Next In Line: A Cake Series Novel

by J. Bengtsson

  Quinn was an enigma, even after we’d talked nonstop for nearly an hour. Just when I thought I had him pegged, he went and flipped the switch on me. Those tiny droplets of truth he sprinkled into our conversation made me want to know more. Clearly, this was not an info-dump kind of guy. Getting what I needed out of him would require work. Luckily, no one had ever accused me of backing down from a challenge. Still, I had to be careful with Quinn because he would be so easy for me to fall for… and then watch, devastated, as he walked away.

  I should get out now while I still had a chance. But I wouldn’t, because deep down, I craved his special kind of destruction. Quinn was fun. He was gorgeous. He was deep. And, my god, he was so far out of my league. Guys like Quinn were the confidence levelers—the ones that took girls like me down a notch… or two… or ten. Don’t get me wrong—I considered myself a reasonably attractive, self-assured woman, and operated under the assumption that most men were attainable if I gave it my all. But Quinn was the man at the bar that didn’t need to send a girl a drink. He didn’t need to try. Female attention must be lavished upon him. He’d expect it. In fact, had Quinn and I not met in such an intense way, he probably wouldn’t have given me a second glance.

  But now that I had his attention— if only for one day—what was the point in wasting it? At the very least, I could spend the day with a future star. Yes, I knew he’d just imploded on stage, but I had a feeling about Quinn. There was something special about him that I couldn’t exactly pinpoint, but I knew extraordinary when I saw it. Sometimes people came along in life you just knew would make a difference. They had an aura around them, something intangible that made them shine. In a weird way, it felt as if I was witnessing a star being born right before my eyes—that this career-ending mistake he’d made really wasn’t a mistake at all but a speed bump on his road to fame.

  The questions I had circulating through my head only grew louder. Who was Quinn, and why had Alan Forrester woven his family’s name into the fabric of his success? And why did he look so damn familiar? I’d seen him somewhere before; I just couldn’t put my finger on where. Had he once been a child star? Maybe a one-hit wonder? Of course, I knew the information I was seeking was readily available. All it would take was a couple of keywords typed into my phone and I’d know everything there was to know about this afternoon delight. Fact-checking him on the internet wouldn’t be as fun as drawing the information out of him one tantalizing bit at a time, but it would satisfy the curiosity building up inside.

  I pulled out my phone and entered the keywords into the search engine.

  Quinn. Next in Line.

  My finger hovered over send. In a matter of seconds, everything ever written about my studly companion would arrive right there at my fingertips, yet I was hesitating. Did I want a behind-the-scenes glimpse of Quinn, seen through other people’s eyes, or did I want to hear it straight from the living, breathing source? And could I even believe what I’d learn about him on the internet—the place where even truths could be wrapped in lies? Most of all, would I want Quinn to google me? My past wasn’t exactly a shining beacon of success. But I wasn’t the sum of my researchable facts… and neither was Quinn.

  Hitting the back button, I deleted the keywords from my search engine and turned my attention to another man altogether.

  Opening my messages, I tapped out, Any word on my dad?

  There was no need to identify myself. The person on the other line already knew who was texting—who was always texting. I sent the same message out every day. Sometimes it took hours to get a reply, but not today. This time my answer arrived only seconds after delivery, making me wonder if Maria had set me on some automated response program.

  No, sorry, sweetheart. Maybe tomorrow.

  Yeah, sure, tomorrow. Pain flared up in my chest as it always did when I got this familiar response. At least she was nice about it. The last person I’d sent my daily texts to, Harry, had pawned me off on Maria after getting his fill. At least he’d handed me off to someone with more patience.

  But nice person on the line or not, the answer was never the one I wanted to hear. No news was good news, or so the saying went, but in this particular situation, that assumption was all wrong. No news on my father was always and forever bad news.

  A multitude of worst-case scenarios filled my head, threatening to take me to a place I didn’t want to go. Not today. I couldn’t keep doing this to myself. Dad had chosen this path he was on through his own reckless decisions. It wasn’t fair for me to go backwards just because he refused to go forward.

