Take the Long Way Home (16 page)

“I don’t think I’m a Romeo,” he said.

Once again, Maeve seemed to read his mind.
She didn’t question the non sequitur. “Romeo was a teenage boy,”
she reminded him. “He fell in love and killed himself over it.
You’re a lot older. I hope you wouldn’t kill yourself over
love.”

She sounded more sensible that he felt. At
that moment, he believed the passion he’d just experienced could
kill him.

“The song haunts me,” he said.

She trailed her fingers lightly across his
chest, scraping against his nipples, making his pecs twitch. Making
his dick twitch. “It haunts me, too.”

“What do you think it was trying to tell
us?”

“That we should go home,”
she said, her fingers still meandering across his skin, turning him
on so much he could hear his pulse inside his skull, fierce and
pounding. “What haunts me,” she added, “is trying to figure out
where home is. Or maybe
what
it is.”

“Brogan’s Point?” After he’d left town and
his parents had moved to Maine—and especially after Ashley had
dumped him—he’d stopped thinking of this quiet seaside town as
home. But now, at this moment, in this bed, with this woman, it
felt like home to him.

“I don’t know.” She sighed, her breath
floating over his skin. “Harry thought this was my home.”

“Harry?”

“My benefactor. The man who bequeathed
Torelli’s to me in his will as a way of getting me back to Brogan’s
Point. He thought I belonged here. But I don’t know if I’m actually
home. This apartment—if Cookie wasn’t here, it would just be an
apartment, a place to sleep. And after this evening, I know my
father’s house isn’t my home.” A tremor passed through her, but he
didn’t think this one had anything to do with arousal.

“You want to talk about it?”

She sighed again. “I was okay until I saw my
bedroom. That room used to be my home. My refuge. But now it’s just
a place where all the pain still lives. That can’t be my home.”

“How about your store? You seem to know who
you are when you’re there.”

She propped herself up enough to peer into
his face. To his surprise, she was smiling. “What are you, a
shrink?”

Her smile warmed him in an entirely
different way. The sweet curve of her mouth, the glint of her
white, even teeth, the faint lines pleating the skin at the outer
corners of her eyes all worked as much magic on him as her cookies
had—and as her body had, just minutes ago. She definitely needed to
smile more. “I did a psych rotation in medical school,” he
conceded, although that was hardly enough to turn him into a mental
health expert.

She settled back onto the bed, half beside
him and half on top of him. He decided a single bed wasn’t such a
bad thing, after all. “I have to wake up very early tomorrow,” she
warned him. “But you’re welcome to stay ’til then. If you want,”
she added. “You don’t have to.”

He
did
have to—for his own sake, if not
for hers. The thought of leaving her bed was depressing. “I’ll stay
until you kick me out,” he said.

“Okay.” She nestled closer against him,
looping one leg over both of his, the limb as light as a blade of
dune grass. She cushioned her head with his shoulder, relaxed her
arm over him, and closed her eyes. Within a minute, her breathing
had slowed to the steady tempo of sleep.

He would have liked to sleep, too. But even
after he closed his eyes, his mind remained keenly alert, aware of
the soft contours of her skin, the delicate point of her chin, her
hair. The weight of her against him—an emotional weight far heavier
than her slender body.

Home. What was it?

Why did he feel more at home in this bed,
with this woman he barely knew, than he’d ever felt before?

Her phone pinged at four o’clock. She pushed
herself to sit, and the pressure of her palm against Quinn’s chest
woke him as well. He’d probably want to sleep longer, but she
couldn’t leave him here at the apartment while she headed down to
the store. For one thing, Cookie would not be pleased. For
another…

He was Quinn. The most handsome guy in
Brogan’s Point, or at least in her class. No, not in her class. He
was so out of her class.

He mumbled something and blinked his eyes
open. Sometime during the night, he’d pulled the blanket out from
under their bodies and draped it over them. When she sat, the quilt
slid down into a wrinkled heap around her waist.

