Men Like This. Roxanne Smith

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ 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 slice and ice cubes spun in circles. They were at an upscale diner in Beverly Hills seated at a square little table for two in a quiet corner of the dining room. From her vantage point, she could people-watch and silently judge others for their menu choices. Who ordered banana pudding with chocolate cheesecake and tiramisu on the menu?

      “My standard year and then some. I’ll have a better grasp on timeline once I’ve completed my outline.” She shook her head. “Talk about a different animal. None of the same rules apply.”

      When it came to good advice, Quinn would be hard-pressed to call on anyone better than her father. He was the anti-Emily, always supportive and caring. However, like her sister, he wouldn’t quell at sharing his opinion. He hadn’t batted an eye when she’d slipped her idea of writing a romance novel into their conversation. It was all the encouragement she needed.

      “Research.” He pointed his fork at her, his eyebrows raised knowingly. “That’ll be a challenge.”

      She chased a crouton across her plate. “You’re right. I’ve been slashing for so long there’s not much I have to study up on to write an accurate bloodbath scene. I could probably analyze blood spatter for the LAPD crime scene unit if I ever needed a real job. But romance is a whole new search log. Thank God for the Internet, right?”

      Douglas gave her a disappointed look through his silver square-framed glasses. He was still handsome at his sixty-some odd years. His thick hair had the good grace to turn stark white rather than fall out as he’d aged, and he was the source of Emily’s chocolate-brown eyes. The uncommon hue of Quinn’s green eyes had come from their mother.

      Her father’s body language put her on the defensive. She squared СКАЧАТЬ