  I send off a thank you to Maria before returning my phone to my purse, my heart breaking a little bit more as I tucked my dad away for another day.

  Checking my watch, I was surprised that only six minutes had passed. Six minutes without Quinn felt like an hour. But then, it probably had less to do with him and more to do with me being a notoriously punctual person. Getting people places on a strict timetable was what I did for a living, and I’d adopted into my personal life the strict protocols that went with it. Nothing slowed me down these days except traffic, teenagers crossing the road, and unbeknownst to me until today, hot guys changing out of their concert pants in the front seat of my car.

  “Do you need help getting dressed?” I called out. “Pants? Shirt? Anything?”

  Quinn stuck his head out the passenger side door. “My, aren’t you helpful.”

  I burst to life inside his flirt-bubble. “That’s me. Always willing to lend a hand to my fellow man.”

  “I’m inspired by your selflessness.”

  Right there. That sarcasm. I loved it. Where had this dude been all my life? He was perfectly wired to complement my energy flow. Usually I nitpicked any potential suitors to death. They were too loud or too dull or too arrogant or too timid. None had hit the bullseye until this unassuming superstar crash-landed in my lap. God, he was going to ruin me. From here on out, every man I met was going to have to live up to that! Quinn was like a long-awaited sequel, one you’d worried might suck but turned out to be a masterpiece of cinematic perfection.

  Quinn was my End Game.

  “Would you mind terribly speeding it up?” I teased. “The sun will be setting soon.”

  “It’s two o’clock.”

  “I know but each minute waiting on you is like twelve in Jess years.”

  “Which makes you…?”

  “Is that your way of asking how old I am?”

  “Yes, but in Jess years.”

  He was too cute to deny an answer. Besides, I had nothing to hide. Quinn might have been younger but we were at least born in the same decade. I pulled out my phone and punched in the numbers.

  “I’m currently three hundred and twelve,” I announced, impressed with how well I was aging.

  “So…” He paused for a moment. “That makes you twenty-six.”

  “Whoa, you do math in your head?”

  “I do.” He chuckled. “One of my many party tricks.”

  “I thought you didn’t party.”

  “I don’t; hence the reason my party tricks involve math.”

  He was just so perfectly witty. I could barely wait for more.

  “Okay, well, let me know if I can do anything to speed this along because I have a very low patience threshold.”

  “I can see that. If you want, I can come out now—naked.”

  I perked right up. “Like completely?”

  “Damn near.”

  “Hell, yeah. Bring it on. Naked guys don’t scare me.”

  “Spoken like someone who’s never showered in a guy’s locker room.”

  Quinn took a quick surveillance of the area, no doubt to confirm we were alone, before the passenger side door swung open and he unexpectedly backed out of the vehicle shirtless and with his naked bum visible just above the waistband of the jeans. Obviously, he’d been trying to pull them up over his hips when I’d interrupted.

  My eyes. I couldn’t control them if I tried. This was sensory o
verload at its finest.

  “Oh, shit,” my muscled Adonis cursed as gravity took hold, slipping those jeans of his further down his muscular legs and revealing ever more of that noteworthy ass. Quinn grappled with the waistband before yanking them back up.

  “That wasn’t supposed to happen,” he said.

  “No worries, I enjoyed it.”

  Quinn again scanned the perimeter, confirming he wasn’t about to be collared for indecent exposure. It occurred to me then that he wasn’t a risk taker, which made what he’d done on stage today all the more significant. “Yeah, you weren’t who I was worried about.”

  Once he was all tucked back in, Quinn turned to face me, shirtless and in a pair of faded jeans that looked to have been conceived on his body. I full-on dry gulped, that was how thirsty he made me. But the reverse strip tease wasn’t over yet, and as Quinn pulled a jersey-knit t-shirt over his head, I watched in hushed anticipation as the material fell into place, expertly clinging to every muscle in his broad, sculpted chest as if it were just happy to be of service.

