Broken (23 page)

He was quiet for a few seconds, and Sara squeezed her eyes closed.
This is why you don’t do attachments. This is why you don’t get close to people.

“I guess maybe I should have asked you for your number,” he said finally. “I’m sorry. Look, I’ve got to go . . . I’ll talk to you later.”

“Wait!” Her eyes flew open and she racked her brain for something to say as he came back on the line. She finally just blurted out, “Why did you call?”

“Because I wanted to hear your voice. I’ve got to go.”

“If you wanted to hear my voice, then why are you so quick to hang up?” she demanded.

“Because I don’t see any reason to stay on the phone with you if you don’t want to talk to me,” he said, his voice thick with cynicism.

“I never said I didn’t want to talk to you,” she snapped defensively. “I just wasn’t expecting anybody to call.”

“Usually people have phones because other people call them.”

Not me—I keep a phone so I can get a couple of text messages a month, and maybe two fifteen-second phone conversations
. She rubbed the back of her neck, wincing as her fingers dug into tense muscles. “Yeah, I’ve heard that a time or two before. Look, I’m sorry . . . I’m being a little bitchy and I know it. I just . . . well, like I said, the call surprised me and I don’t do surprises well.”

He was quiet and then finally, he said, “Yeah, I’m not much on surprises, either. And I
am
sorry . . . I shouldn’t have messed with your stuff without asking you.”

“So next time you’ll ask permission before you go programming numbers into my phone?” she asked, forcing a lighthearted note into her tone. Already her brain was churning, though. What was he going to think when she had to change her phone, change her number . . .

You’re making the assumption he’s going to notice . . . or that you’ll still be here. You know you have to leave soon
, her common sense whispered.

“Nah . . . next time, I’ll make
you
program the numbers into your phone.”

In the background, Sara could hear the buzz of voices, the sound of a phone ringing, somebody yelling. “Where are you?”

“Work. Getting ready to head out for a few hours. It might be late before I’m done today.”

He worked late sometimes. She’d noticed there’d been a couple of times when he came home even later than she did, and he was often gone before she got up in the morning. Curiosity gnawed at her. She wanted to know where he worked, and exactly what he did that had him working such weird hours. He would be gone for two or three hours one day, twelve or more the next.

She’d noticed that there were days it seemed he didn’t work at all. There wasn’t any sort of pattern to it, either.

But she didn’t ask.

Couldn’t ask.

“I guess maybe I’ll see you in a day or two?”

He started to answer, then there was a loud noise. A series of crashes sounded through the connection, followed by raised voices. “Yeah, hopefully tomorrow, Sara. I’ve got to go.”

The phone disconnected and she lowered it, staring at it in bemusement.

“You know,” she murmured. “I think that’s the first real phone conversation I’ve had in a very long time.”

“
S
OMETIMES I wonder if maybe I deserve this.”

Happily ever after.

Sara was living in a fucking fairy tale, if ever there was one. Brooding, she shoved her hands under the running water and scrubbed them clean. One of her customers had managed to leave half of his food behind—
in
the seat—and she’d just spent the past five minutes cleaning up the mess.

Drying her hands off on a towel, she took a moment to take a deep breath, hopefully clear the irritation from her face. Irritated waitresses weren’t conducive to good tips. After one more deep breath, she pushed through the swinging door, leaving the kitchen behind.

She’d been in a lousy mood most of the day, and all because she’d woken up in a mood so cheerful, it would have put Little Mary Sunshine to shame. And why had she been cheerful?

The bell over the door chimed and she glanced up, felt her heart skip a beat as the reason for her good mood, and subsequent shitty one, appeared in the doorway.

It was entirely possible to be blissfully happy and heartbroken, all at the same time. That knowledge had been creeping up on Sara over the past week or so, but as she stared at Quinn, she knew she couldn’t hide from it anymore.

He made her happy, and at the same time, that made her miserable. It didn’t help that she’d gotten that damn message, either—one of those messages that indicated she needed to make a call and there had been yet another insubstantial hint that there might be a change coming. But she couldn’t
hope
. Couldn’t
plan
. Couldn’t do much more than wait.

Quinn saw her but didn’t say anything, didn’t head her way. As one of the other waitresses showed him to a vacant booth, one of her regulars flagged her down. She stopped to chitchat for a few seconds, but she couldn’t have recalled what she said five seconds after she said it.

She was too aware of Quinn. She could feel him watching her. Feel the slow, lazy way his gaze roamed over her body. Under the cotton of her T-shirt, her nipples went tight and hard. Low in her belly, she ached.

That wasn’t the worst of it, though.

He smiled at her and that faint grin hit her dead in the heart. She smiled back at him and he arched a brow, nodded at the empty place across from him. She glanced at the clock on the wall and then nodded. She hadn’t taken her break yet and they weren’t busy. She took a few minutes to turn in the orders she’d just taken, checked with one of the other waitresses to make sure her tables would be covered, then she started back to Quinn.

His eyes were half-closed, that smile tugging at his lips. She felt the warmth of his gaze roaming over her, and it left a heated trail, one that left her skin buzzing and her nipples tingling. She wished she’d taken a few more minutes to go back to the bathroom. Not that she could do much about the way she looked, wearing a T-shirt and jeans, her hair pulled back out of the way. Grimacing, she smoothed the shirt down as she slid into the booth across from him.

Over the past two weeks, the vivid bruising around his eye had gone from blue and black to green and yellow and now there was just the faintest discoloration along his left cheekbone. He smiled and reached across the table, catching her hand and lacing their fingers together.

Her heart melted at the gesture, but she managed a breezy grin as she said, “I dunno, maybe I’m a little forgetful, but when did I tell you where I worked?”

