Not the Marrying Kind Read online

  “Anyway, back to planning this concert,” she said. “We need to set up the website and have that go live immediately so we can start selling tickets. And I’ll talk with my brother-in-law and ask him to sponsor the show to fill the gap.”

  “Mateo said he’d whip up the design tonight so we can get it printed tomorrow,” I added.

  She scribbled something down. “We have a printer in-house. Let me handle that once he’s done. Are you going to paper the street with them, like when we were teenagers?”

  “Hell yeah.” I kicked back in the chair. “You remember that?”

  She tucked her golden hair back behind her ear. “I remember walking down that street with Roxy and seeing the concert posters papered across the buildings and up and down the telephone poles. A solid block of color, that excitement before seeing a live show. That buzz, you know?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I don’t get to see music in the same way on the road. Or maybe…” I paused, chewed on my lip. “Maybe it’s different. Seeing a live show with strangers instead of with friends. Like when you want to talk about it after —”

  “And there’s no one around who gets it.”

  I pointed at her. “Maybe that’s it. I miss sharing that high. It’s hard to describe.”

  She watched me closely, and then set her notes and pen down. Perched back up on her desk and crossed one leg over the other, all grace and delicacy. “Is it hard, moving around so much? Never settling down?”

  “It’s a grand adventure,” I said. “It’s never seeing the same thing twice, eyes wide open to take in this big, beautiful country. It’s no routine, constant change, learning the rhythm of each town or city and being constantly surprised. I think settling down sounds boring.”

  She studied me for a few seconds, looking so pretty it hurt. “I guess it depends on who you settle down with. I see starting a life with someone, settling down with them, as romantic. You build this life with them that’s all yours, a life that will last. Plus, I’m like your dad. I don’t think I’ll ever leave this city. I love it too damn much, love being close to my family too damn much.”

  “Have you ever left though?”

  “What, New York?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Have you ever been anyplace else?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I spent a couple of summers on tour buses with my parents when I was in middle and high school. Roxy and I were baby roadies.”

  I shook my head. “I love your parents.”

  “They’re something else.” She smiled. “We complained a ton in the beginning, but by the end, I remember loving the spirit of it. The total… I don’t know…”

  “Freedom?” I offered.

  She fiddled with her diamond earring. “You’re right. There was a sense of adventure, which I did end up appreciating after I got over my anxiety of having things be out of control. I liked meeting The Hand Grenades’ fans, seeing all of these mini-families spring up that weren’t biological but found. Brought together through music and shared experiences. I always enjoyed that at The Red Room.”

  “It is a family,” I admitted. “Pop’s extended family.”

  “I saw that on the road with them. And it was one of the more thrilling summer vacations of my life. But even though the experience was pretty epic, I wanted to be home again. My home. Does that make sense?”

  It did, and it didn’t for me. Because even though the past few days had been filled with confusing emotions that pushed and prodded at my thoughts, my own mother swore by this lifestyle. I missed her, so much, and I felt close with her this way, even if we weren’t talking all the time.

  “It makes sense for you,” I said. “You could get back to your calendars and your fancy pens.”

  She laughed a little. “True. The absolute lawlessness by which my parents lived that summer was hard for me but fun for them and Roxy. But more than anything, I missed my roots.”

  Roots. There it was again. Roots just hold you back was something she told me often, that the life Pop led—the life Fiona wanted—was a recipe for a boring-ass life.

  “What’s your mom like?”

  My eyebrows raised automatically. “Goin’ deep there, Fiona?”

  “I think friends talk about all kinds of things,” she said. “But I’m only asking. You don’t need to answer.”

  I raised one shoulder. “I’m teasing. I’m just not used to talking about her. Mateo and Rafael knew her off and on after the divorce, the few times she came home briefly to see me. They don’t really like her. Not a lot of people do. Which I get. To know my dad is to be his number one fan.”

  “It’s hard for me to picture him as heartbroken,” she said softly.

