of Quinn on his arm in every magazine any less heartbreaking? Vickie looked at her and saw a woman like Kira.
Quinn begged off from dinner citing a sudden stomachache and went to bed early. Sleep proved elusive, however.
Finding herself in Kira’s shoes made her ill, but what really bothered her was the crushing guilt she experienced every time she caught herself dreaming of her relationship with Jack growing into something real out of the ashes of their ruse.
Had Kira gone through the same motions with Blake? Had she wondered when she’d stop being the woman in the shadows and start being the woman at his side, in his home, with his name? Had she gone through it with guilt or greed? Or had she never spared a thought for her lover’s wife?
Quinn cocooned herself in the mound of blankets. More than anything, she wanted to complete her manuscript and be done with Ezra. She wanted her dreams to herself again. Days with Jack were sweet, but her nights with his fictional counterpart had become torture.
Pretending the two weren’t one and the same was a special brand of denial.
Chapter 12
Quinn awoke to a new sensation.
Distinctly, that of not being alone in her bed. The half-asleep, dreamy part of her expected to roll over and find Jack smiling guiltily and spewing some paper-thin excuse for the intrusion, but Biscuit’s sniffing mug greeted her instead. She rubbed his smooth pink belly and tried not to feel disappointed.
Her phone bleeped from the nightstand. She snatched it up
and let a bleary eye roam over the screen. Not the alarm, but an incoming call from a local number. Not Jack.
“Hello?” she answered around a yawn.
“Hello, Quinn.”
She shut her eyes and covered her face with her free hand. When would she learn her powers of assumption were very, very poor?
“Good morning, Vickie.”
“You’re a cruel woman to carry on so publicly with Jack. He and I should be working through this. Does it make you feel special to be between another woman and the man she loves?” Despite the words, Vickie had lost some of her ferociousness from their last discussion.
“You love him, huh?” Why did cheaters always say that? Love didn’t matter when they were doing the deed. Why was it suddenly so important when it came time to pay the piper? “You cheated on him for over a year.”
“Yes, I did. He had you, so I believe we’re even.” Her voice grew thoughtful. “We aren’t so different, you and I. Both where we don’t belong. So, maybe you understand trust issues. I always have to beat the man to the hit.”
“The punch.”
“What?”
“You mean beat him to the punch.”
“Yes. Whatever. It doesn’t mean I don’t love Jack. I forgive him. All he needs is to forgive me, too. Vino is gone. Now, you disappear, too, and me and Jack, we’re better for it. Stronger. You understand? Vino was a mistake, and so are you. It’s not pretty, but it’s fixable.”
Quinn had anticipated a few low blows, maybe some name calling, but Vickie’s total willingness to forgive and forget unsettled her. Maybe her experience with Blake colored her expectations. The one thing he’d never exhibited was any sign of regret. She pulled herself into a sitting position.
“Listen, Jack and I, we’re not serious. He’s hurting. A little time might be what he needs. I’ll talk to him and—”
“We’re talking woman to woman. There’s no need to keep lying. You say it’s nothing serious? Then why did Jack tell me he’s in love with you?”
Wheels screeched, sparks flew. Quinn’s entire body seized up like a braking train. “What did you say?”
Vickie answered with an impatient sigh. “You play too many games. First, you’re his cousin. Now, you don’t know when a man loves you.”
“You want to talk about games, Vickie? Tell me about the interview you did online, the one where you show off your engagement ring and paint me the harlot.”
She replied in a bored voice. “It’s not my fault people like ugly stories.”
Quinn spoke through gritted teeth. “It’s your fault you dish them out because you can.”
“Darling, this is pointless. These stories are forgotten the next day. What I care about is Jack. It’s not possible he loves me last month and you today. Love is more tangled vines than all that, not so cut-and-dried. Jack only has to forgive me, and we put this mess behind us. We put you behind us, right where you belong. You know, it won’t last. Jack’s maybe having fun, but you, well, you’re not the right . . . caliber? Is that the word?”
Quinn heaved herself from the bed in a huff. She didn’t need a reminder of her shortcomings. “Don’t call me again, Vickie. We’ve officially run out of things to talk about.” She threw the phone onto her pillow. Biscuit’s sorrowful gaze followed her, but she didn’t have time to reassure him.
Jack bopped around in time to a song on the radio while doing something complicated to her eggs in the kitchen.
Quinn would never understand morning people.
Coffee. Hell, yes, bring on the coffee. Gallons of it. She shouted over the music and filled her cup while Jack shut off the radio and cast an inviting glance her way. Go on, he seemed to say.
“Vickie called.”
“You answered?”
“Well, I didn’t get this agitated by not answering.”
He nodded and motioned for her to join him at the table where he sat down with his own steaming mug in hand.
“Vino’s gone, and she’s determined to fight for you.” Quinn paused. “Do you not already see how ridiculous this is? The woman is fighting an imaginary girlfriend. How fair is that?”
Jack’s eyes went from open to hooded. “It’s fair that concerns you, is it? Was Vino fair? Should I truly give two licks about what’s fair to Vickie?”