  As was I.

  “Better?” he asked.

  Most would be hard-pressed to improve on perfection, but not Quinn. He’d done it effortlessly. Of course, he did have a lot to work with. See, Quinn was the type of handsome that carried over from childhood. There had been no awkward stage for him. No embarrassing middle school photos. This guy had come out of the womb a fully formed flower.

  Thank you. Thank you, Old Jess. You made the right decision.

  “The best.”

  Two things became abundantly clear the moment Quinn was released onto the public. First, he attracted a lot of attention. As soon as we arrived at the clubhouse to buy a round of mini-golf, people were staring… and whispering and giggling. I wasn’t the only one to see star quality in this guy.

  The second thing I realized was that despite knowing everything there was to know about established Hollywood celebrities on my route, I was woefully behind the times when it came to new talent and pop culture. Had I been more up to date, I would’ve recognized Quinn as a contestant on a popular reality show, like apparently everyone else did.

  “Are you”—the clubhouse girl jumped in place—“on Next in Line?”

  Quinn didn’t hesitate to engage, answering the questions coming his way with endearing responses. He was enjoying this. For a guy still making his way up the ladder of success, he sure seemed comfortable dealing with fans. I had to say, it was fun to watch someone on the cusp of stardom actually appreciating the windfall rather than the jaded celebrities I typically covered on my tours.

  “How come you’re here and not on the show?”

  Quinn looked my way, the two of us exchanging a knowing nod. It was clear by the reaction of the crowd that the news hadn’t yet hit the social media wires, and probably wouldn’t until it first aired on the East Coast a couple of hours from now.

  “It was filmed earlier,” Quinn answered before switching the focus. “Are you going to watch tonight?”

  “Are you kidding?” the counter girl said. “I can’t wait.”

  “Neither can I,” Quinn replied, glancing over at me and winking. “We’re all in for a treat.”

  That was an understatement. It was impressive the way Quinn had bounced back after the doubt he’d revealed in the car. In fact, after the meet and greet with his fans, I wondered if maybe my advice hadn’t been as sound as I’d thought in the moment. Had I deprived Quinn, and his fans, of the next big star?

  “Just so you know, we don’t offer refunds for rain,” the counter girl said as she laid out our clubs and golf balls.

  Quinn and I looked up at the blue sky. This was Southern California, where the sky was only ever shades of blue or filled with choking smoke.

  Perhaps seeing our confusion, the girl added, “There’s a thirty percent chance of rain.”

  “Ah.” Quinn nodded. “Well, thanks for the warning. I think we’ll take our chances.”

  He snagged the clubs and the golf balls off the counter and handed me mine.

  I held up my ball. “Wanna trade?”

  “Uh…” He rolled his golf ball through his fingers, the slightest hint of a grin. “Nah, I like pink.”

  “No, you don’t. You only took it because you know I like pink.”

  “How could I possibly know you like pink?”

  I lifted up one foot and pointed to the pink swoosh on my tennis shoe.

  “Right.” He scoffed. “Because a guy is certainly going to focus on the tiny details.”

  “So, are you going to trade me or not?” It really wasn’t a question but a demand. I wanted that pink ball, and as far as I was concerned, it was rightfully mine.

  “You know.” He stroked his chin, considering. Taunting. “I don’t think I will.”

  I stared him down, but Quinn didn’t budge. Now he was just being ornery.

  “Okay, fine. I actually like the color”—I glanced down at the sickly-looking ball in my hand—“puke green.”

  “Oh good.” He perked up with fake cheer. “Then we’re all happy.”

  Such a dick. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to smack him or lick him—that was how deliciously frustrating he was.

  “Yes, so happy,” I said, one-upping his fake cheer. “And I’ll get my retribution once my vomit ball kicks your Barbie ball’s butt.”

  Our banter did not go unnoticed by those around us. In fact, they all seemed to be swooning for me as if to say, You’re so lucky. And yes, I was lucky, but for how long? Would I have been better off to never have met him rather than the alternative—which was pining over him for life?

