Broken (13 page)

It wasn’t until he was jogging up the steps that he realized something—he’d just lied to his brother. Well, not exactly lied. Not outright at least. One of those lies of omission. The freelancing he did managed to keep him pretty busy, but he had enough money saved up from the last few jobs that he could take a few weeks off, probably longer, and be just fine for it.

It wasn’t the job that kept him from going.

It was Sara.

It was the same mantra she did every time she ran, the same mantra she’d still be saying if she was doing this shit in five years. Hate was heat. Hate was anger. Anger was good, because it helped dull the fear. Helped her forget about the worries, the regrets about the life she’d lost. She channeled it, fed it into someplace deep inside her soul that she kept hidden away, and she hoped that one day soon, she’d be able to vent all that pent-up rage.

Feet pounding on the pavement, she had settled into a steady pace by the time she hit the end of the street. She wasn’t ever going to win any marathons, but she could run a few miles without collapsing, which was a far cry from the girl she’d been a few years ago. She might huff and puff and wheeze like she was dying, but she could make the run.

Somebody drew alongside her and she automatically edged over to let him pass. When he didn’t, she glanced over.

It was Quinn.

“Mind if I join you?”

If she said anything, she was likely to start babbling. Assuming she had the breath to run and talk at the same time. It wasn’t anything she’d ever tested before. She always ran alone.

Jerking her thoughts away from that depressing fact, she shrugged in response.

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“It’s an
I don’t care but I can’t talk and run very well at the same time
shrug,” she said, gasping every other word.

Quinn grinned at her. “You know, you really could find some way to stay fit that you didn’t hate.”

Sara stubbornly shook her head. The point of her staying fit wasn’t to
enjoy
it. She didn’t
want
to enjoy it. It was just another change that she’d been forced to make to her life, and she kept track of all those little changes. Because at night, she sometimes lay awake listing them and thinking of ways to make the bastard responsible pay—

“What about swimming?”

She scowled at him.

“Sorry. The talking and running thing?”

“Yep.”

They fell into silence, a surprisingly easy silence. Although she hadn’t noticed him running before, he had no trouble keeping pace—hell, he wasn’t even breathing hard. Barely sweating.

One of those evil people who made it look easy.

She focused on the sidewalk in front of her instead of him, tried to find that semi-aware state she fell into when she worked out. But it didn’t come that easy and she kept falling out of tune with her silent mantra. Every time she’d finish the line, she’d find herself glancing over at Quinn.

Or his arm would brush against hers.

Or she’d feel him looking at her.

And it seemed like he looked at her a
lot
—even more than he looked where he was going. Man, if she tried to do that? Look in any other direction but the one in front of her? She’d probably trip over her feet and fall flat on her face. Athletic grace wasn’t one of her strong suits.

Seemed to be one of his, though. He ran easily, his muscles shifting and flexing smoothly. By the time they reached her destination, a small neighborhood park about a mile and a half from the apartment, she was slick with sweat, her breaths coming in harsh, ragged pants. He hadn’t really even broken a sweat and his breathing was about as level as hers was when she walked across the room.

Slowing to a walk, she shot him a dark glare.

“What?”

“I hate athletic people.”

“This exercise thing you’ve got is confusing,” he said. He was smiling as he said it, that faint little half smile, the one that sat on his face like he really wasn’t used to smiling a lot.

She was trying not to think about that smile, though. Or how his mouth had felt against hers . . .
Good job not thinking about it, Sara
. Bracing her hands on her hips, she sucked in another deep breath and tried to calm her breathing a bit more before responding. “What’s so confusing about it? I hate exercising and I hate athletic people who make it look so easy.”

Quinn shrugged. “Still confusing. If you hate it so much, why do you run every day?”

“Because I don’t want to be out of shape,” she said, shrugging.

His eyes dropped, lingered on her chest, and then made a slow, leisurely journey over the rest of her body. Then that smoky gaze returned to hers and he murmured, “Oh, trust me. Your shape is just fine.”

She blushed.

Unsure what to say, she tore her eyes away from his. “I have to head on back—have to shower before I go into work.”

“You never leave until two. You’ve got time,” he said, as he fell into step along with her.

“How do you know when I leave?”

“Because I’ve seen you doing it.”

Frowning, she slowed her pace and looked over at him.

He cocked a brow. “What?”

“You frequently pay attention to when I head out for work?” He reached up and touched a finger to her lower lip. “I frequently pay attention to you.”

Her mouth went dry.

“I pay attention to you period. Haven’t you noticed that yet?” Moving in closer, he stared into her eyes and murmured, “Whether you’re leaving for work, or whether you’re out in the yard pacing and doing your mental pep talk before you go running. Even though I tried to tell myself not to, I keep doing it. Can’t help it. If I’m not out working, then it seems like I’m looking for you. It’s getting to be a habit and trust me, that’s really weird for me.”

“Then why are you doing it?”

