Not the Marrying Kind

  Not the Marrying Kind

  Kathryn Nolan

  Copyright © 2020 Kathryn Nolan

  All Rights Reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Editing by Faith N. Erline

  Cover by Kari March

  Photo: ©Regina Wamba

  ISBN: 978-1-945631-72-6 (ebook)

  ISBN: 978-1-945631-71-9 (paperback)

  010421

  Contents

  1. Fiona

  2. Fiona

  3. Max

  4. Max

  5. Fiona

  6. Fiona

  7. Fiona

  8. Max

  9. Max

  10. Fiona

  11. Fiona

  12. Max

  13. Max

  14. Max

  15. Fiona

  16. Max

  17. Fiona

  18. Max

  19. Fiona

  20. Fiona

  21. Max

  22. Fiona

  23. Max

  24. Fiona

  25. Max

  26. Fiona

  27. Fiona

  28. Max

  29. Fiona

  30. Fiona

  31. Max

  32. Max

  33. Fiona

  34. Max

  35. Max

  36. Fiona

  37. Fiona

  38. Max

  39. Fiona

  40. Max

  41. Max

  42. Fiona

  43. Max

  44. Fiona

  45. Fiona

  46. Max

  47. Fiona

  48. Max

  49. Fiona

  Epilogue

  Want more Max and Fiona?

  A Note from the Author

  Strictly Professional (Preview Chapter)

  Acknowledgments

  Hang Out With Kathryn!

  About Kathryn

  Books By Kathryn

  For those who catch us when we fall.

  1

  Fiona

  The text from my potential soul mate was infuriating.

  I’m sorry to do this last minute. But I don’t think we want the same things right now. I’ll see you around though.

  I exhaled long and steady through my nose—like a dragon mere seconds before burning off someone’s fucking face.

  Specifically: Brendan’s.

  “Last minute” referred to the fact that he was due to pick me up for a romantic date in fifteen minutes.

  “I’ll see you around” meant “I’m still here for casual sex, of course.”

  Disappointment flooded my veins. Brendan’s online dating profile had boldly stated he was a hopeless romantic searching for his future wife. His desire for a meaningful relationship was the reason we’d connected in the first place. Just two nights ago, after dinner and sex, he’d spun a story for me that felt as real as the bedsheets I lay tangled in. Stories of heading upstate to meet his parents, of cozy long weekends he was already planning for us. A story of monogamy and commitment that perfectly aligned with my own personal goals.

  I don’t think we want the same things right now.

  With sure fingers, I touched up my flawless eyeliner, smoothed my hands down my new dress and straightened the diamond studs in my ears. I debated a number of different replies, from polite to compassionate. Instead I walked over to my record player and dropped the needle down on a Joan Jett album. The second her voice came hurtling through my apartment—singing about wild girls and stone age love—I smiled to myself. Picked up my phone and began to type.

  Dear Brendan, my message began. Please go fuck yourself… forever. And god help you if my older sister catches you in a dark alley.

  I hit send. Then cranked up the music. Being an accomplished lawyer didn’t negate the fact that I was the daughter of punk rockers who’d tossed me into a mosh pit at ten the way some parents teach their children to swim.

  I was a fucking Quinn. We were taught to fight back.

  My methods of retaliation had always been different from the rest of my family. But that’s what made mine so much more successful. This was merely a minor setback. At the end of every relationship I’d had this year, there were steps I followed to track my outcomes. I tackled this romance problem with the same brutal efficiency I’d tackled the Bar Exam: organizing a planned strategy that maximized my goals and guaranteed results.

  Which meant I made a lot of goddamn spreadsheets.

  Stretching my neck from side to side, I sat down on my office chair and crossed one leg over the other. On the wall in front of me was a color-coordinated display of calendars, to-do lists, and sticky notes. Most of the hyper-planning work I did as an estate lawyer I saved for my actual office at Cooper Peterson Stackhouse. The array of action items facing me here were my personal goals—hopes and dreams I’d crafted in high school and clung to with a dedication that never ceased to confuse my parents and my older sister, Roxy.

  “Bad Reputation” started up on the record player, making me smile at first. My parents’ punk band, The Hand Grenades, did a killer cover of this song that Roxy and I had choreographed an entire dance to as teenagers. The vibe of the song matched my punk-rock sister’s shaved head, black eyeshadow and leather vests. It did not match my vibe in high school, which mainly consisted of neat sweater sets, notes for study hall, and take-home tests. I might have been a second-generation wild child, but I was never without my earplugs. I couldn’t study during The Hand Grenades’ raucous practice sessions without them.

  But my smile faded after only a few notes. I’d technically been a shitty daughter this past year. Until recently, Roxy and I spent every Tuesday night dancing in New York City’s last remaining punk rock club, The Red Room. Our parents had a weekly headlining set. And the Quinns, as a rule, spent more time there than was probably healthy.