  I leaned my elbows on my knees, hands forming a fist. “It was pretty brutal. He always took care of me, I was always loved, but I could tell he was different. Like he retreated into himself. Head down, working all the time, not a lot of joy.”

  “And how did your mom handle it?” she asked.

  “She was happy,” I said. “She was finally living the life she was meant to. She has a motorcycle, she rides with a few clubs when she’s in a city for long enough, but she’s a loner too. Charming as hell. Funny. People like her.”

  I resisted the urge to ask Fiona if I had a Max Devlin thing. Like what Mateo had said, how I charmed my way into situations and out of them and didn’t always face consequences. It was the kind of thing that kept rattling around in my brain. Sometimes, when I thought about it, I thought about my mom too.

  “Did she stay around to do mom things with you, though?” Fiona asked.

  “Oh, no,” I said, shrugging slightly. “Being here was stressful, I think.”

  “But that meant she didn’t see you, right?”

  I swallowed a sigh. Scratched my jaw. “No, she didn’t stay around for me. But she’s my mom, you know? I’d do anything for her. And we’re so alike.”

  Her head tilted. “You might like the open road, but you seem more like your dad to me.”

  “Pop? No way.”

  “You care about people, Max,” she said. “Maybe you got that charm from your mom, but I bet that heart of yours is all Pop.” She paused again, while I mentally scrambled to unpack what she’d said. It wasn’t how I saw myself at all. “And I don’t see you as a lifetime loner, either. I don’t know. Just my thought.”

  I leaned back and stretched out again. Talking about the future was starting to stress me out lately. I needed space. “I’m only twenty-eight. I’ll figure it out. For now, I’m here for fun, right?”

  Her lips pursed. “The anti-Prince Charming.”

  I winked at her. “At your service.”

  She tossed a balled-up piece of paper at my head. I caught it, lobbed it right back at her. She snatched it with one hand, one brow lifted. “Services not needed, I’m afraid.”

  “So how is that light celibacy thing going anyway?”

  She placed the paper down carefully on her desk. Recrossed her legs so goddamn slowly I knew she was teasing me. Being around her activated a lot of different parts of my brain I didn’t really use before—jealousy being the biggest one.

  “It’s going alright,” she said—with a sincerity that brought me up short.

  Maybe we were becoming… friends?

  “It’s always been my goal to be married by thirty, which is in eighteen months. Seeing my big sister fall madly in love and then get engaged to this spectacular human being, Edward, made me realize how much I want the same thing. And I’ve achieved every other goal I set for myself, career-wise especially, so this is my final hurdle.”

  “And what happens after you achieve it?”

  “I’d just be happy,” she said, breaking into a wide smile.

  I cocked my head. “But if you turn thirty, and you’re still single, nothing bad will happen. The world keeps right on spinning either way. Why not let the next two years be a surprise instead?”

  “The world spins because of a precisely tuned gravitational pull. Th
at, my friend, is smart planning.”

  I rubbed my jaw slowly, thinking about what she said. Thumbing the wall behind me, I asked, “So then I imagine you’ve got a system in place that’s color coordinated?”

  She studied me for a moment. “I do, actually. I’ve got a pretty in-depth spreadsheet analysis. And I signed a contract a week ago. With myself.” She hesitated. “Saying it out loud, I know it sounds a little… silly.”

  “Wait, who said it was silly? You love writing out your goals and shit.”

  A smile flashed across her face. “I do love writing out my goals and shit. But my family tends to think these tendencies of mine are pointless.”

  “Why do you like it though?”

  Her eyes slid to the wall of dates and deadlines behind me. “It makes me feel secure and focused. My family likes to cultivate chaos instead.”

  We were both silent for a second, feet tapping to The Clash.

  “So tell me what this piece of paper says.”

  She seemed a little surprised at my question. “I was pretty tactical last year with the men that I dated. They all seemed to fit my guidelines on who I believe my future husband to be. They all swore up and down that they were with me for the same reason. Then once we finally had sex, I didn’t hear from them again.”

