His (14 page)

His eyes light with amusement. “What were you expecting?”

“I guess . . . a high-rise building with windows everywhere and sweeping views of the city.”

Andrew just shakes his head. “Not me.”

I run my fingertips over a dark wood bookcase and scan the titles on the books. Many are about 9/11. Others are nonfiction business books. Aside from the diplomas, there doesn’t seem to be a personal touch to this office.

“You want me to hang up your coat?” he asks.

I nod, slide it off, and hand it to him. He hangs in on an antique-looking wooden coat rack in a corner and walks back to me.

“I think I surprised your, uh . . . Jana.”

“Yeah, we don’t get much walk-in traffic.” He gestures to a leather wingback chair, inviting me to sit down, but I shake my head no. “She’s my receptionist. I have a couple other people on staff, but they don’t work Saturdays.”

“How was your trip?” I ask, suddenly feeling nervous.

“Good. A lot of time in the air, but I was able to work on the plane.”

He crosses his arms, and I hate how awkward it feels between us. I wanted the newfound warmth from our night together and the kisses we shared to stay with us.

“So I came because I got some good news,” I say, taking a deep breath, “and I just wanted to see you.”

“Good news?”

I nod but don’t elaborate.

“I see,” he says softly. “Well, that’s great. It’s really good to see you, Quinn. I missed you.”

The tenderness in his tone makes me jump forward and throw my arms around him. “I missed you, too.”

He laughs and wraps his arms around my back. We hold on to each other for a full minute, his nose brushing over my hair and my hands running up and down his back.

This feels good. It’s been so long since I’ve felt the sense of security I have with Andrew. Despite the paid nature of our relationship, I know if I needed something, he’d be there in an instant. Part of me wishes I could take a chance and trust him with my past, but I can’t. There’s too much at stake.

I pull away from him, leaving my palms on his chest. My gaze roams around the room, and I come to a conclusion that makes me furrow my brow.

“There are no windows here.”

Andrew shrugs. “Not much of a view. Just an alley.”

“The warehouse is the same way. All the windows are high up.”

“I’m a very private person, Quinn.”

Having no windows seems hyperprivate, but I just smile. I’m finding that Andrew is a hard man to know. I can respect that since I’m the same way. But given that we’re coming up on the end of the first month of six together, I’d like to try. I’d like to find a way to soothe the deep loneliness I feel for Bethy and Bean.

“Is Roy outside?” Andrew asks. His hands rest loosely on my hips, and I like the way it feels.

“Um . . .”

“I know he’s not. I’ve checked in with him every day, and he says you haven’t ridden with him even once.”

I sigh deeply. “I know. I know you want me to, but like I said, walking is important to me. I’m used to walking miles every day. I need the freedom it gives me from being indoors all the time.”

He nods, his lips set in a reluctant line.

“I bought new shoes,” I say, stepping back and looking down at them. “With the card you gave me.”

That gets me a small smile.

“Those are nice. I’m glad you went shopping.”

“They were on sale.”

He rolls his eyes. “Quinn, buy anything you want. I’m quite wealthy, okay?”

“I know, but . . . that’s not me anymore.”

“Anymore?”

I look around the room, trying to find something I can use for a subject change. After a few seconds, Andrew asks, “Have you had lunch?”

“No.”

“Why don’t I call Roy, and we’ll go get something to eat? I’m about done with work anyway.”

“That sounds good.”

While he’s calling Roy, my phone buzzes and I check the screen. There are a couple text messages waiting there.

Dawson: Why haven’t you responded to my texts?

Dawson: Quinn . . . I need to make salon and gown-fitting appointments for you. Text me back.

I tuck the phone back into my purse. Dawson’s been hounding me since Andrew left, wanting to get me waxed and dyed and fitted into a glamorous woman for Andrew’s return. I’ve grown tired of him treating me like a doll he can fix up as he pleases, so I’ve been ignoring him.

“What’s with the frown?” Andrew asks. “Everything okay?”

“Everything’s great.”

It really is. Bethy is safe in Mexico, and Andrew is back. Everything in my small world feels right.

Andrew

Quinn is different now. She’s lighter. The good news she got has obviously taken a weight from her shoulders. I can only assume it was about her sister.

Over soup and sandwiches at a deli near my office, she’s smiling more than I’ve ever seen her smile. She’s even poking fun at me and laughing. I like this side of her.

“So Hong Kong . . .” She takes a sip of her hot tea and studies me. “Did you have to take someone to translate for you?”

“No. Most of the people I met with speak English. There’s one guy who prefers Cantonese, and I’m passable with it.”

She arches her brows, looking impressed. “Cantonese? Really?”

“Just enough to get by.”

That’s not actually true. I’m fluent, but I don’t want to sound like I’m trying to impress her. If she is impressed by me, I don’t want it to be about my work or my money.

“Have you ever been to China?” I ask her.

She laughs lightly. “No. My family took some vacations to a resort in Mexico when I was little. I’ve never left the country other than that.”

I watch her expression to see if it turns remorseful. She’s been so vigilant about not sharing her personal life with me. But she seems so at ease right now, without a hint of regret.

“You’re welcome to join me next time,” I say. The thought having her alone in the back of a Lear for all those hours in the air is
very
appealing.

Another laugh from her. “You mean go to China? Me?”

“Sure. We could go sightseeing if you’d like.”

Her smile fades. “Thanks for the invite. It’s a really nice thought. I couldn’t, though.”