She’d never been an
exhibitionist, yet she felt no shyness about her nudity, not even
when Quinn’s eyes came into focus and he gave her an appreciative
once-over. She was tempted to say, “Move along, folks—nothing to
see here,” except that he
did
see something, and he clearly liked what he saw.
If he remained in her life, she was going to have to get used to
thinking of herself as something to see.

The possibility unnerved her. It delighted
her.

“I’m sorry,” she said, swinging her legs
over the side of the bed in a gentle motion so as not to knock him
onto the floor. “I’ve got to bake.”

“That’s all right.” He stretched, the
muscles in his lean, strong chest rippling, and rubbed the sleep
from his eyes. “I’ve got to drive down to Boston and get ready for
this stupid thing at the homecoming game.”

“It’s not stupid,” she said, gathering their
scattered clothing from the floor and piling Quinn’s onto the bed.
“It’s an honor.”

He snorted. “I’d rather be at your store’s
opening.”

“You said you’d stop by after the game,” she
told him.

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

She ducked into the bathroom, took a quick
shower, and wrapped a towel around herself. Returning to the
bedroom, she handed Quinn a fresh towel and said, “It’s all
yours.”

By the time he’d emerged from the bathroom,
she was dressed and in the kitchen, scooping Cookie’s litter clean.
She poured some kibble into the cat’s bowl, cut a bit of cod into
the bowl as a garnish, and filled the water dish. “There’s
oatmeal,” she informed Quinn. “I can make some toast. I have
oranges. And coffee.” She gestured toward the coffee maker, already
gurgling as the pot filled with the fragrant brew.

He closed the distance between them, circled
his arms around her, and pulled her into a hug. “Good morning,” he
murmured, his voice a deliciously low rumble.

She leaned into him, feeling simultaneously
weak and strong. She had been so looking forward to this day, to
her shop’s gala opening—yet she couldn’t help wishing she didn’t
have to go anywhere today, except back to bed with Quinn. Closing
her eyes, she relived the sensation of his weight on top of her,
his mouth warm and moist on her skin, his erection pressed hard
between her thighs, his body deep inside hers. Heat billowed within
her. Could she come just from a hug?

Possibly, if the person hugging her was
Quinn Connor.

He kissed her brow, the tip
of her nose, and then her mouth, his tongue stealing inside.
Possibly
switched
to
probably
in her
mind.

But she couldn’t linger in her kitchen,
kissing him. There was no time. “Let me get you something to eat,”
she said, easing out of his embrace.

With a rueful sigh, he released her. “I’m
not hungry,” he said. “A cup of coffee is fine.”

They sat facing each other at the small
table in the room, its bright fluorescent light emphasizing the
pre-dawn darkness on the other side of the window. Cookie nibbled a
piece of kibble, her teeth crunching the crisp nugget. Quinn and
Maeve sipped their coffee, saying little as they studied each
other, separated by four feet of scratched maple table-top and an
old salt shaker.

Was he home for her? she
wondered. Or was he
the way
home?

She had no idea. All she knew was that if
the song hadn’t played when they’d both been in the Faulk Street
Tavern that afternoon, they wouldn’t be here now. She would never
have spoken to him. She would never have spent more than an
appreciative instant gazing at him.

She couldn’t waste time pondering the puzzle
he presented. She had cookies to bake, a door with a bell on it to
open, and customers to satisfy. Later today, he would be one of
those customers. That promise would have to satisfy her for
now.

***

Quinn drove back to his apartment in Boston,
his head swimming and his body humming with arousal, a subtle white
noise vibrating inside him. Far from washing away the memory of
Maeve, his shower only seemed to soak her more deeply into his
pores. The spray of hot water on his skin reminded him of her
touch. The hiss of the showerhead reminded him of her ragged breath
when she came.

It wasn’t love. How could it be? Before this
week, they’d never even spoken to each other.

But damn, whatever was going on between them
was making him happy and edgy and just this side of crazy.

His apartment was empty, both his roommates
on duty at Mass General. Grateful for the solitude, he took a nap,
then scrambled himself some eggs and toasted two slices of wheat
bread. He needed nourishment to power him until he could be with
Maeve again. At her store, he’d eat cookies. Maybe not as healthy
as eggs and toast, but ten times tastier.

