Men Like This

by Roxanne Smith

  Blake selling their old colonial had helped in a small way to make life easier. That her old home had somehow morphed into yet another reminder of Jack didn’t make a lick of sense, but her emotions didn’t seem to care whether or not she understood them. Maybe because the house represented the life she’d had to lose before finding Jack. Or, perhaps, it was how she’d thought of Jack during her final showdown with Blake in his office that day.

  Then again, Quinn had adopted a romantic’s point of view lately. Could be as simple as the hardwood floors were the same color as Jack’s hair.

  Quinn scanned the last several pages of her work in progress and cringed. The result of this morning’s coffee-fueled writing frenzy had culminated in one of the finest chapters she’d ever written.

  And it was terribly, terribly wrong.

  Clementine Hazel was a consummate professional, a diehard horror novelist with an iron stomach and steel nerves. So, why were her characters developing feelings? She’d written a love scene, an issue in itself, and become so lost in it she’d forgotten one of the characters was supposed to die.

  What if Susan Elizabeth Phillips had written Rosemary’s Baby? Or Sandra Brown had penned Frankenstein? Crazier still, if Stephen King had birthed The Notebook? Madness. Pure madness.

  Were her identities getting crossed? Or was it worse than that? Was Clementine losing her touch? Was she forever softened by opening herself up to the influence of romance?

  Quinn went back to the keyboard determined to prove the idea ludicrous. Clementine hadn’t gone anywhere; she was merely a little rusty. Nothing a gruesome murder wouldn’t clear up.

  Two hours later, Quinn stomped out of her office wholly disgusted with herself. If Clementine were an actual person, she’d fire Quinn. One minute maggots are happily frolicking in the gaping mouth of her victim, the next, the main characters, the couple who’d stumbled upon the aforementioned corpse were discussing their relationship.

  At a time like that? What kind of characters had she created that the discovery of a dead body didn’t take precedence over the “talk”?

  She had no idea what she was writing, but it was rubbish.

  Really, really good rubbish.

  She’d probably end up without an agent for the second time in her career, this time when Carla dumped her the second she caught sight of the prologue. Support a romance, sure. Support a hybrid genre not currently in existence with no market to speak of? Not so much.

  Quinn entered the kitchen and found Seth groggily working his way through a bowl of Cheerios. She eyeballed her sleepy son. Fourteen was plenty old enough to handle a little gore, right? “Would you like to read the story I’m working on?”

  His concerned gaze traveled up from his breakfast. “You never let me read your Clementine stuff.”

  She frowned. “Let’s say Clementine, my horror-writing side, and Madeline, my softer half, decided to get together without my permission and create total mayhem. The thing is, it’s good. It makes no sense, but it’s good.”

  “Why are you freaking out if it’s good?”

  “Because this isn’t what I do. It’s Clementine Hazel diluted.” She paused. “Or my romance pseudonym on steroids. I’m not comfortable with either of those.”

  “Why does your name matter? Just write the story.” With his interest in the topic depleted, he returned to his cereal.

  Quinn chewed her lip. Just write the story, huh?

  She settled back at her desk and made a silent vow. She wouldn’t try to write as Clementine, or even avoid writing as Madeline. She’d be Quinn. Where it might lead, whether it would ever be deemed publishable or marketable, were worries for the future. Today, she was going to just write the story.

  Jack Decker, tucked away in a posh hotel room in downtown Sydney, Australia, flipped back to the front page of the advanced reader copy of Men Like This and sent a silent prayer of gratitude for his mother sending it his way.

  “All characters in this book are fictitious, my arse.” He picked up his whiskey and read the dedication for the third time.

  To Madeline, for something borrowed and

  To Jack, for inspiration

  Oh, aye, he’d inspired her all right.

  Right down to the way he laughed, the color of his eyes, his height, even his middle name. Reading the blasted novel set his pistons to firing like nothing else.

  Quinn had gone beyond dedication. This Irish hero of hers, this Ezra bloke, he was Jack. From the bottom of his broken, blistered feet to the very last drop of brogue in his body, he was Jack.