  I hadn’t been there in more than ten months.

  The spreadsheet on my laptop lit up not a second too soon, sharpening the edge of my focus. Directly above the screen was a faded, wrinkled piece of notebook paper, where eighteen-year-old me had neatly, and succinctly, mapped out the course of my future.

  Graduate from high school as valedictorian.

  Attend NYU for undergrad and then Columbia Law.

  Get hired at a well-respected law firm in Manhattan.

  Meet your soul mate and get married by the age of 30.

  A cartoon heart followed that last goal.

  And that last goal was the only one I hadn’t yet accomplished—even as the deadline felt like it was rapidly approaching.

  I scanned my spreadsheet of dates and short-term relationships and boyfriends, although none of the men I’d dated this year were good enough for that term. Until five minutes ago, Brendan and I had been dating for more than two months. Like everyone else, on paper, on the surface, he’d checked off the boxes reflected in the spreadsheet columns.

  Career-driven.

  Wants to put down roots in New York City.

  Wants to get married.

  I was passionate about my career and drawn to men who felt the same way. Men who had an interest and curiosity in their jobs and the world around them. But I needed that passion to be here, in the city where I was proudly born and raised. A city that was notoriously hard to love and even harder to leave. I didn’t need a white-picket-fence lifestyle with my future husband. I did, however, crave the stability of staying put, in one place, and letting those roots grow deep in a neighborhood we could call our own.

  While
Roxy had collected magazines with musicians on the covers, mine had featured soft veils, long dress trains, bouquets of exquisite roses. A big, traditional wedding was in direct opposition to my family’s anti-establishment, pro-anarchy lifestyle.

  Which was the point.

  As deeply as I loved my rambunctious, tattooed, crowd-surfing family, the chaos of my childhood made me panicky and anxious. Other children my age had soccer practice, homework sessions at the dinner table, strict bedtimes. Roxy and I spent summers on tour buses and had godparents with spiked hair and facial tattoos.

  We essentially grew up in The Red Room.

  So I would never be able to deny that music was imprinted on my soul, sang in my blood, and infused my very being. But when my parents showed up at my teacher conferences, I prayed desperately that they would be fucking normal. Instead of bringing cupcakes with subversive sayings written with black frosting.

  As I filled out the cell on my spreadsheet labeled “summary of relationship termination,” my nostrils flared when, yet again, I typed in: Wasn’t interested in a long-term relationship. The men I’d dated this year had been the darlings of corporate America, had come from close-knit families with sail boats and penthouses. They themselves often had advanced degrees, had worked their way up into impressive positions, had friends and family and interests.

  Based on my careful calculations, we were a match.

  I’ll see you around though.

  I swallowed past a tightness in my throat and read through my sheet of failed potential husbands. Almost none of them had lasted more than three or four weeks. And as with all things in my life, I’d thrown myself into the dating scene, into the arms of these men, with dedication and a sense of purpose.

  But the data set in front of me was more damaging than empowering. There was a strong possibility the men I’d chosen had only been parroting what I wanted to hear to get me into bed.

  An entire year’s work of finding the one had been wasted. An entire year of my life had been spent dating men who were useless. An entire year of my—

  I accidentally knocked a packet of brightly colored sticky notes to the floor. A cup of pens followed, scattering like marbles. I paused, exhaled that dragon breath again. Touched the side of my eye where a tear had the audacity to appear. I wiped it away, shook my head.

  My name was Fiona Lennox Quinn, and I did not cry over useless men.

  I made plans.

  As I scooped up everything I’d dropped, my hands landed on my work bag, currently stuffed with carefully organized files of legal documents.

  A brilliant light bulb went off in my brain. And I knew just the person—just the sister—to help me implement a new plan. I sent a message to the sister in question, letting her know I was stopping by for a spontaneous visit. I ignored the slight pinch that reminded me I hadn’t seen my best friend in more than a month. Ever since Roxy had found her own actual soul mate—and was so damn happy I literally ached to see it—my desire to check this major life goal off my list had accelerated. So we hadn’t seen each other as frequently as we used to. But she had Edward now, and I had a husband to find. At a certain point I had to narrow down my focus and decrease distractions.

  I told all the animals, and they’re very excited to see their Aunt Fi, she wrote back. Everything okay though?

  I tapped my fingernails on the side of my phone. Roxy hadn’t been that enthusiastic about Brendan the one time they’d met. Her exact words had been duller than watching paint dry. The memory was gratifying now, and, okay, I’d fucking never admit this to my big sister, but she was right. I kept hoping his personality and charm would appear out of nowhere, like he was only hiding it to surprise me with later. His (supposed) excitement over marriage and commitment was what kept me going.