  As we turned to leave the counter, a girl behind us in line gushed, “Tell your brother I love him so much. He’s my favorite singer of all time.”

  Quinn’s step faltered before he composed himself and raised his club to acknowledge her request. “I’ll be sure to pass it on.”

  Neither one of us spoke as we walked to the first hole. I even teed up my ball before addressing the elephant on the green. “I’m guessing that’s the hero of your story.”

  He performed a curt bow. “That’s right, Jess. He’s my king.”

  The rain started on hole eleven, if you could even call it rain. More like a very light afternoon drizzle. But the polite sprinkle did nothing to dampen our mood… or our competitive spirit. We’d spent the past forty-five minutes in the most intense matchup of interactive miniature golf I’d ever been privy to. Until I whipped his ass, I wasn’t conceding to cloud dribble.

  “Yes!” I thrust my club in the air after the barf ball once again dropped in the hole after one stroke. “Another hole in one. Suck that, pink ball! How many is that again, Quinn?”

  He purposely ignored my taunting in favor of a morality lecture. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you humility, Jess?”

  “Um… can’t say they did. Now, how many, Quinn? I want to hear you say it.”

  “You have three hole in ones, Jess. Are you happy now?” Quinn chuckled. “I swear, you’re the worst winner ever.”

  “I think it just gets easier when you win all the time,” I continued, not feeling the least bit concerned that I might offend him. Some people you just knew could take it. Quinn was one of them. Dare I say he even enjoyed it? No way was I going to let up now, not when I had his full and undivided attention. “But don’t take it too hard. I mean, Buzz Aldrin was the second man on the moon, and you hear his name, you know, sometimes.”

  He laughed, hooking my waist with the club and pulling me toward him. “You’re such a brat. I thought my brothers were bad, but you just might be the cockiest winner I’ve ever come in contact with.”

  The clouds rallied in that moment, turning the thirty percent chance of rain into a downpour. As was common with confused Californians caught in the rain, we stood there dumbfounded, not knowing what the proper protocol was. Did we run? Did we play? Did we make a post on social media bragging to the rest of the country about our monster storm?

  I g
rabbed Quinn’s hand and led him off the green and around the back of the giant castle. “Come on. I know where we can go.”

  Reaching behind the trellis nailed onto the castle, I came up with a key.

  Quinn’s eyes widened. “How’d you know that was there?”

  “My boyfriend used to work here. This was our designated make-out spot during break time… and even when it wasn’t break time. Actually, I gotta say, we pretty much macked twenty-four seven in here.”

  “Okay, Jess. I got it,” Quinn joked. “You had a jolly good time in here. Stop bragging.”

  He pointed to the small sign on the castle door. “It says no trespassing.”

  “I know.”

  “And that doesn’t bother you?”

  “It’s just a cheapy sign, Quinn,” I whispered. “They probably bought it at Walmart.”

  “I don’t know about that. It has a city ordinance on it. Let me read it for you. It says, ‘Violators are subject to arrest.’”

  I rolled my eyes, letting it be known what I thought of city ordinances. “Oh please, who’s going to arrest you—Lord Farquaad?”

  “You are strangely up to date on your animated princes.”

  Maybe because Quinn reminded me of royalty. “Anyway, don’t worry so much. The sign is really more ceremonial than anything else.”

  “Ceremonial?” His eyebrows shot up. “That will be of little consolation to me when I’m Jim Bob’s jailhouse bitch.”

  “Wait, hold up there. Are you telling me you’ve never trespassed before?”

  “Well… I… uh…” He paused. “Is that so weird?”

  “It’s…,” I began, searching for an appropriate response. “A little weird, yes. Wait—I knew you looked familiar. You were once a Musketeer, weren’t you?”

  “You got me, Robert Downey Jr.”

  Quinn’s quick-witted nod to Ironman’s breaking and entering days made me want to hug the man. It wasn’t often I connected with people at my level, but Quinn was just a perfect fit.