  Eyes that held the oceans and seas within.

  Laughter in his heart.

  The weight of the world carried not on his shoulder, but on his hip like no more than a farmer’s bag of seeds.

  A tendency toward hyperactivity. She’d even covered his aversion to raw carrots.

  He was at the same time angry and ecstatic, flattered and a gnat’s breath from apoplexy. His heart had pounded through every one of the three-hundred-plus pages he’d read twice, pulsing with mingled disbelief and urgency.

  Beyond the inspiration and blatant mimicry of his body and personality, beyond being purely dedication, this story was fantasy. A fantasy that delivered the proof he’d always hoped to come across. Hard-core, written and signed, undeniable proof Quinn Buzzly loved him.

  Because there was no doubt she was Eileen. The hair, the eyes, the poise, the dry responses, even the dastardly ex-lover. It was all there.

  He’d left Quinn to give her the freedom to repair her broken marriage, and perhaps that was what she’d done. Then again, maybe she’d spent the last seven months as utterly miserable as he had, in which case there was no time to lose.

  Jack gathered their love story under his arm and snatched his coat. He dashed from the hotel room without bothering to pack.

  Eileen awaited her hero.

  “But I don’t get why.”

  “Because he invited us. Because he’s your dad. What more do you want, Seth?”

  He issued a heavy sigh from the passenger seat. “I don’t like going over there.”

  “Give me a break, will you? Your dad’s doing a great job. He took you to the movies a couple of weekends ago. And remember the great cookout we had when he moved into the new house? Which, need I remind you, he bought solely based on its proximity to the old house and all your friends? He surprised you with a bedroom made up for you, even extra clothes so you wouldn’t need to pack if you wanted to stay over. Can you give the guy a chance? He’s your father. You only get one.”

  “He’s not doing it for me. He’s doing it for you.”

  She clamped her mouth shut on her usual denial and focused on the quick drive. She feared her son had it right but didn’t have the first clue as to what she was supposed to do about it. Refuse to be a part of family gatherings?

  Seth had his revenge by disappearing into the den for a round of video games after their takeout taco dinner. The disappointment at having to settle for takeout every time they ate with her ex was fading. The days of home-cooked, restaurant-quality dining had left with Jack, a fond yet distant memory of a delicious, bygone time.

  Blake began the post-dinner cleaning. “This isn’t a bad idea, you and me alone for a few minutes. There are a few things it’d be easier to discuss without Seth around. Such as Seth.”

  There was some logic there. “You’re right. I’ll help clean up.”

  Blake reached for the sour cream lid. “I’m doing everything I can. I don’t want to push, but I don’t want to sit on the sidelines, either. He’s never going to make it easy, is he?”

  “You can’t expect him to go out of his way. Even under ideal circumstances, he’s still a teenager. He’s developing a social circle that doesn’t involve his mom and dad. It’s normal.”

  He gave her a grateful smile. “Hey, thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” She wiped her hands on a dish towel and glanced around. “Listen, we should go. It’s a school night. Set
h probably has homework he conveniently forgot to mention this afternoon.”

  His smile disappeared. “Oh, right. Yeah. More teenage stuff to look forward to, huh? Missing homework assignments, forgotten curfews.”

  She groaned. “Don’t remind me.”

  “C’mon, I’ll walk you out.”

  She hollered for Seth and they piled into her car while Blake stood on the porch and waved. “Thanks for coming. I don’t get much company these days. It’s nice.”

  She stuck her hand out the open window and waved back. “It was nice.”

  Astonished, she stopped waving and gripped the steering wheel. She meant it. She’d actually had a nice time. Blake had been easygoing, laid-back, easy to talk to. Shades of the man she’d been wild about. Maybe...

  Her heart leaped in panic. No.

  No way, no chance, no maybe, no question. She and Blake were as a done as a tire-rubber steak. As over as Friends. No going back. Seth buckled his seat belt, and she gave one last limp-wristed wave to Blake before turning the key.

  An awful whirring came from the engine, and it failed to catch. She tried again. “What the hell?” One more time. Nothing.