  My vision went red at the edges. “You remember where these assholes live?”

  “Roxy will take care of them,” she said, although she reached out to squeeze my arm. “But thank you.”

  It was a fleeting touch—she barely grazed me—but it tripled my pulse.

  “The contract helps me narrow my focus,” she continued. “I made it clear, for myself, that I wouldn’t engage in anything physical until I could guarantee we were on the same page about commitment.”

  I thought about Mateo and Rafael, about Pop sending those messages to Angela. “I’m no expert on falling in love, but isn’t part of it the risk? All the scary parts?”

  Her smirk was teasing. “What do you know about the scary parts? I didn’t think you’d ever fallen in love before.”

  “I haven’t,” I said firmly. Because I hadn’t. “And I never give it the chance.” I leaned back again, letting what she said sink in. “And I guess, I don’t think I like the idea of a risk either. That’s probably a lot of my mom’s influence, that to enjoy the best things in life, keep it easy, fun, uncomplicated.”

  Although I wondered, staring up at Fiona, where this tactical strategy left room for her passion. There were definitely parts of her that didn’t seem to want to conform to lists. But I wasn’t sure what that meant for her future husband.

  “Easy and uncomplicated,” she repeated. “That sounds like you. Which is why we’re just friends.”

  She emphasized just. She was right. But my new jealousy wanted me to fight against that label.

  “Unless I’m your secret soul mate,” I said.

  Her head tipped back as she laughed. “That’s a good one.”

  “I’m sure I’ve been someone’s soul mate.” I sounded prickly.

  “Except you never stay the night.” She crossed her arms, challenging me.

  So I gave her a long, sexy perusal even though I was playing with fucking fire. And shouldn’t feel any sort of way about the desire I saw in those green eyes. “I’m a guaranteed three orgasms type of experience. Seems like some women might fall in love with me after that.”

  “That’s all?” She lifted her chin. “I only fall in love after four orgasms.”

  That smart mouth was going to literally kill me because going toe-to-toe with Fiona Quinn was my new hobby now.

  Maybe this was why people dug friendship so much.

  I dropped my elbows onto my knees again, bringing me closer to her bare skin. When my brow arched, she re-crossed her damn legs, giving me a glimpse of the paradise between her thighs. Darkness, shadow, temptation. I’d bet every dollar I had she tasted like fucking heaven.

  “I can up my game, princess,” I said. “Five, six, seven orgasms. You give me the number, and I’ll provide the climax. Would fit real nice on that spreadsheet of yours.”

  Her smile was a sweet secret. “My contract forbids me since you’re not the one, as we’ve established.”

  She slid off her desk, hips swaying, and rounded to the other side. She was putting literal and physical distance between our flirting. “But you and me? We’ve got a concert to plan and little time to do it. And I’m sure you need to gear up for the dozens of orgasms you’ll be providing to women across the city tonight.”

  I flexed my fingers, wanting more time flirting with Fiona, not less. But I stood, ran a hand through my hair. “I should limber up. Stretch.”

  “Good luck out there.” She was already turning her laptop back on, writing down notes. “Although you won’t need it.”

  “Yeah.” I was backing slowly away, trying to catch her eye. When she finally looked up, I gave her a snappy, double-finger-guns move that was absolutely the dorkiest fucking thing I had ever done.

  “Are you okay?” She looked confused.

  “Just loosening up,” I said, rolling out my shoulders. “You, um… I mean… you can say no to this, but I’ll be working on Mateo’s bike for a bit on Saturday night. You could swing by, meet him, talk concert stuff. We could… hang out.”

  It was time for a hole to open and swallow me up.

  “Sure,” she said. “And I’ll text you tomorrow as I’m getting things done for the show.”

  “Right,” I said. “The show.”

  She was already on the move, sticking notes on the wall. I was dizzy again, and I didn’t want to go. I needed to say something.

