Not the Marrying Kind Read online

  “You love me and stuff?” I said, going for humor since Pop hated feelings.

  “I guess.”

  Seven years didn’t seem like a long time to me, but did it seem like a long time to him? Pop and me, we’d been a team. The second I showed him my first motorcycle, he’d clapped me on the shoulder and said, “Now you’ll never come back.”

  At the time, I thought he was happy. I’d been obsessed with motorcycles and bike culture for years. Would order magazines and spend hours on websites, dreaming of shops like Rusty’s, deciding I’d become a mechanic. It was obvious, the path I’d choose. Maybe he was accepting the inevitable.

  Mom left. I was bound to leave too.

  I poked around at the messaging part of the profile. “Do you like talking to Angela using this program?”

  “Nah, not really.”

  “What if I helped you send Angela emails? That’s a little better than these messages. And if she likes that, you could even meet in person.”

  “If she doesn’t delete my emails and change her name,” he said.

  “That’s always a risk.” I grinned. “You gotta shoot your shot, old man. It’s the only way.”

  He fiddled with his napkin, rolling it into strips, then rolling those strips into balls.

  “What is it?” I prodded.

  He looked at me with real concern. I was surprised. “I haven’t dated anyone seriously since the divorce. But I don’t want to spend however many years I have left alone. I worry that you’ll be like me sometimes.”

  “Like you how?” I asked, startled.

  “Alone,” he said.

  “Aw, I’m not alone.” I shrugged. “I make friends every town I land in. And it’s never hard for me to pick up women.”

  “Yeah, but…” He fiddled some more. “Is that your forever?”

  “My what?”

  “Your forever. On the road, no family, friends you leave behind. A different woman every night.” He shrugged again.

  “You make it sound bleak,” I said, trying to laugh. “It’s fun.”

  He held up a finger, and a server brought us the check. He tossed some bills on the table, then rapped his knuckles against the tabletop. “We should go.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, okay. But you know I’m happy, right?” I touched his arm, stilling his motions.

  “Of course. And you helping me with Angela and the money stuff before you head off again is real nice.”

  He shuffled past me toward the door, waving me to follow. I did, shrugging on my leather jacket and running a hand through my hair.

  And wondering why my father thinking I was alone and unhappy struck an emotional chord I wasn’t used to.

  10

  Fiona

  I wondered what I’d need to do to wipe that arrogant smirk off of Max Devlin’s face.

  Had a woman ever seduced him? Given him wicked smiles while flirting outrageously? Offered up a dozen sexy promises, each one filthier than the last?

  I’m the best bad decision you’ll ever make.

  If I’d taken control last night on that fire escape, with the anti-Prince Charming and his dangerous, bad-boy appeal, could I have rendered him speechless? Could I have stripped him of his posturing and reduced him to a man that was merely greedy for me in all the ways I was greedy for him?

  It wasn’t that I couldn’t picture it. I’d pictured it all last night as I tossed and turned in bed, my body aching with the unmet desires Max had stoked in me.

  On my hands and knees, crawling toward Max. Fisting my fingers in his shirt and yanking his mouth to meet mine. Kissing him roughly as I worked down his zipper, reached in, and gripped his huge, thick—

  “Fiona?”

  Maybe if I had Max gasping my name, he’d realize I wasn’t the princess he thought I was. Maybe if I licked—

  “Fiona, are you okay?”

  I blinked. Touched my jaw, which was hanging open. I dragged myself around in my chair blearily, like I was waking from a dream.

  My amazing legal secretary, Judith, stood in the doorway with a concerned look on her face. “Sorry about that,” I said, rubbing my forehead. “I must have been daydreaming.”

  I checked the time. It was after 5:00 pm, I was buried in work, and I’d been staring out of my office window like the world’s horniest lawyer.

  “You daydream?” she asked. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you distracted in all of my years with you.”

  I smiled nervously, casting a glance over to the laminated piece of paper sticking out of my work bag. “I definitely daydream. I just hide it well, I promise.”

