Her Best Friend (16 page)

She moved the ladder across a few feet but paused before climbing it and starting on the next section of wall.

She and Quinn had hardly talked all day. She’d thought that her many, many years of experience in hiding her feelings would mean she was a natural at pretending it was business as usual between them, but she could barely meet his eyes when he arrived for work this morning. He’d seemed equally uncomfortable, and things had deteriorated from there.

So much for both of them being cool with what had happened.

She heard the sound of a cell phone ringing in the theatre, then the low tones of Quinn’s voice. She deliberately tuned out. His private life was none of her business.

Still, she noticed when he ended the call, and she tensed when she heard his footsteps on the stairs. He was coming up to talk to her.

Even though she knew she probably looked as though she’d been rolled in flour thanks to all the plaster dust, she pushed her hair back from her face and adopted a casual expression that was supposed to convey how unaffected she was by Quinn and the world in general. She even picked up the sander to make it look as though she hadn’t been standing around mooning over him for the last five minutes.

“Hey,” he said as he appeared in the archway to the upper foyer.

She took an involuntary step backward. Sometime between lunchtime and now he’d taken his sweatshirt off. She stared at the snug navy tank top he was wearing underneath, taking in his big shoulders and well-muscled arms and flat belly.

“Hey,” she said, a shade too late.

It wasn’t fair. He worked at a desk. He had no business having a chest and arms and shoulders like that. If she’d known she was lying on top of all that gorgeous muscle yesterday, she would have torn his clothes off with her teeth.

“How’s it going up here?” He cast an eye over the walls.

“Okay,” she said. She started fiddling with the sander. Even though she’d just put a new sheet of sandpaper in, changing it would give her an excellent excuse for not looking at Quinn any more than she had to.

She braced the unit between her knees while she worked on the clamps to release the paper.

“What’s up?” she asked.

“I ran into Rick Bachelor in the street again earlier.”

“Oh, yeah?” She fumbled the clamp and swore softly. She saw Quinn take a step toward her out of the corner of her eye.

“You want a hand?”

“I’m fine,” she said a little too sharply. No way was she going to be able to retain the pretense that she was indifferent to him if he invaded her personal space.

She kept her attention on the sander but she was pretty sure her cheeks were turning pink. There was a small silence before Quinn spoke again.

“I asked Rick if he and Naomi wanted to come over for dinner and he just called to confirm. So I was thinking maybe you could—”

“No.” The word was out of her mouth before she’d even consciously thought it. She knew what he was about to ask. Rick and Naomi were both old school friends and Amy liked them a lot but no way was she sitting beside Quinn at a dinner party as though the two of them were a matched set. It was way too close to what her heart wanted.

“You don’t even know what I was going to ask yet,” Quinn said.

She jerked the sandpaper free from the clamps. “You were going to ask me over for dinner, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m busy. I’m having dinner with Denise.” It wasn’t a complete lie. She did owe Denise dinner and tonight was as good a time as any.

“She could come, as well. I was thinking of doing a roast. My one foolproof meal.”

He smiled self-deprecatingly. She was already shaking her head.

“Thanks, but I think she wanted to talk about some girl stuff. Problems with her latest boyfriend. You know.”

She snuck a look at Quinn from beneath her eyelashes. He was watching her intently, his expression unreadable.

“Maybe another night,” she forced herself to say.

“Yeah.”

She straightened. “Better get back to it.”

She turned her back on him.

Go away. Take your bloody impressive chest and too-tight tank top and go back downstairs and leave me be.

“Ames.”

He didn’t say anything else and she knew he was waiting for her to face him. She didn’t want to. She felt stretched thin from all the pretending she’d had to do today.

She steeled herself and relented.

“Are we okay?” he asked.

“Yeah. Of course we are. Why wouldn’t we be?”

He simply stared at her. Okay, that had been a stupid thing to say. A little too casual, given the circumstances.

