Men Like This. Roxanne Smith
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years of said marriage I spent sharing him with another woman whom he did love—you’ve met Kira?”
“I was there.” She practically heard her sister’s eyes roll.
Quinn paced as she got into her story. “Oh, good. We’re on the same page. Last night, four months after my divorce, I meet this guy. This sexy, charming, hilarious, totally engaging guy. We talked and talked and talked. I mean hours. He said things I have desperately needed someone to say. I’ve gone years—five years to be exact—without the things a woman simply needs to hear sometimes. I understand how men fake it to get laid. It’s kind of their thing. I learned that lesson back in high school like every other girl. The part you aren’t grasping, sister of mine, is I don’t care.”
Quinn waited for a burst of indignation or righteousness to come through the phone line, but silence reigned. She continued. “You probably envision me laying out my sad little story and lavishing in my Irishmen’s accented pity, but it was mature. It was…”
What was it?
She wanted to call it magical and important. He’d even called her Quinnie. Only their dad ever called her that. She wanted to say Jack was special, but Emily’s cynicism would ruin everything and make Quinn see the truth.
The only difference between Jack and Richard came down to success and failure.
“Let’s say the sex was symbiotic. He wanted to get laid. I needed to get laid. We used each other, and it was lovely. Bottom line? I don’t regret last night, and you can’t make me.”
Emily had no comment regarding her little rant. “What happened this morning? I can only imagine how awkward it must’ve been.”
“Not awkward at all. He’d left by the time I woke up.”
“Ha! How can you not feel used waking up alone after what you claim was some wonderful night?”
Quinn took a steadying breath. “I asked him to be gone in the morning.”
She was silent for a beat. “Why?”
Quinn was too dejected to pace any longer and returned to the bed. She wasn’t accustomed to feeling stupid. It took the fight right out of her. “To preserve the illusion. Jack was spectacular in bed and out. He was literally perfect, Em. I couldn’t have designed a more ideal man if God gave me holy molding clay and told me to have at it. Right now I can’t handle being confronted by another hurtful truth on top of everything else. I’d really appreciate it if you’d quit trying to shove this one down my throat. There’s nothing you can say I haven’t already figured out for myself and chosen to ignore. Call it selective awareness.”
Finally, Emily backed down. “I’m sorry. I really am. I forget how rough you’ve had it lately.”
Rough hardly touched the surface, but Quinn accepted the rare apology. “I have to keep believing Jack was perfect. If he’d woken up and bolted, or even farted at the wrong moment, the whole thing would’ve depressed me.”
Emily turned soothing. “Okay, I understand. How did he react when you asked him to go?”
Quinn studied her toes. Recalling Jack’s hurt expression made her uncomfortable. First, because she wasn’t certain she hadn’t imagined it. It could’ve been his I’m-off-the-hook face.
He’d mumbled something about a flight to catch, which effectively stopped her from recanting the request. It had been the only awkward moment in an otherwise-perfect night.
She lied. It was easier than listening to Emily convince her of the worst possible scenario. “He was obviously relieved. He told me he had a plane leaving the next day. See? It worked out for everyone.”
Quinn ended the call a short time later.
Talking to Emily had a way of bringing her down. She was lightning quick to point out Quinn’s mistakes. Everything from how she’d reacted to Blake’s affair—divorce was so extreme—to what guy she should’ve slept with last night became fodder for Big Sister’s Petri Dish of Scrutiny.
Quinn refused to have regrets. Sure, the odds Jack was the wonderful, perfect man he’d been last night in her foggy, beer-laden memories were astronomically low. She liked to believe he’d have been there with fresh coffee and his phone number on a sticky note this morning, but logic told her she’d have woken up alone all the same. Thanks to men like Richard and Blake, she knew better than to walk into a trap like Jack Decker.
Besides, he’d had a flight to catch.
A melancholy mood came over her, a little emotional soup to wade through courtesy of Jack and a mad hangover.
Who was the Irishman when he wasn’t trying to get something? He’d still be sexy, but would he still be charming and intelligent, funny and direct, empathetic and earnest? Which attributes were full-time qualities and which were employed at will?
She didn’t really want to know. The truth would likely destroy her fantasies of him. Best to preserve the illusion like she’d told Emily.
Preserve.
Memories faded. In another month she’d hardly be able to recall what Jack looked like, let alone the musical quality of his accent or the searing teal color of his eyes.
But words persevered. They brought life to stories and characters centuries old. If she really wanted to hang on to her version of Jack, the smartest thing to do was write him.
Hadn’t she told him what an interesting character he’d make mere moments after meeting him? Wasn’t this the very definition of fate?
She sprang from the bed and nearly collided with the desk chair as she raced for the courtesy notepad with the hotel’s logo printed at the top. She snatched up the pen and jotted down every last physical detail she recalled—his hair, his eyes, and the way his grin went lopsided when he said something clever. This character would be her best yet. He’d be smart and savvy; the perfect hero for any story. She’d need a plot able to stand up to him. Something complex, emotive, and built to showcase his range of funny and feeling.
Her creative frenzy came to a sudden stop. She chewed on the end of the pen and slid despondently into the chair.
She didn’t work with the concept of heroines and heroes. Jack’s character would never be fully realized in a horror novel. The genre revolved around victims and survivors. His sexual appeal would be wasted with his energy put into solving a crime. Writing him as the villain was unthinkable. The only place a character like Jack would be done justice was—
“Oh, no. No, no, no. Not happening.” Quinn stood up and stalked over to the window. She looked out over L.A. from ten stories up through sheer curtains and tried to come to terms with where her instincts were guiding her.
“A romance? I can’t write a romance. Richard will laugh me out of his office. He’ll say I’ve gone soft, lost my edge.”
She slowly meandered back toward the desk and the pad of paper. It called to her and willed her to indulge like a triple-threat brownie sundae.
Why not a romance? It wasn’t so different. Plot was plot. A story was a story.
Jack needed to be written. She wouldn’t dare risk falling in love with him, but her readers could. His Irish background provided ample material for a beautiful and tragic historical romance. The moment her brain accepted its fate, ideas for plot and setting began bouncing around in her head itching to be put on paper.
She reclaimed her seat at the desk and began to write.
* * * *
“You’ll need time.” Douglas, Quinn’s dad, picked through the last of his dinner salad. He pushed the red onion off to the side where it would remain uneaten. “More than usual. The basics are probably the same, but I doubt the details will be.”
Quinn swirled her glass of water. The lemon