Playing Dirty by Jennifer Echols Page A

Opening the smoking griddle, he muttered, “Crêpes.”
    She took her place at the bar beside Erin, who was trying and failing to suppress a self-righteous smile.
    Quentin slid a mug of coffee across the bar to Sarah. He asked her dryly, “Black?”
    Sarah preferred lots of cream and sugar. He was right, though: Natsuko would take hers black. She sipped the rich, expensive coffee he handed her, which without sweetener tasted like rich, expensive nail polish remover.
    Quentin transferred omelets and bacon onto severalplates and wrapped them in foil. He said to Owen, “Call the Timberlanes’ butler, would you?”
    As Owen fished his phone from his pocket, Sarah asked, “Who are the Timberlanes?”
    “Q’s next-door neighbors.” Erin smiled. “Q has a thing for old people.”
    Quentin said without looking up again from the stove, “I just hope I’m that wily when I’m a codger. If I live long enough to be a codger.”
    Owen rolled his eyes and said disgustedly, “Oh God .” Erin took the fiddle from her lap and played a low dirge.
    Quentin glared at both of them. “Are you making fun of me for Thailand ? I’m going to make fun of you when you have a near-death experience.”
    He might have been annoyed with them, but he fed them well anyway—so well that it almost made up for Sarah’s coffee. The pancakes were fluffy, the eggs were perfection, and the fruit was fresh and cold. It probably was the best breakfast Sarah had ever eaten. Which wasn’t saying much, because her mother wasn’t known for her culinary skills, either. The other three made no comment, as if they ate like this every morning. What luxury . Sarah ate until she was stuffed. Owen and Quentin were still eating when the doorbell rang.
    Quentin put down his food and took the foil-wrapped plates to the front door. They heard him exclaim from several rooms away, “Hot damn!”
    “The Timberlanes have a garden,” Erin explained to Sarah.
    Quentin returned carrying a large grocery sack. “I got some corn. See? It pays to be nice to people. I’ll make this for lunch, and I’m not giving you any.” He gestured to Erin and Owen. “You remember that the next time you make fun of me for being on a ventilator.”
    Owen asked, “How long are you going to milk this ventilator thing?”
    “I was near death!”
    “It’s hard to feel too sorry for you,” Sarah couldn’t help commenting. “You OD’d on coke. You did it to yourself.”
    “No he didn’t,” Owen told Sarah at the same time Erin said, “He has food allergies that close up his airway and make him go into shock unless he gets his medicine in time.”
    “She doesn’t believe you,” Quentin said simply. He turned to Sarah. “No corn for you, either.”
    Was he so stupid that he’d already completely forgotten they were supposed to be lovers?
    The doorbell rang again, and three long-haired men reeking of cigarette smoke let themselves in the door from the garage, waved briefly into the kitchen, and stomped down the stairs to the studio. They were followed immediately by a grizzled man with an impressively laden tool belt. “Came to fix your door?” Quentin pointed him down the stairs, too.
    Sarah had never felt so sad about a door being repaired.
    “I guess we’d all better get to work,” she remarked.So there would be no mistaking her message, she pointed at Quentin, then pointed toward the garage. She waved good-bye to Erin and Owen as she slid off the stool. Erin waved back. Owen stared. Sarah heard them whispering behind her as she rounded the corner.
    She met Quentin at the door to the garage. “You’re not very good at this,” she whispered acidly. “You act like you love fresh corn and that waffle iron more than me.”
    “It’s a pancake griddle,” he whispered back. “You told Erin last night that I remind you of Ernie from Sesame Street . That’s not good for business, either.”
    “Touché.” Sarah laughed.
    “Let’s try again to make Erin jealous,”