Balancing Act (The Santa Monica Trilogy Book 3) (15 page)

“Why are men such assholes?”

Quinn paused, fork suspended halfway between his plate and mouth. “Is that a hypothetical question?”

Angie frowned. “No. I really want to know.”

He chewed slowly before answering. “It’s built into our DNA, I guess. Courtesy of the Y chromosome.”

They were in the cafeteria on the ninth floor of the Stanley Mosk Courthouse, a panoramic view of downtown Los Angeles spreading out beyond the balcony.

Angie gazed across the asymmetric curves and angles of Gehry’s iconic music hall, toward the backdrop of glass and steel high-rises. An ominous cloud cover was moving in. She’d have to leave soon if she wanted to avoid a wet and unpleasant commute home.

Quinn finished his steak tostada bowl and glanced at her barely touched turkey wrap. “Are you going to eat that?”

She pushed her plate toward him. “Help yourself.”

“So,” he said between bites. “What’s going on?”

This was the question she’d been dreading, ever since she’d exited the court clerk’s office and run into Quinn. The last time they’d had lunch together, she and Zach had just taken the first tentative steps in their tumultuous pas de deux. Now, nearly three months later, she was still trying to figure out how she could have allowed things to spin so far out of control.

Quinn wiped his fingers on a paper napkin. “I heard you got a big settlement out of S&L. So it can’t be work that’s got you down.”

“No.” She stirred another sugar into her coffee. “It’s been busy. I’m not complaining.”

He pushed aside his plate and leaned forward. “Sounds like you could use a break. The L.A. County Bar Association is hosting a networking mixer tomorrow night. Why don’t you come with me? It’s at Seasons 52, six o’clock.”

She shook her head. “I appreciate the offer, but—”

“Before you say no, at least promise me you’ll think about it.”

“No offense, Quinn, but watching you troll for new talent isn’t exactly my idea of fun.”

“Ouch.”

“Sorry. Really. I’m not in the best of moods today.”

“I can see that. But no worries, I’ve got thick skin.” He cocked his head. “You can ‘troll for talent’ too, if you want. The field’s wide open.”

She sighed and glanced away.

“Unless you want to skip the mixer altogether and just invite me over. We can reminisce about old times.”

She blinked against the unexpected sting of tears. “You don’t have to be nice to me. I’ve been through worse than this before.”

“I might agree with you, if I knew what ‘this’ was that you’re talking about.” He waited several beats. “It’s about Mr. In-house Counsel, isn’t it? I’m guessing things didn’t work out?”

Her eyes widened. “How…?”

“You forget, it’s a small community. The
Santa Monica Magazine
had a whole spread on some gala event a few weeks ago. Including a photo of the two of you in a lip lock. And you’re not the only one who dines at Pomodoro.”

It seemed like a lifetime ago. The gala, where under the cover of darkness Zach had offered her the first intimate glimpses of his childhood. Their first dinner date, a few weeks later. She closed her eyes, recalling the taste of the wine, the soft music in the background, the unbearable tension of waiting for that exquisite kiss, and then the hours of pleasure that followed.

“So,” Quinn said. “You want to skip the mixer? I’ll keep you company.”

She opened her eyes, blinking when his image wavered. He offered her a clean napkin, and she wiped away the mascara-tinged tears from her cheeks. “This isn’t me,” she said. “I
never
cry.”

“I’ve got a nice broad shoulder,” he said. “And we can keep things strictly platonic. If that’s what you want.”

She offered him a watery smile. Having Quinn right down the hall from her office was about the only thing she missed from her BigLaw days. “Can I think about it?”

~

Three days, and Zach still hadn’t managed to get hold of Angie. Mindful of the last time this had happened, he tried not to panic. There had to be a perfectly reasonable, innocuous explanation.

But how difficult was it to answer a text? Or return a phone call? He stopped by her condo a few times, but the lights were always off. At work, her receptionist claimed she was in court, or off somewhere taking a deposition.