  She didn’t seem to believe me. “Well. Anyway. I left everything you requested on your desk for the meeting tomorrow. I’m heading out, okay?”

  I reached over, touched the files in question. “Bless you. You are amazing.”

  She smiled once before leaving. And as soon as she disappeared from sight, I dropped my head in my hands and let out a shaky exhale. The total lack of sleep last night must have affected me. All day, my focus and motivation had wavered, hovering just out of reach. Sleepless nights weren’t uncommon for me, as any former law student can claim.

  But this Max Devlin-fueled insomnia seemed to be the cause of me literally drooling while staring out a fucking window.

  Say the word, princess. I’d be happy to worship at those pretty feet.

  I reached for my work bag, revealing my contract, which I’d had laminated this morning in direct response to my feverish sex daze.

  Given my upbringing, I had as much of a sailor’s mouth as any member of the Quinn family. I was no stranger to dirty words. Apparently, I was a stranger to dirty words being spoken to me, with a skill and expertise that had my skin buzzing with electricity.

  Sparks, maybe.

  But I shook my head, smoothing my hands over the paper. It might make me the ultimate office-supply nerd, but I’d had it laminated because it was important to me. As I read my own words, I remembered my goals: I will not engage in any physical affection, including but not limited to kissing, hand-holding, and, of course, sex until I can guarantee his commitment.

  Max’s open honesty about his disinterest in relationships was a breath of fresh air. At least with Max I knew, fully, where he stood—and how far away he was from being the type of man I wanted in my life. This was almost definitely plain old arousal. He was sexy, confident, and had a mouth made for sin. A compelling distraction for any woman, including me.

  I placed the contract back into my bag, grabbing a stack of sticky notes and my favorite pen as I walked over to my wall of calendars. My organization here in the office was more digital by design of my industry—evidenced by my carefully color-coded email system—but I was still a stickler for a paper calendar on the wall. Nothing helped me better to see both the big issues and the minor hiccups than staring at neatly positioned dates, timelines, and action items.

  This aspect of my personality was another element my family didn’t understand, but they tended to forget that by the time I was old enough to make lists, I was keeping track of our lives when my parents couldn’t. Lou and Sandy Quinn were enthusiastic helicopter parents, devotedly curious about their children’s lives and cheerfully excited about everything we did, even if it confused them. But their parental hovering didn’t always extend to what they called the “boring” parts: doctor’s appointments, school meetings, field trips. They maintained their own tour calendar and release schedule with a chaotic spontaneity that used to give me stomach aches.

  Meanwhile, I’d carefully tape up family calendars, meeting reminders, and chore schedules. I ensured Roxy and I went to the doctor and washed the bedsheets in the guest bedroom when I knew visiting musicians would be coming to stay at our house. The wildness of my childhood was fun. The wildness of my childhood was also panic-inducing. Only when I spent the night at friend’s houses or ate lunch at the homes of other families did I get a picture of clean houses, meals on a schedule, both parents working jobs t
hat didn’t require crowd-surfing at two in the morning in a dingy club.

  My preference for lists and hyper-organizing had been called adorably obsessive by friends, family, and coworkers alike throughout my entire life. And yet how else could a person force the anarchic universe into some kind of livable experience without goal setting?

  When my cell phone rang a second later, I picked it up, fully expecting it to be my sister. And it was. “How was the sex swing?”

  “Life-changing,” she replied. “However, I literally cannot walk today, so pros and cons.”

  “Edward Cavendish III remains a man of many surprises.”

  “He certainly is creative.”

  In the background, I heard the familiar strains of the Distillers, which meant she was at her shop.

  “Did Mom and Dad call you?” she asked.

  I leaned back against the wall, one arm across my waist. “They did. They called to thank me for coming last night. It was nice. Last night was really good for me.”

  In fact, right before she hung up, my mom had said, “We know how busy you are, Fi. We’re missing you, is all.” I wasn’t sure if she was finally picking up on my frustrations or what, but they didn’t often acknowledge how different my work and life schedule was to theirs. Or that my busyness was just as valid as their own.