  I cleared my throat. She turned toward me. “For the record, and I mean this as your friend, but the guy who ends up marrying you will be the lucky one. Any man who says differently is a fucking fool.”

  She leaned one shoulder against the wall, looking vulnerable for all of a second. “That was very kind of you to say.”

  “I don’t lie.” I shrugged. “I meant every word.”

  And then I left, before I did what I really wanted to do—take two big strides and kiss her senseless.

  But I couldn’t do that because her next first kiss needed to be from a man who could mean something to her.

  And that wasn’t me.

  17

  Fiona

  Roxy walked down the sidewalk toward me with the serious trepidation of someone about to diffuse a bomb. I’d kept our wedding dress shopping location a secret, although I had sent her a message, asking her to mentally prepare to look like a cupcake on her special day.

  I stood in front of the plate glass window with my arms crossed and a smirk on my face. “Ready, cupcake?”

  She held up a single finger as she got closer. “I will try on one single cupcake dress because of my deep and devoted love for you.”

  “Aw, Roc.”

  “I’m serious.” She still hadn’t seen the name of the place yet, and it was giving me the giggles. “Wait, what’s wrong with you? You didn’t call a bridal reality show, did you? Are there fucking camera crews waiting for me to say yes to the dress?”

  I shook my head and pointed to the sign above my head that read The Black Veil. “It’s a gothic bridal shop.”

  I stepped aside—the mannequin in the window wore a sleek black wedding dress with red lace. She looked at the sign, then at the dress, then at me.

  And then she leapt into my arms.

  “I would never put you in a white dress,” I said, squeezing her back. “You made me swear a blood oath when we were teenagers.”

  She was quiet, and when I pulled back, she was wiping a stray tear. As soon as I noticed, she glared at me affectionately. “Don’t get mushy.”

  “Never,” I said somberly.

  “This is a big deal, I guess.”

  “Getting married?” I laughed. “Of course, it is. But don’t worry, I’ll protect your secret.”

  She reached into her bag and brought out a tiny
bottle of whiskey. “To celebrate, right?”

  I felt a twinge in my belly because I’d missed a good amount of quality time with Roxy to pursue dating last year’s crop of useless men. And as soon as The Red Room concert was over, I knew it was time to get back out there again, contract in hand. But I wanted to find more of that balance, wanted to figure out how I could prioritize chasing my own joy while spending time with family. Max had spoken fondly of keeping his relationships easy, but the more I sat with that concept last night, the more I realized that wasn’t what I wanted when it came to my family.

  Those thoughts had me calling my sister this morning, inquiring about her availability for some last-minute wedding dress shopping tonight. Luck was in our favor—Roxy hadn’t booked any clients, and my last meeting wrapped up at 6:00.

  “Sharing a bottle of whiskey while shopping for a wedding dress Morticia Addams would wear is certainly on brand for the Quinn family,” I mused. I ducked my head, catching her eye again. “Are you a little nervous?”

  She chewed on her lip. “Nervous, but in a good way. I guess getting married to Edward hasn’t really seemed real until now. I’m so happy you’re here, Fi.”

  I smiled and tugged her inside, where we were greeted by a team of shoppers that looked exactly like Roxy. After a flurry of frenzied questions and measurements, I was planted on a red velvet chair in front of a sea of mirrors. My sister stood in the dressing room, already knocking back the whiskey bottle.

  I took out a pad of paper, a pen, and my camera. A slew of dresses began to arrive for Roxy’s approval, each more unconventional than the last.

  “Edward is going to, how can I say this, shit himself when he sees you,” I said, wincing at a black dress with a high, Victorian-style collar. When the tables were turned, Roxy would be escorting me as I found the perfect white, cupcake-style dress that made me feel like the princess I’d always wanted to be on my wedding day.

  I can up my game, princess. Five, six, seven orgasms. You give me the number, and I’ll provide the climax.

  “Fi, you okay?”

  “Oh yeah,” I said, fanning my face. “Just a little—holy hell that’s a lot of funeral-looking lace.”