  Blake strolled over to her window. “Need a ride?”

  She climbed out and bid Seth do the same. “Sorry. I’ll get it towed out of your way tomorrow. Hunk of junk.” She kicked the tire.

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it for you. I’m still on leave from the office. Plenty of time on these hands.”

  “Okay, I guess. Thanks.” The three of them transferred to Blake’s SUV, a black Tahoe she loathed. Black SUVs were the roaches of the automobile world. Kira came to mind every time she spied the big, ugly thing. Blake had traded in his beloved Corvette for it, obviously in preparation for having a family to taxi around.

  It was easy to forget and belittle what Blake had gone through. Losing a son after finding out he had no rights, losing a woman he’d been in love with. It was glorious, karmic payback for Quinn, but for him, it was his first experience with true heartbreak. She spent the ride home mulling over his broken heart, and why he was so determined she could fix it.

  They pulled into her dark driveway. She groaned. “Forgot the porch light again. It’s gonna cost someone an ankle one of these days.”

  A gasp from the backseat startled her. “Mom! I forgot my homework at Lewis’s.”

  She hung her head. Always something. “Well, hurry up. If you’re not back in five minutes, you’ll spend the weekend doing yard work.”

  He bolted from the vehicle and bounded toward his friend’s house a few blocks over. She opened the passenger door to exit. To her surprise, Blake did the same. She didn’t recall inviting him in. He didn’t head toward the front door, though. Instead, he met her halfway to the porch.

  “Thanks again.” He sheepishly glanced at his toes. The streetlamp on the corner afforded her enough light to read his features. When his eyes popped back up, his face had transformed into a determined mask. “One kiss.”

  His directness startled her.

  “What? No. No kiss.”

  “Just one. Something to remind you of what’s it like when we’re good. You’re fighting it, I can tell, but we were good, Quinn. For a long time, we were good.”

  “For just as long, we weren’t. There’s nothing to fight because there’s nothing between us.”

  “There’s nothing between us because you’re determined there shouldn’t be. Give me a legitimate reason why not, and I’ll give up and leave.”

  Because you aren’t Jack.

  Because Blake was margarine, and she’d developed a taste for real butter.

  Stupid Jack Decker.

  She envisioned him the night he’d left her, envisioned him walking away without a glance back, a complimentary warning call, a letter, or note. Something. Anything.

  Maybe he was simply a coward who couldn’t face looking her in the eye and admitting he’d faked it despite his every claim to the contrary.

  Well, she was no coward.

  She placed her palms on her ex-husband’s chest, went up on her toes, and pushed her lips against his. His arms came around her and gently squeezed her into a tight hug.

  Instant regret. The kiss proved disappointing, stiff and dry. She had firsthand experience of what a true kiss felt like now and could never again settle for less. She was grateful for the darkness hiding her frown as she pulled away.

  In a sudden blur of movement, an arm shot out from her peripheral, and a fist met Blake’s chin with enough force to take him to the ground.

  She screamed and whirled on their attacker.

  Jack caught her by the wrists. “Easy now, love. We’ve got some bone-picking to do, but we’ll settle ours verbally, if you don’t mind.”

  “What? But, where? Where did you come from?”

  “The airport.” He turned his attention back to Blake. He’d come up on one knee and gingerly ran a hand across his jaw. Jack shook his head and grinned a mad smile Quinn had never witnessed before. “I’ve been dying to do that.”

  “You’re in America,” Quinn huffed. “You can’t go around assaulting people. What is wrong with you?”

  “Right you are.” His jovial reply didn’t match the fire in his eyes. He glared at Blake. “We’ll take it to the street, love. Whatever you wish.”

  She shoved at his shoulders. The push caught him off balance and off guard. His eyes snapped to her. “Don’t you call me ‘love,’ Jack Decker. You left me. Walked out without a word. You’re no better than he is at the end of the day.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Jack blustered. “Was I supposed to wait around for you to leave me first? Upset I beat you to it? Yeah, that’s right. Emily explained it to me. Old Blake here had plans to get you back, and once you found out about them, you pulled away. Stupid me, I made it about Vickie. I never considered you’d want to give this dandy a second chance.”