  “I suggest more Roxy and Fiona nights in the future,” she said.

  “Please and thank you.”

  There was a shuffling sound, then a door closing. I imagined she was closing herself off into the small back office. “I heard some Red Room gossip today directly from the tattoo chair.”

  My eyes narrowed. Roxy inked a lot of the regulars and generally spilled juicy details with me. But the tone of her voice had me suspicious. “What about?”

  “I heard that Max Devlin, of all people, is back in town. And looking hotter than should be legal.”

  I couldn’t dispute that claim.

  “He sure is,” I said lightly, sensing a trap. “And who told you that?”

  “Tiffany.”

  I laughed. Tiffany was the same age as my parents, covered in as many tattoos as Roxy would give her, and a shameless fucking flirt. “Oh, Max is just her type.”

  “I think Max is, like, a lot of people’s type.”

  Women prefer me out of whatever clothes I’m wearing.

  “And Tiffany told me that you and Max were up on the fire escape for hours.”

  “Bullshit,” I said. “I was up on that fire escape with Max for, conservatively, one single hour. And all we did was talk and catch up. He hasn’t been back in seven years.”

  “And you did have sex with him, right?”

  I tilted my head back, debating spilling the beans about my horny insomnia and persistent daydreaming. But I’d never hear the end of it, and technically, it wasn’t something I really wanted to share. Sparks or not, he was a one-time distraction and certainly not someone I was ever going to see again.

  “He made a pretty big pass at me, but I turned him down,” I said, which was the truth.

  “Heartbreaker to the end.”

  I shrugged. “He’s only here for a couple weeks, Roc.”

  “That’s the perfect kind of one-night stand.”

  “Says the girl who fell in love with her one-night stand.”

  Her laugh made me smile. “Okay, damn, I yield. I thought I’d call and mention it is all.”

  “Your sisterly advice is noted,” I said. My phone beeped with another call, and when I glanced down to see who it was, the number that came up wasn’t one I recognized. Which usually meant it was client related.

  “Hey, Roc? I gotta go. Something with work.”

  “Love you. Have sex with Max. Byeeee.”

  “Love you. Never. Byeeee.”

  I shook my head, exhaled, then answered the phone with as much professionalism as I could muster on this strange day. “Fiona Quinn speaking.”

  “Hey, it’s Max.”

  I almost dropped the phone. His husky, morning-sex voice right up against my ear had those bonfire embers roaring to life immediately.

  “Oh… um, hey,” I stumbled, smacking my palm against my forehead. “How are you? Is everything okay?”

  I heard the crooked grin in his voice. “Sure thing. We’re all good here. I didn’t get a ton of sleep last night, but I’ll make it.”

  “Me neither.”

  Goddammit.

  “Is that so?”

  I didn’t want to contemplate Max and I both awake and potentially thinking about each other. Although, given Max’s penchant for flings…

  “I had a minor bout of insomnia, which isn’t unusual,” I countered. “Was your lack of sleep due to more vigorous activity?”

  There was a pause on the other end. I pretended my spike of anxiety wasn’t jealousy. “No, ma’am,” he drawled. “I went home alone last night.”

  “Rough night, huh?” I somehow managed to croak out.

  “It wasn’t so bad,” he said. “I had a lovely conversation with a smart-mouthed princess on a fire escape. Just a lot to think about. Kept me awake more than usual.”

  “You have my condolences.” I was twirling a lock of hair around my finger with a stupid grin on my face. “Anyway,” I said quickly. “Are you calling about your legal questions?”

  He cleared his throat. “Sure am. You’re probably busy as hell, but if you had a few minutes to swing by the club and sit down with me and Pop, we’d appreciate it.”

  I glanced at the clock on my wall. If I brought work home with me, I could carve out a precious hour. Distracting temptation or not, I fully meant what I’d said to Max last night. I had expertise and colleagues always willing to help, and I was more than happy to share them with a man who’d done so much for my family.