He shaved, dressed in fresh khakis and a
tailored shirt, donned a jacket—not his old varsity jacket but the
leather bomber jacket he’d splurged on when he’d graduated from
medical school—and drove north, back to Brogan’s Point. His car
wanted to steer itself to a certain humble apartment abutting an
alley on Atlantic Avenue, but he’d only find Maeve’s cat there, not
an alluring woman with a shy, dazzling smile. He would have driven
by her shop, but he didn’t have time for that detour, let alone the
temptation being near Maeve would pose. Ashley and Coach Marshall
had told him to meet them at the football field by noon. It was
nearly noon now.

He navigated to the high school. The lot was
packed with cars, and hordes of football fans flocked across the
soccer and field hockey fields that stretched between the lot and
the football stadium. Homecoming game was a big deal in Brogan’s
Point. Students, locals, and alums streamed across the playing
fields like the faithful on a religious pilgrimage. Children chased
each other. Teenagers tossed footballs and Frisbees. Stout older
men wore Brogan’s Point caps and gathered in clutches to recall
their own high school gridiron exploits. Cops occupied various
strategic posts, scanning the crowds, searching for trouble.

Quinn wondered if Maeve’s father was here,
and if so, what the guy would think if he found out Quinn, the
alleged man of the hour, had spent the night in his daughter’s
bed.

Not the whole night. Not nearly enough of
the night. Next time, Quinn vowed to himself, he would arrive
earlier and stay later. If she had to rise at some ungodly hour to
bake cookies for her store, he’d get up with her—and he’d be ready
for her once her day was done and she returned to that bed for
another night in his arms.

A pre-teen girl, all coltish legs and silver
orthodonture, scampered toward him as he neared the snack shed
beside the entry to the stands. “Don’t buy a snack here,” she
chirped, stuffing a paper into his hands. “Eat a cookie from
Cookie’s!” He glanced at the paper: an ad announcing the opening of
Maeve’s store. He smiled, folded the paper neatly, and tucked it
into his jacket pocket.

He spotted Ashley and Coach Marshall by the
gate. Ashley strode toward him and tucked her hand through his
elbow, as if yesterday hadn’t happened, as if he hadn’t told her
that nothing more than a shared history existed between them and
she hadn’t told him to perform an anatomically impossible act on
himself. As if he hadn’t spent the night with another woman.

Ashley wore a chic suede jacket, skinny
jeans and tooled leather cowboy boots which Quinn found amusing,
since he knew she’d never step anywhere near horse shit. Her eyes
were bright, her cheeks a delicate pink. Her smile was hard and
practiced.

Closing his eyes, he pictured Maeve’s
disheveled hair, her long-sleeved T-shirt, her wrinkled jeans and
sneakers. Her smile, so fleeting yet so radiant. A spasm of lust
tugged at his groin but he ignored it. He was at the football
field, not in Maeve’s cramped little bed. Wrong time, wrong
place.

In fact, as they strode
down the dirt path where the grass had been worn away by countless
spectators passing through the gate and into the stadium for
countless games, Maeve receded to a corner of his mind. Ten years
had passed since he’d last stood on this field. He used to enter
from the other end, down a walkway from the locker room. The team
would sweep into the stadium, Quinn at the front of the pack
because he’d been the first among equals. The cheerleaders would be
waiting for them, forming two straight columns for them to pass
between and waving their sparkly pompoms as he and his teammates
jogged onto the field, their cleats drumming against the packed
earth. The crowd would cheer. A few people would blow deafening
horns. The team would line up along the benches in front of the
home-side bleachers, their shoulder pads bumping, their grins cocky
because they’d had such a spectacular season his senior year.
They’d been unbeatable, practically untouchable. Quinn would end
that season coronated the state’s offensive player of the year by
the
Boston Globe
.

Today, he entered the stadium through the
public gate, because he would be watching the first half of the
game from the stands. He was granted a privileged perch: Coach
Marshall and Ashley led him to a seat several rows up on the
fifty-yard line. Settling onto the bleacher, they flanked him like
bodyguards, Ashley’s hand still wrapped possessively around his
arm.