Zach even skipped his weekly racquetball game to go for a morning run in her neighborhood, hoping to accidentally-on-purpose bump into her. No such luck.

Had he overplayed his hand? Pushed too hard, too fast, for an emotional connection that she wasn’t ready to acknowledge?

He’d thought they were doing so well. Thanksgiving weekend had felt like a new beginning, an opportunity to explore and build upon all the things they had in common. Things that had nothing to do with sex, and everything to do with reinforcing the foundation of their future life together.

Which was why Angie’s abrupt disappearance made no sense.

At wit’s end, he finally called Eva, hoping she’d have some knowledge of her sister’s whereabouts and state of mind.

Eva seemed surprised to hear from him. “I assumed she was going to tonight’s mixer with you.”

“What mixer?”

The silence stretched, and Zach forced himself to wait it out.

Eva cleared her throat. “You know, it was Angie’s idea to invite you to Thanksgiving dinner.”

He muzzled his impatience. “I appreciate that, and I want to thank you and your family for the hospitality. If I haven’t said this before, I’m also grateful to you for all the kindness you’ve shown my father all these years.”

“The feeling is mutual. Tom will always be family. And by extension…” She hesitated, leaving the thought unfinished. “I’m sorry if I’m being nosy, Zach. But this situation with you and Angie…”

“Did Angie say anything to you?”

“Not really. I just thought, since she specifically asked that you be included in a family dinner…”

Zach sighed. “I’ll be honest with you, Eva. Your sister and I haven’t always seen eye to eye, but I was really hoping we could get past that and build something good together.”

“Are we talking work-related?”

“Forget work. This has nothing to do with work. Angie and I have been dancing around this a long time. We finally got together, and it was—amazing. She’s an amazing woman.” He clutched the phone hard. “I’m not sure what happened. Something must have, but I don’t know what. For some reason she’s avoiding me, and that’s not like her. If she has a problem with something,
everyone
knows.”

“True,” Eva said.

He rubbed his forehead. “I’m worried. I don’t know what’s going on. If you know where she is, please, you have to help me. I need to see her, talk with her.”

This time the silence lasted so long that he thought they’d been disconnected.

And then, Eva said the one word that infused him with hope. “Okay.”

The music was too loud. The lighting was too dim. The laughter around her was too shrill. Too many people were talking at each other, trying too hard to have a good time.

Angie was miserable.

“Drink?” Quinn said.

“What?”

He raised his voice. “Do you want a drink?”

She shrugged. “Sure.”

He left her side to battle his way to the bar, and she took refuge near a potted palm in the corner. She contemplated slipping out and taking a taxi home. The only thing that kept her rooted in place—other than good manners, which dictated that she at least let Quinn know she was leaving—was the fact that she didn’t want to be alone. She’d wasted enough time on regrets, asking herself questions to which she might never know the answers, and torturing herself with
what ifs
.

“Here you are,” Quinn said, jostling her arm and nearly spilling one of the drinks on her.

She accepted the glass. “What’s in this?”

“Rum, apricot brandy, pineapple juice, lime.” He tapped her glass with his. “Cheers.”

She took a cautious sip and coughed. “Any chance of something solid to sop up the alcohol?”

Quinn grinned. “Packs quite a punch, doesn’t it?”

“You could say that.”

“I think they have some finger food over there.” He waved vaguely toward the other side of the room. “Unless you want to go elsewhere for something more substantial?”

“No.” She took another sip. “Maybe.”

“Or—” he glanced up “—maybe not. Looks like we’re about to have company.”

“What?” She followed his gaze to the door.

Oh, God.
What was Zach doing here? He stood just inside the entrance, eyeing the crowd. He clearly hadn’t seen them yet, and for a moment she felt the cowardly urge to duck behind the potted palm and head down the hall toward the ladies’ room to avoid him.

And then his eyes lit on her and he forged a path through the teaming mass of bodies, like a battleship plowing through stormy waters.