  “I can do that,” I said.

  “Fair warning,” he said. “You know what my dad is like. Showing you this stuff, talking about money, makes him feel pretty embarrassed. Go easy on him?”

  “I get it,” I said softly. “Large swaths of my job involve talking to private people about their most deeply held beliefs and misconceptions surrounding their finances and their legacies. It’s complicated and can be much more emotional than people even imagine. It’s pretty vulnerable.”

  I heard Max’s exhale. “Glad to know I’m not the only one who feels stressed about this stuff.”

  Being sued for $50,000 in back rent would stress anyone out.

  “Not at all. It’s not possible for me to make any promises but let me at least read the letter and call up a few favors. Does that help?”

  “A whole lot.”

  I grabbed my bag, running my fingers over the laminated contract, and shoved a clean legal pad inside to take notes. “I’ll see you in half an hour or so?”

  “Sounds good,” he said. We hung up, and I dropped my phone back in the bag. Noted the sparkly, fluttery sensations in the pit of my stomach. Noted the weakness in my knees and that ever-present smile on my face.

  And wondered if Max Devlin was going to be both a problem and a temptation.

  11

  Fiona

  The door to The Red Room creaked open, revealing the anti-Prince Charming in all of his rangy, broad-shouldered, tattooed glory. I lifted my chin on instinct and refused to be seduced by the cocky half-grin he flashed me. Max leaned against the wall, door propped by the tip of his boot. “For a woman who claims not to be interested in me, you sure did get here fast.”

  “I’m definitely here for Pop and to help The Red Room,” I said, surprised when my voice didn’t waver. “As I indicated on the phone.”

  I slid past him with a ramrod-straight spine. His mouth quirked like he could sense bullshit. “I’m glad I got through when I called. What with the potential husbands and all.”

  I arched a brow his way and gave a long perusal of his ripped jeans and scuffed boots. “I’m a sucker for a gentleman in a tailored suit. What can I say?”

  He looked down at his outfit. Shrugg
ed. “I guess I’m still fucked, right?”

  “And I’m guessing you’re no gentleman either.”

  He rubbed his scruffy jaw and gave me a look that threatened to knock me over. “Does enjoying depraved sex acts make me a gentleman?”

  I bit my lip to keep from laughing. “It makes you the antithesis of my soul mate.”

  His grin turned playful. “You know I get hard when you use words like antithesis.”

  “Maxy.” Pop’s gruff smoker’s voice broke up our banter. “You done fucking flirtin’, or you gonna let me get fucking evicted?”

  For a glorious moment, the cocky bad boy in front of me looked almost embarrassed. Especially when I said, “Maxy?”

  “Old nickname,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Come on.” He dropped his playful tone, and I almost wished it back. I followed him up the dusty, rickety staircase to the shoebox-sized office that existed on the second floor, above the stage and bar. When I stepped inside, next to Max, the sight sent my organizer brain into hyper-mode. But I wrestled it into submission so I could beam at Pop.

  “Hiya, Fi,” he grumbled, standing up. “It’s nice to see ya.”

  Pop was white, bald, and covered in faded blue tattoos. He commanded a huge amount of respect in this community. The Hand Grenades wouldn’t have gotten their start without small music venues like this one. Until now, the thought that this place was facing a financial disaster had been a nebulous one. The reality was much more painful.

  “Hey Pop,” I said, swooping in for a hug. He patted my shoulder awkwardly, coughing a little when I stepped back. “You must be happy to have Max home for a little while?”

  “Yeah, I don’t mind him.” He shrugged. On his desk was a haphazard pile of papers and mail and documents. My fingers itched to put them into some kind of order. “He gets me bagels in the morning.”

  Max hooked his boot around a folding chair, dragged it over, and sank back into it, long legs stretched out. “They say the love a parent has for their child can’t be described in words. I don’t mind him really packs a punch, Pop.”