  I hated to admit defeat. But the second Roxy saw my face, her sneaky big-sister powers would spot the lie. Brendan dumped me. I’m fine but need your and Edward’s help with something.

  A second later, my phone lit up with her reply. Hiding his dead fucking body?

  I pressed the phone to my chest and shut my eyes, happy I was alone for this brief moment of vulnerability. The Quinns could be frustrating and intense, but there was never any doubt they wouldn’t move mountains for me if I asked.

  Thank you for that generous offer, but I’m good on body removal services. I carefully placed files and document templates into my bag. Picked up the needle on the record and silenced the music. I fixed the tiniest smudge of eyeliner and checked my appearance one last time.

  I knew what I had to do now.

  It was time to sign a fucking contract.

  2

  Fiona

  Roxy opened the door to her and Edward’s apartment in Washington Heights wearing a scowl filled with sisterly affection. She held out a glass of red wine so fast I had to jump back.

  “Your support is appreciated, as always.” I smirked. “And I’ll take that, thank you.”

  Wine in hand, I went to slide past her, but she stopped me with a hug I hadn’t seen coming. “Did that boring asshole break your heart?”

  “Not a chance in hell,” I said. Although the spontaneous hug from my sister had me feeling more than Brendan’s text. “Also, I miss you.”

  She pulled back, led me inside to be greeted by her parade of rescue pets. “Yeah, same. Where have you been, by the way?”

  I set the glass and my bag down as two cats and a dog came bounding over to me. Sinking to my knees, I gave grateful hugs to my furry nieces and nephews. Apple and Cucumber purred at my feet while Roxy’s three-legged pit bull, Busy Bee, spun around in excitement. My sister was devoted to animal rescue, an issue that revealed the secret soft heart beneath her snarky scowls and heavily inked skin.

  “Work has been chaos. As usual. And I’ve been busy dating boring assholes and then being dumped by them, via text.” I opened up my text exchange with Brendan and handed her my phone. Her eyebrows shot up in approval.

  “‘Go fuck yourself forever’ has a nice ring to it. And I’d be happy to terrorize him in a dark alley, even if he is only a minor annoyance.”

  I lifted one shoulder and managed to avoid her concerned gaze. “He was all about commitment and monogamy two days ago when we were having sex. Interestingly enough.”

  Roxy shot me a look I couldn’t avoid. “And you’re sure your heart’s okay?”

  “It wasn’t like that with Brendan,” I said. “My heart reserves judgment until I can ensure they meet my requirements.” I poked her arm. “No falling in love with my business school mentor on day one, like some of us in this family.”

  Teasing my sister about how rapidly she’d fallen in love with her sophisticated, British fiancé was one of my favorite things to do. And the way she grinned back at me illustrated how hopelessly in love she was. My sister’s passionate love affair with Edward was painfully obvious to anyone standing in the same room with them. I’d never experienced that feeling—yet. My relationships, when I had them, tended to be a little quieter. Muted. More of a study in our compatibility and less tearing-your-clothes-off-I’m-obsessed.

  But I assumed this came after your soul mate status was guaranteed. What was the point in messy, distracting passion if it only derailed your plans?

  I stood, reaching for the freshly shaved side of Roxy’s head. “Edward touch that up for you?”

  “What are hot fiancés for?” Like me, she was blond—although her dye job was more silver-platinum—and her hair hung long down her left shoulder. The right side of her skull had been shaved for years. It exposed the dazzling array of piercings in her ear and solidified her punk-rock aesthetic. Against her pale white skin, my sister’s tattoos were colorful, bright, and artistic. She was a tattoo artist who specialized in vintage designs, and her shop—Roxy’s—was just a subway stop away. From her combat boots to her fishnet stockings, she was a Quinn all the way.

  Which was why my family always teased me about my expensive pantsuits and tailored dresses, my pearls and
diamonds and perfectly coiffed hair. But I liked the clothing that I wore, and I’d learned early on that fishnet stockings made my legs break out in a rash.

  Edward’s giant and sweet rescue dog, Matilda, came loping out of the hallway, searching for affection. I dropped a big kiss onto her boxy head. My future brother-in-law stepped out of their bedroom, still dressed in his suit from work. He was white with short, light-brown hair and piercing blue eyes. And Edward Cavendish III looked like fucking royalty—from his posture to his extremely expensive clothing, only enhanced by a refined English accent and the tendency to blush.

  If my sister embodied the eighties punk look, Edward was her exact opposite in every way.

  “Hello, Fi,” he said kindly, pulling me in for a brotherly bear hug. Which was nice. Over the past two years, he had grown from my sister’s super-hot boyfriend to the brother I’d never had. “Body disposal is certainly a service I’d be happy to pay for, should you see a need.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind, thank you.” I squeezed him back. “What have you two love birds been up to this evening?”