“Of course, you could.”

“Actually . . . I
couldn’t
. I don’t have a passport.”

“That’s an easy fix.”

She shifts her gaze away from mine. “Not in my case.”

“Should we skip the part where I ask why and you tell me you don’t want to talk about it?” I ask lightly.

“Yeah, let’s skip that.”

“If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you want to go?” I ask, watching as she raises her mug of tea up to take a slow sip. She likes hot tea so much she ordered it rather than dessert at the end of our lunch. And she always drinks it the same way, with both hands wrapped around the mug.

“Hmm . . .” She lowers the mug, and her lips curve up in a smile. “Anywhere in the world? Maybe New Zealand. Or Antarctica.”

“Antarctica?” I give her a confused shake of my head.

“Yeah. Maybe. Or Iceland.”

“So you’d like to go far away,” I surmise. “You like to feel hidden.”

Her expression turns serious. “I guess that’s true.”

“What are you hiding from, Quinn?”

She shrugs. “We’re all hiding from something, don’t you think? Some people don’t even know they’re doing it.”

I think about her words. She’s pretty philosophical for a twenty-one-year-old. The other women I’ve dated now seem flippant and vacant compared to her.

“I’m not hiding from anything,” I say. “I wake up every morning planning to take life by the balls and squeeze.”

“That sounds unpleasant,” she says with a laugh.

“Nah. Long as it’s not
my
balls.”

“Well, ball squeezing aside, I think you have fears just like the rest of us.”

“Yeah? What is it you think I’m afraid of?”

I wait, eager to see what she’ll come up with. Very few people know me at all. Only a small handful
really
know how fearless I am when it comes to accomplishing my goals. Quinn isn’t one of them.

“Intimacy.” She says it with finality, like there’s no debating that it’s true.

I sit back in my seat. “Intimacy?” I look from side to side and then lower my voice. “You mean
sex
? Baby, I can assure you it’s not
my
fear standing in our way. I’m ready to go. Right now.”

“Not sex. Anyone can do that. I’m talking about emotional intimacy.”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “Yeah, that’s not my thing. Not because I’m afraid of it, though.”

“Okay.”

She doesn’t believe me, I can tell by her tone. It annoys the hell out of me.

“As for the sex,” she says softly, “I’m not afraid. Just so you know.”

“No?” My annoyance melts away. “What’s, uh . . . holding us back, then?”

“Now that you’re back . . . nothing. I’ve been thinking about you since that night.”

“When I kissed you?”

“Yes.”

I shift my hips, my dick needing more space all of a sudden.

“I’ve been thinking about it, too,” I say. “A lot.”

The air is thick between us, laced with wanting that, for me, borders on need. It’s been more than a month since I’ve had sex, and I’ve spent almost four weeks wanting Quinn every time I look at her.

“So . . .” Her voice is nearly a whisper. “Maybe we should . . .”

“Go shopping in Tribeca?” I say, against my every instinct. “There’s an art gallery there I’d like to take you to. And a furniture store.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“What else would you like to do?” I ask, leaning to the side so I can take my wallet from my pants pocket. “Carriage ride?”

She shakes her head. “I hate the way those poor horses are treated.”

“Oh. Right. Well, you pick something then. Anything. Broadway show?”

Her eyes light with happiness. “Can we go to the movies? I used to love going to the movies.”

“We can definitely go to the movies.”

At the furniture store, Quinn runs her fingertips over the smooth lines of the industrial-style steel and wood furniture. She helps me try out chairs until we settle on a perfect one for the library. It’s a chaise the furniture maker will upholster in the dark chocolate shade of leather Quinn chose.

“That’s your favorite?” I ask her with a skeptical glance.

She shrugs. “It looks like the other furniture at the warehouse. You want it to fit in, don’t you?”

“Fitting in is overrated. What’s your favorite color?”

“Purple,” she says, arching her brows in challenge.

“Purple,” I say to the store owner.

“Certainly.” He flips through several leather swatches and lands on one. “I have this nice eggplant shade.”

“You like?” I ask Quinn.

“I do.”

“We’ll take it,” I say, handing the man a business card. “You can arrange for payment and delivery with my assistant, Dawson.”

I take Quinn’s hand, and we walk the half mile to the art gallery I’ve been to a few shows at. Tiny snowflakes are flying outside, and a few of them sparkle in her blond hair as we walk through the big double doors of the gallery.

“Mr. Wentworth,” the curator says, giving me a polished smile. “So nice to see you again.”

Her bright red hair is secured in a knot at the nape of her neck, and she wears a dark green suit. I can see dollar signs written all over her face, though she’s trying to look casual.

“Hi,” I say, following Quinn to a display of gritty black-and-white portraits.

“Anything I can help with?” the curator asks. “I’m Meg, by the way.”

“Just browsing.”

She nods and returns her attention to the clipboard she’s holding.

“Wow,” Quinn says softly.

I follow her gaze to a portrait of an old woman with deep lines in her weather-worn skin. Her dark eyes stare not just straight at the camera, but through it. They tell a story of resilience. An open field with freshly sown rows is the photo’s backdrop. Her age-spotted hand is wrapped around a primitive-looking farm tool.

A glance at an engraved silver sign enlightens me about this series of portraits.

“All taken at a small village in Guatemala,” I murmur. “They’re fantastic.”

Quinn is still looking at the woman, seemingly entranced by her. And I’m entranced by the emotion swimming in Quinn’s hazel eyes.