“I believe in tit for tat, but not revenge for the sake of revenge. You told her you’re in love with me. How’d we make the leap from dating to head over heels? Those aren’t words you can take back. She’s not even angry anymore. Vengeful, sure, but all she really cares about is getting you back.”
He cocked his head to the side and deeply considered her. “Again, tell me when her feelings became such an issue for you?”
Quinn blew out a sigh and studied the mug between her fanned out fingers. “She’s supposed to be the villain, and we’re the good guys, but I’m no victim. I’m . . . I’m. . . .”
She blustered. How to avoid the dirty word?
Not possible. She drooped. “I’m Kira. I’m the mistress, the other woman. Vickie believes you’ve both been sleeping around and making Vino leave is a peace offering. Unless you tell her you didn’t cheat, she’s never going to understand why you aren’t willing to meet her in the middle.”
Jack crossed his arms. “This isn’t about punishment or revenge, and you’re not anything like Kira. Vickie had an affair, not us. If she jumped to the conclusion we did, so be it. She denied me the opportunity to give her an explanation when I owed her one. I’m hardly going to beat down the door and force it on her now. She made her bed, Quinn. It’s over.”
She didn’t get it. Mistakes happened. People who loved each other forgave. “You wouldn’t give her another chance when only last week you were going to marry her?”
Jack settled his intent gaze on her and explained in a measured tone. “Vickie is a self-centered, demanding, thoughtless human being. I’ve done every bit of bending over backward I intend to do for any one woman. I won’t budge this time. No amount of caring or giving can fix someone born so ill-tempered and selfish. Vino’s the last straw on what’s until now been a Herculean camel’s back, the final rain of piss on the mountains I’ve climbed for her. Yes, I told her I’m in love with you, hoping she’d grasp the futility of what she’s doing. I’m sorry she rang you. I should’ve known. It’s probably been a decade since someone has closed a door in her face she didn’t have the power to knock down if it suited her.”
His intensity fizzled. He sat back and rubbed the nape of his neck. “And even if I did love her, let’s say my powers of forgiveness are sorely limited.” He stood up, returned to the bowl of eggs he’d left sitting atop the counter, and began whisking.
Something Quinn would do well to remember: You only got one shot with Jack Decker. Don’t screw up. “I wish you would’ve told me you’d talked to her before I went and told her we weren’t serious.”
He deliberately set down the bowl of half-beaten eggs as if it took a great deal of control not to hurl it across the room. He fixed Quinn with a hard stare. “Do you want me to go back to her?”
“No.” Her heart pounded. With a single word, she gave away more than she ever intended. She rushed to cover the telling response. “I’m sorry. It’s not my business how you deal with Vickie. Being your, uh, mistress is more uncomfortable than I’d anticipated. And I pity her. She regrets what she’s done. She’s sorry, and I believe in forgiveness.”
“Do you? Well, let’s try this on. Would you give Blake another go?”
She rose from the table as instinct prepared her for a quick getaway. This had nothing to do with her failed marriage. Jack wasn’t playing fair. “I tried to in the beginning. I offered. I guess the big difference is he didn’t want me back. Blake never cared about righting the wrong. Then again, according to you and him, he didn’t do anything. Can’t blame a person for falling in love, right?”
Jack took a step toward her. “Don’t turn this around. I’m talking about right now. If Blake called you up
today and begged you to come home, would you? If the answer’s yes, you’re a fool.” He took another step. “They’re liars and cheats, the both of them. You don’t give people like that a second chance. It wasn’t a one-night stand. They didn’t get a little deep in their whiskey at the bar and snog a stranger. We’re talking in terms of years, Quinn. Choices, not accidents, and ones made at our expense.” This time his steps carried him past her and out of the room.
Her pulse pounded; heat suffused her face. No one in her life had ever gazed straight into her eyes and called her a fool.
She tended to the eggs he’d left behind to the best of her ability. They sizzled as they hit the hot, buttered skillet, a sound too enticing for the hard, rubbery nuggets she was prone to producing.
Damn him. He could’ve at least finished breakfast before huffing away.
She delivered a plate to a silent, sullen Jack in the living room. She left it on the coffee table since he’d refused to acknowledge her presence and retreated back to the kitchen to eat alone. Biscuit followed her.
Peachy. Not only had she given his ex-fiancée false hope of reconciling, she’d also gone and stolen his dog.
Add it to the list of things he had to sulk about.
Jack had left and not returned home by the time Quinn put away her writing that evening and threw together a quick egg sandwich for dinner courtesy of breakfast leftovers.
Her disagreement with Jack had inspired her to type her most volatile scene between her two lovers, Ezra and Eileen. It made her discord with Jack seem like a polite misunderstanding.
She called it author therapy.
She finished her sandwich and poked around the living room. The sudden quiet seemed odd. She considered calling Jack, but fake girlfriends didn’t get to harass their fake boyfriends over trivial things like GPS coordinates. Besides, if he’d gone to see Vickie, Quinn could pat herself on the back.
She began to pace. Apparently, Jack’s inability to sit still was contagious. She needed a distraction. Somewhere to go, or someone to call.
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