brogue coming over the waves. “Jack?”
“None other. Can you call me hon again?”
She covered her face with her free hand in an effort to block out the light. “Stop flirting with me. Why are you calling me? It’s too early for battle.”
“You’re a wily one. I half expected you to have changed your phone number by now, and it’s only early if you’re a college student. We’re well into afternoon, Quinnie.” He laughed. “Late night with Nicholas?”
She swung her feet over the edge of the bed and shuffled across the room to the robe hanging on the back of the door. She didn’t sleep in. Why had she slept in? “Damn it. Late night with my manuscript, more like.”
She stumbled into the kitchen and made a beeline for the coffeemaker where she dumped out yesterday’s brew. “What do you want, Jack?” She didn’t have time for his antics today. “I’m not going to the wedding, okay? I mean it.”
“The wedding. Right.” A certain gravity in his voice gave her pause. “A few terrible things have transpired since I saw you last. It’s probably a lucky thing you haven’t left your flat today.”
“Terrible things? What terrible things?”
“First, check outside for me, will you? Anyone lingering near your doorstep?”
She finished measuring out grounds first. One must have priorities. She then traveled to the living room and peeked through the curtains at the front stoop. “Not a soul. What’s this about? You’re making me nervous.”
“It’s something I ought to show you. Thanks for confirming the coast is clear. I’ll be right over.”
The connection ended.
Quinn stared at the phone in her hand disbelieving. She hadn’t had breakfast yet, and she expected company? She tossed the phone onto the couch with a growl and retreated to her bedroom to swap her robe for something marginally more decent. Lavender velour pants and a white tank top were as decent as she intended to get. Her search for her brush was less successful.
She was on her second cup of coffee when the doorbell sounded and she admitted an anxious Jack into her apartment.
“Coffee?” she offered by way of greeting.
“You’re a bloody angel. Yes, please.” He hung his jacket on the peg next to hers and curiously looked her over.
“What?” she snapped. His scrutiny made her uncomfortable.
“Your hair is a fantastic mess.”
She declined to reply, fearing something less than kind would escape from her lips. Instead, she guided him into the kitchen and inquired how he took his coffee, a picture-perfect hostess.
“I’ll get it. I don’t need to be waited on. Go on, have a seat.” He plucked a mug from the carousel next to the coffeemaker.
It was too early to start an argument, so she did as he suggested. Jack poured his mug to the brim, no sugar, no cream, and joined her wordlessly. From his back pocket, he pulled out the thin, rolled-up magazine she’d noticed but not commented on. He set it in front of her.
She scanned the front page. The title was familiar, a celebrity gossip magazine widely available in the States. It took her less than ten seconds to spot the thing that had Jack nervously chewing his thumbnail while he waited. In the top right corner, a photograph showed the two of them locked in an embrace seemingly inches away from kissing.
Intimate.
No other word existed to describe the image. “Jack Decker’s Mystery Woman” read boldly beneath the inset along with a tagline inviting readers to page three for the juicy details.
The air in her lungs vanished. “Oh, no.”
Jack urged her to keep reading. “Go on, page three has the real goods.”
Quinn flipped through to find the photo enlarged and accompanied by three paragraphs. Well, that wasn’t so bad, right? Not a full article; three tiny paragraphs.
She read aloud. “Jack Decker, star of the critically acclaimed Myron’s Office , is seen here with an unidentified mystery woman. The only thing known for certain is there have
“None other. Can you call me hon again?”
She covered her face with her free hand in an effort to block out the light. “Stop flirting with me. Why are you calling me? It’s too early for battle.”
“You’re a wily one. I half expected you to have changed your phone number by now, and it’s only early if you’re a college student. We’re well into afternoon, Quinnie.” He laughed. “Late night with Nicholas?”
She swung her feet over the edge of the bed and shuffled across the room to the robe hanging on the back of the door. She didn’t sleep in. Why had she slept in? “Damn it. Late night with my manuscript, more like.”
She stumbled into the kitchen and made a beeline for the coffeemaker where she dumped out yesterday’s brew. “What do you want, Jack?” She didn’t have time for his antics today. “I’m not going to the wedding, okay? I mean it.”
“The wedding. Right.” A certain gravity in his voice gave her pause. “A few terrible things have transpired since I saw you last. It’s probably a lucky thing you haven’t left your flat today.”
“Terrible things? What terrible things?”
“First, check outside for me, will you? Anyone lingering near your doorstep?”
She finished measuring out grounds first. One must have priorities. She then traveled to the living room and peeked through the curtains at the front stoop. “Not a soul. What’s this about? You’re making me nervous.”
“It’s something I ought to show you. Thanks for confirming the coast is clear. I’ll be right over.”
The connection ended.
Quinn stared at the phone in her hand disbelieving. She hadn’t had breakfast yet, and she expected company? She tossed the phone onto the couch with a growl and retreated to her bedroom to swap her robe for something marginally more decent. Lavender velour pants and a white tank top were as decent as she intended to get. Her search for her brush was less successful.
She was on her second cup of coffee when the doorbell sounded and she admitted an anxious Jack into her apartment.
“Coffee?” she offered by way of greeting.
“You’re a bloody angel. Yes, please.” He hung his jacket on the peg next to hers and curiously looked her over.
“What?” she snapped. His scrutiny made her uncomfortable.
“Your hair is a fantastic mess.”
She declined to reply, fearing something less than kind would escape from her lips. Instead, she guided him into the kitchen and inquired how he took his coffee, a picture-perfect hostess.
“I’ll get it. I don’t need to be waited on. Go on, have a seat.” He plucked a mug from the carousel next to the coffeemaker.
It was too early to start an argument, so she did as he suggested. Jack poured his mug to the brim, no sugar, no cream, and joined her wordlessly. From his back pocket, he pulled out the thin, rolled-up magazine she’d noticed but not commented on. He set it in front of her.
She scanned the front page. The title was familiar, a celebrity gossip magazine widely available in the States. It took her less than ten seconds to spot the thing that had Jack nervously chewing his thumbnail while he waited. In the top right corner, a photograph showed the two of them locked in an embrace seemingly inches away from kissing.
Intimate.
No other word existed to describe the image. “Jack Decker’s Mystery Woman” read boldly beneath the inset along with a tagline inviting readers to page three for the juicy details.
The air in her lungs vanished. “Oh, no.”
Jack urged her to keep reading. “Go on, page three has the real goods.”
Quinn flipped through to find the photo enlarged and accompanied by three paragraphs. Well, that wasn’t so bad, right? Not a full article; three tiny paragraphs.
She read aloud. “Jack Decker, star of the critically acclaimed Myron’s Office , is seen here with an unidentified mystery woman. The only thing known for certain is there have
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