“You didn’t.” He lifted her hand and nibbled on her knuckles. “The pie did.”

“The pie? You mean the pie from last night?” She blinked and frowned. She’d brought home half a pie the night before and they’d ended up eating it on the couch in Quinn’s basement while watching
The Green Mile
. “Exactly how did a pie tell you where I worked?”

“I’ve had Annette’s pie before.” He glanced up at the older woman who manned the cash register. She waved at him and he nodded back. “Had some work here a few months back and discovered the pie then. Nobody makes chess pie quite the same way she does.”

“Good detective skills,” she murmured. “Relying on the taste buds. So are you here for more pie?”

“There’s still a slice or two left in the fridge.”

“Dinner, then?”

He grinned at her, a little-boy grin that brought out a dimple in his right cheek. “Just wanted to see if you were here like I thought.”

“You could have asked.”

“Yeah. But it didn’t occur to me until I was at work today. Got to thinking about you and after I finished up, decided to swing by here.” He leaned back in the seat, studying her with narrowed eyes. “I’m not pissing you off again, am I? Showing up here like this?”

“No.” She
should
be irritated, but she wasn’t. How could she get irritated because he’d wanted to see her? It wasn’t like they’d been able to see each other much over the past few days. He’d been working late, and she didn’t have a day off this week until Sunday. “Glad you were able to satisfy your curiosity. I haven’t had dinner yet . . . you feel like hanging around to eat with me?”

“I was kind of hoping you’d ask.” He slumped in the seat and read the menu that was written on a chalkboard along the wall behind the counter. “I’d planned on just getting a sandwich to take home if you weren’t here. Eating with you sounds better.”

Sara had eaten way too many solitary meals over the past few years. She had no problem sharing a meal—especially not with Quinn.

Meagan came to get their order. As she walked away, they fell into silence, Quinn toying with her fingers. Feeling somebody’s eyes on her, she looked up and saw Meagan standing by the window behind the counter. As their gazes locked, Meagan started fanning her hand back and forth in front of her face.

Sara scowled and blushed.

“What’s wrong?”

Jerking her attention back to Quinn, she gave him a smile. “Ahh . . . nothing.”

He cocked a brow and glanced back over his shoulder. Meagan pretended to be busy. The second Quinn turned back around, the girl laid a hand over her heart and started patting her chest.

Sara decided she just needed to ignore her. Preferably before Quinn noticed.

“You been working here for a while?”

“A couple of months, I guess. This is where I met Theresa.” Sara shrugged, hesitant to say much more. Old habits died hard, and she really didn’t like talking much about herself, not to anybody, even him. Quinn rarely asked, so even though they’d been spending a decent amount of time together over the past few weeks, they didn’t know too many personal details about each other.

Hell, she still didn’t even know what kind of work he did and she was leery to ask, just because she hadn’t wanted him doing the same. Of course, he’d gone and figured it out all on his own—and all because of a piece of pie.

With everybody else, she kept to herself because it was safer, because it was wiser. With Quinn, it was even more important, because he was so damned good at seeing below the surface—she didn’t want him knowing her secrets, and she definitely didn’t need to know more about him, because the more she knew, the more she liked.

But she was fooling herself. Not talking about herself didn’t keep him from getting to know her, or vice versa. They both loved horror movies, although Quinn didn’t get freaked out over some of the blood and gore the way she did. They both read a lot and even had some favorites in common, mostly in the fantasy or science fiction genres.

She’d even gotten him to read a romance—he was halfway through a J. D. Robb, and since she knew he didn’t bother finishing a book he wasn’t enjoying, she knew he liked it.

Not talking wasn’t keeping her from falling for him, in the worst way imaginable.

“Theresa is how I ended up here to begin with,” he said, grinning at her. “She also brought home some pie. She mentioned this little place where she liked to eat dinner before she went to play bingo, and after I had some of the pie, I looked this place up when I was in the area working.”

“Annette’s pie is addictive,” Sara said.

Once more, silence fell between them. Those eyes of hers hid so many secrets, secrets that were driving Quinn crazy. As much time as they’d spent together lately, he still didn’t know that much about her.

He knew about as much personal stuff about Sara as he knew about the receptionist at Martin’s office . . . hell, less. He never would have thought something like that would bother him, but it did.

He wanted to know everything about her.

He wanted to know why she looked so sad sometimes. Why sometimes she looked so angry and frustrated. There were times when he caught a glimpse of the pain she kept hidden so deep, but when he tried to ask her if she was okay, she’d give him a smile, offer some kind of excuse about being tired . . . or she just redirected his attention elsewhere, using her hands and mouth until he couldn’t even remember his own name.

He wanted to know why she worked at a place where he knew most of the employees were paid under the table.

He wanted to know why she dyed her hair. He’d suspected it for a while, ever since the night they’d first slept together—the curls between her thighs were lighter than the hair on her head, a little odd, but he hadn’t asked.

A few days ago, when he’d left her house, the roots of her hair had been several shades lighter than the rest of it. When he saw her the next morning when they went running, her roots were the same shade of brown as the rest of her hair. He’d bet his bike that her reasons for doing it had nothing to do with vanity or a preference for dark blondish brown hair.

He wanted to know why she never talked about herself. Why she never asked him much of anything personal. He wanted to know everything . . . and too often it seemed he knew less than nothing.

Quinn was falling for her.

He no longer had any questions about whether or not he was about to put his heart in her hands. It was just a matter of time, because he was completely gone over her.

Yet he didn’t know much more about her than her name. They talked books. They talked movies. But he didn’t even know if she had any family. He didn’t know where she’d been born, where she’d gone to school. He didn’t know if she’d ever been married.