Quinn touched her elbow. “Do you want me to take care of this?”

Angie considered it, then shook her head and straightened up. “No, it’s okay. I can handle it.”

Zach stopped in front of them. “Angie.” He didn’t bother acknowledging Quinn. “I’ve been trying to get hold of you.”

“I’ve been busy,” she said.

“Too busy to return my calls?”

“You’re a smart man, Zach. If someone doesn’t return your calls, it usually means she doesn’t want to talk to you.”

Zach glanced at Quinn. “Do you mind?”

Quinn shrugged and turned to Angie. “Your call, sweetheart.”

Zach’s lips tightened at the endearment.

Angie felt herself weakening. She’d missed him, damn it. Even in the midst of the crowd, with the heat and the chatter and the driving bass beat from the sound system, she could feel the pounding of her heart and the pooling of desire in her belly.

He was a player. Always had been. She’d known that from the start. And yet she’d fallen for him, hard. His charm, his wit, his strength. The little things he did that had lulled her into thinking that he really cared: offering massages when she was tense, making sure her appliances were in good repair, kneeling on the ground in his tuxedo so he could clean her feet.

And so she’d ignored all the warning signs. Made the classic mistake of thinking that she could change her man.

What a joke.

Turned out he hadn’t changed at all. And apparently, he wasn’t even
her
man.

But if he and Jeannine were back together, then what was he doing here? If he’d tracked Angie down just to tell her they were through, she might have to seriously reconsider her belief in non-violent conflict resolution.

She clenched her jaw. “It’s fine, Quinn. You mentioned something about appetizers…?”

“You sure?”

“Yes. Thanks.” She offered him a tight smile. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

He nodded and gave Zach a hard look before turning away. Within seconds, he was swallowed up in the crowd.

Zach stepped closer. “Can we talk?”

“I’m listening.”

“Someplace quiet…”

She glanced around, set her drink down on the nearest empty table, and headed toward the hallway she’d contemplated disappearing into earlier. Stopping halfway between the men’s and ladies’ restrooms, she folded her arms across her chest and looked at Zach.

He sighed. “What’s going on, Angel? One minute we can’t keep our hands off each other, and the next you pull a disappearing act.”

Angie blinked. Did he really not know? How could he be so oblivious? The man had gotten together with his ex-girlfriend, for cripes’ sake. Not even a day after Angie had stripped down to practically nothing and offered herself to him. And he’d turned her down.
This isn’t just about sex
, he’d said. Well, what the hell
was
it about, then?

“I saw you,” she said.

His brow furrowed. “What?”

“With Jeannine. Your old girlfriend.” Did he plan to continue playing dumb?

Apparently, if his confused expression was anything to go by. Suddenly impatient, wanting to get this over with and move on, Angie dropped her hands to her sides. “The Westwood Diner. On Monday. Ring any bells?”

Zach frowned. “Yeah, we were there. So what? We’re working on an amended Environmental Impact Report to submit to the City Council. Jeannine’s company did the original study, so we hired them to do an expedited revision. We met on Monday to review the draft.”

“Over lunch?”

“Yes,” he said. “It’s called a working lunch. I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept.”

Right. Except she’d never used
working
as a euphemism for
foreplay.
She dug her fingernails into her palms. “You were kissing.”

“What?” He scowled. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I know what I saw.”

“Really? And what was that? A peck on the cheek, like you might get from your great-aunt Mary—”

“I don’t have a great-aunt Mary. And if I did, she sure as hell wouldn’t look like your girlfriend Jeannine.”

“
Ex-
girlfriend,” he corrected. “We broke up over two years ago. And before you ask—no, I haven’t slept with her since.”

He sounded so adamant about it. Could she really have mistaken the situation so completely? She chewed her lip.

“So,” he said. “Now that we’ve straightened that out, my turn: should I be jealous of you and Quinn?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’ll take that as a no.”

“Unlike
some
people, I don’t make a habit of jumping from bed to bed.”