  Blake had recovered from Jack’s blow to the chin. He snorted. “It was a fling, man. Get over yourself.”

  Jack ignored him and kept his cool gaze trained on Quinn.

  She crossed her arms. “You’re wrong. I didn’t pull back because of Blake. I pulled back because you lied to me. I asked why you went to see Vickie, and you lied. I gave you a chance. You blew it.”

  “Fine. You want the truth? I told Vickie I’m in love with you. There, you’ve got it.”

  “I wanted it back in London.”

  Blake sniffed. “Jack, you should leave. This isn’t going to happen. Let it go.”

  Jack leaned in close to Quinn. “Get rid of that flaming turd before I make good on my heritage.”

  “The Fighting Irish. Gotcha.” She turned to Blake. “Listen, I’m sorry, but you should go. Jack and I—”

  Jack shouted over her. “She loves me, you wanker.”

  “Oh, come on, Q. Is he for real? You love him?”

  She sighed. “I tried to tell you I wasn’t coming back. Whether I love him or not is irrelevant.”

  Jack put his hands on his hips, mimicking her. “Didn’t stop you from planting a big wet one on him, did it?”

  Without another word of protest, Blake marched toward his SUV. Quinn didn’t think he’d return anytime soon.

  She turned back to Jack, and the two of them squared off in the dark. She’d fantasized about this moment—a final reckoning. “Am I supposed to believe you’ve spent the last seven months celibate?”

  “Not only celibate, but a bloody, sobbing mess on top of it. Even if I’d been searching for it, no woman would’ve had me.”

  “Okay, fine. You want to talk? Let’s talk. You’ve got a paper-thin excuse for walking out on me, and I don’t buy it.”

  “Look, Quinnie, I never claimed to be brilliant, did I? I made a mistake. Emily told me about Blake’s change of heart and how you were well aware of his desire to win you back. I assumed you kept that bit of information from me because you were going over your options. I’m an idiot, okay?”

 
She laughed at the absurdity. “I didn’t tell you because I forgot. It didn’t matter. How could you believe I’d prefer Blake? He’s a saltine cracker, and you’re chocolate lava cake. You aren’t even in the same category.”

  Jack lifted an inquiring brow. “Suppose you were having soup?”

  “I’d skip the crackers to make room for dessert.”

  “Chocolate lava cake?”

  “It’s my favorite.”

  “All right, then.” He pulled her close by the belt loops of her jeans. “You want to come clean now? I second-guessed myself for a long time. I’m certain now, but I still need to hear it, Quinnie. Your turn to tell the truth.”

  She sucked in a breath through her teeth in a doubtful grimace. “Gee, I’m not sure. I mean, I fell for the idea of you, the first night we spent together. You might spoil it if I let you in. No one’s perfect.”

  “What’s not perfect about me? Go on, let’s get this out of the way so we don’t have to revisit the issue in marriage counseling a decade from now.”

  Her heart skittered. “You drink wine straight from the bottle. I’ve seen you with my own eyes.”

  “A deplorable habit. I’m still perfect for you.”

  “I’m no supermodel.”

  “Thank goodness. Did you read in the paper how that last one worked out?”

  “You live in London.”

  “You will, too. And Seth. Keep going.”

  “I’m too boring for you.”

  “Nonsense, you’re fascinating. You make goo-goo eyes at maggots and yell at pushy reporters. You write disgusting, horrid things for a living, yet my dog’s eye bogies make you gag. Besides, letting me go would be a huge mistake, especially since men like me aren’t made every day. From what I’ve read, I’m quite the catch.”

  She stared at him.

  He grinned. “You didn’t expect I’d recognize myself, the playful Irish hero? Or you, for that matter?”

  She chewed her lip. “Ezra’s left-handed. You’ll never prove anything.”

  Jack tossed his head back and laughed. “Damn you, clever woman. Now, stop making me beg for it. I want to hear you say it. I need to hear you say the words.”