“Because I can’t help it,” he muttered. He started to lower his head and then stopped, swore. “Shit. When I kiss you again, I’d rather not do it in public.”

Those words rang in her head the entire way back.
When I kiss you again.

Not
if
.

Her heart raced within her chest. The sensation wasn’t an unpleasant one, although it had been years since she’d felt this kind of anticipation. While it wasn’t unpleasant, it was troublesome. Worrisome.

Careful.

She had to be careful.

THAT caution of hers was back in full force. Quinn ran along next to her, watching the way she tried not to watch him. In his mind, he ran through a dozen scenarios that might explain just why she was so determined to keep her distance.

Most of them he trashed before they even fully formed.

He didn’t see her as a woman struggling to get over a broken heart—just didn’t feel right to him. He damn well
hoped
that wasn’t the case, because he really hated to think he was chasing after a woman who was on the rebound.

It definitely wasn’t because she wasn’t interested. Quinn had his share of arrogance, but still, he was too honest with himself for self-delusions. He knew when a woman wanted him. Sara definitely wanted him.

Maybe she was married, separated from her husband . . . even as that idea had him wanting to break something, he pushed it aside. Again, it didn’t feel right.

Quinn was too often quick to judge people, but he had reasons—he was good at reading people. If Sara was involved with somebody, she’d make sure he knew. That was just the sort of person she was.

As they drew close to home, an idea danced briefly through his mind.

He
could
find out what her story was. Put together the pieces so he could figure out how to handle this. How to handle her.

She was guarded, something he’d picked up on right away, and he suspected she wouldn’t want to tell him what her story was. That didn’t mean he couldn’t find out.

One thing stopped him, though.

He had secrets of his own, and if somebody went behind his back to find out those secrets, it would piss him off something awful. And . . . well, if it was somebody he knew, somebody he wanted to trust, it would hurt.

He wanted her to trust him, know him.

He couldn’t stand the thought of hurting her.

So he’d wait. See if he could get her to trust him enough to tell him.

Trust . . .
Man. He wanted her to trust him. He wanted to trust her. Bizarre. Other than his dad, his brother . . . and maybe Elena, he couldn’t think of people that he’d actively
wanted
to trust.

As they came to a stop in front of Theresa’s big old house, Quinn kept his hands to himself as Sara bent over and braced hers on her knees. Her shoulders rose and fell as she dragged in harsh, ragged pants of breath.

“Easier to catch your breath if you stand up straight,” he said, wiping the sweat off his brow with his forearm.

Sara shot him a dirty look and stayed exactly where she was, her breaths coming in harsh, high-pitched gasps. He frowned, listening closer and wondering what it sounded like when people wheezed. Amused and concerned at the same time, he muttered, “You’re awful damned stubborn.”

“Thank you.” Her breaths came a little easier. After another fifteen seconds, she straightened up and met his gaze.

He decided he rather liked that—she met his gaze easily. Quinn wasn’t exactly an easy person, and he knew it. A lot of people didn’t like looking him in the eye, but Sara didn’t seem to have much trouble doing it. She met his gaze levelly and stared right back at him without blinking.

Silence stretched out between them. She didn’t seem in any hurry to break it, although for some reason, he did. He wanted to talk to her.
He
wanted to talk to her. Quinn never wanted to talk. But as he stared back at her, he realized he had to fight to keep quiet.

Questions burned inside him. He wanted to ask her if she’d mind if he went with her tomorrow when she did her run. He wanted to ask her where she worked. How old she was. What she liked to do. It was unfamiliar, this desire to talk, to get to know her . . . to get close.

Quinn avoided getting close to people like the plague—those he
was
close to ended up like that despite his efforts otherwise. Luke, their dad, Theresa . . . even Elena.
Elena—

It hit him, out of the blue. Guilt, followed closely by grief.
You stupid fuck, you can’t be doing this.
He couldn’t stand here staring at Sara, wanting Sara, while memories of the one woman he’d loved danced through his mind. Did he even have the right to want Sara? Did he deserve to?

More questions, questions he had no idea how to answer.

Even as he struggled to handle everything rushing through his mind, the door opened and Theresa called out. “Quinn, Martin keeps trying to call you. Said if you don’t call him back this time, he’d come out here and talk to you.”

Fuck.
He’d been ignoring the calls from the agency for a few days now. He knew Martin well enough by now to know that if the guy was that serious, he probably needed to see what was going on.

“Who’s Martin?” Sara asked, lifting a brow.

“Sort of my boss,” Quinn said, sighing. He shoved his damp hair back. “I better go, see what he wants.”

“Probably for you to work—that’s usually what bosses want.” A smile flirted with the corner of her lips.

Quinn found himself wanting to bend over her and press his mouth right there, right where that faint smile formed.

So what if she’d decided he’d just complicate her life? He could complicate it in all the right ways if she’d just give him half a chance.

At least for a while.

A while . . . like you did with Elena. Yeah, you complicated her life, all right.
The voice jeered inside his head and a wave of nausea rose up to slam him straight in the gut.