“Neither do I. At least, not anymore,” he amended.

“Since when? This morning? Last night? Monday afternoon?”

“Since the day I came to your office three months ago, and you looked at me as if you wanted to get naked and jump my bones right then and there.”

She stared at him.
Oh.
Had she been that transparent?

He took a deep breath and reached for her hand. “I can’t change my past, Angel. But I can promise you that if you give me a chance, you won’t regret it.”

She swallowed. “You can’t know that.”

“Yes, I can,” he said, bringing his free hand up to cup her face. “I love you, Angel. I want to be with you. Only you.”

Her eyes began to prickle. “You say that now…”

“Now and always.” He brushed his thumb across her cheek. “Forever and ever, till death do us part.”

As offers went, this one was pretty unequivocal.

“What do you say?” he whispered.

For a moment, she wasn’t even sure she was capable of speech. Then she licked her lips. “Can I have that in writing?”

He smiled. “I’ll have my people contact your people.”

And then he leaned in, claiming her mouth in an all-consuming kiss that lit a fire deep inside, like a match set to dry kindling on a hot windy day. She speared her fingers through his hair and pressed up against him, heedless of the line of people snaking past them toward the restroom, or the drunken catcalls urging them to get a room.

When they finally broke apart, breathing hard, it took several minutes for reality to filter back in.

“Come on,” Zach said.

She allowed him to lead her down the hall, back into the main dining area. “Where are we going?”

“Home.”

She picked up her pace to keep up with him. “My place or yours?”

“Yours, for now. It’s closer.” His fingers tightened around her hand as they threaded their way through the crowd toward the exit. “Did you drive?”

“No. I came with Quinn.” She scanned the room. “I should probably let him know I’m leaving.”

“Text him from the car.” He held the door for her. Outside, the evening chill made her shiver. He shed his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. “We need to get a place together. I have a friend who’s a real estate agent. I can shoot him an email tomorrow. How do you feel about Santa Monica, above Wilshire?”

“Can we slow down a little?”

He checked his stride. “Sorry.”

“Thanks,” she smiled. “But I actually meant the plan-making. You can’t go from playing the field to moving in together in two seconds flat.”

“I’m done playing the field, Angel. And we’ve known each other for thirteen years.”

She followed him onto the escalator to the garage level. “Okay. But for twelve and three quarters of those years, we’ve been on opposite sides of almost every argument. We couldn’t even be in the same room together without arguing.”

He arched a brow. “Apparently we still can’t.”

“See, that’s what I mean. We’ve got a long way to go before we’re ready to take such a big step.”

“Not really,” he said. “Think of our relationship as a house. We’ve been doing construction for thirteen years. The foundation’s solid, the wiring and plumbing are all in, the walls and roof are pretty much done. But no matter how carefully you design and build the house, there will always be little things that go wrong and kinks that need to be worked out—things you only discover when you’re already living there. It’s called an adjustment period, and everyone goes through it, no matter how long they put off the move-in date.”

He unlocked his car and waited until she was settled in before shutting the door and circling around to the driver’s side.

“So, how about it?” he prompted, when she remained silent.

“We’ve still got a lot to work out,” she said.

“Like what?”

She fumbled for an example. “Like who’s going to take out the trash.”

“I will.” He eased into the flow of traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard.

“What about the cooking?”

“We can take lessons together.”

She bit her lip. “Kids…?”

“Half a dozen.”

“Half a…
what?
”

“I’m leaving you room to negotiate.”

His laughter warmed her heart.

And that’s when she knew.
This
was love.

The kind that came around once in a lifetime. The kind that her parents and siblings had. The kind she’d dreamed of someday having herself.

And she’d almost thrown it away.

“Zach.” She smiled and tested out the words. “I love you.”

He reached for her hand and brought it to his lips, keeping his eyes on the road. “Love you too.”

As for the rest? That was all negotiable. Garbage, cooking—and yes, even kids.

~ THE END ~