“I’m fine. Just a bit tired, that’s all,” she amended.

“Me, too. Didn’t sleep much last night.”

The memory of yesterday’s encounter hung in the air between them like a tangible thing. Any second now he was going to bring it up again, tell her again how much he valued her friendship and how dumb it had been.

“I really need to do this,” she said, gesturing with the sander. “I want to try to get this wall finished by tonight.”

This time Quinn didn’t say anything when she turned away from him. She waited until she heard him descending the stairs before she pulled out her cell phone and called Denise.

But it wasn’t as though she had a choice. She’d tried cutting Quinn out of her life and it hadn’t worked. She’d made her move and he’d told her it was a mistake. She was all out of options.

She slid out of the car.

Denise was waiting at their table, sipping on a cocktail. She’d curled her hair and was wearing a low-cut red dress that barely contained her generous breasts.

“Wow. You look like a Playboy bunny,” Amy said admiringly.

“Thanks. I figured I might as well pull out all the stops. Never know when a lonely millionaire might be having dinner on his own.”

Denise cast a hopeful glance around the restaurant. The only man dining alone had silver hair and a walking cane. They both watched as he cut his steak into small, manageable portions.

“It’s a nice theory,” Amy said diplomatically.

“Pity it sucks in practice.”

They both laughed and picked up their menus.

“Let’s get some wine. I need alcohol more than I need air right now,” Amy said.

They ordered champagne, then a bottle of sauvignon blanc with their meal. As usual, Denise was good company, full of shamelessly exaggerated stories about her recent dating experiences and anecdotes from her large, boisterous family. By the time they were nibbling on dessert Amy had one elbow on the table and was having trouble forming her vowel sounds. Which was perfect—exactly where she wanted to be. Pleasantly anesthetized. Numb.

She was just thinking about how nice it was to relax and forget about the tensions of the week when Denise brought the conversation round to Quinn.

“Must be pretty good having Quinn back in town. You guys were always so close.”

Instantly Amy’s shoulders got tight. “Yeah. So close. No one closer than us.” She poked at her sticky date pudding with a fork.

“It’s a shame about the divorce. But you’ve got to ask yourself, how many teen romances survive all the crappola life throws at you? Not many, in my opinion.”

“I guess.”

“So how long do you think it’ll be before he’s married again?”

Amy nearly spilled her wine. “What is it with everyone trying to marry Quinn off again when he’s not even properly divorced yet?”

“I don’t know. He seems like the kind of guy who should be married. I bet he’d make a great husband.”

There was no way Amy was drunk enough to have this conversation. “You still thinking about taking up ballroom dancing?” she asked a little desperately. “I’ve always wanted to learn how to tango.”

“Do you know if he’s seeing anyone? Because I have to say, I wouldn’t mind slinging my hook in that direction. At all. If you get my drift.”

Dear God.

That was all Amy needed. Yet another of her friends seducing Quinn right in front of her.

“You know what? Let’s talk about something else.”

For the first time Denise seemed to register her discomfort. “What’s wrong?”

“Not a thing in the world. I just don’t want to talk about Quinn Whitfield all night.”

“It’s hardly been all night. I asked a few questions—”

“Well there’s no point asking me, because I have no idea what Quinn wants. Never have, never will.”

Amy lifted her glass and gulped the last of her wine. When she lowered it again Denise was watching her with narrowed eyes.

“Did you and Quinn have a fight or something?”

“No siree. Quinn and I are best buds. Pals. He values my friendship. Wouldn’t ever want to do anything to ruin it.”

Denise’s jaw dropped and she opened her eyes so wide Amy was afraid they were going to pop right out of her head.

“Oh. My. God.”

“What?”

“You’re hot for Quinn.”

For a moment Amy froze like a bunny in the car headlights. Then she made a rude noise. “Am not. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Bull. Shit. You want to get busy with him. You want to climb him like a cat on a curtain,” Denise said with undisguised relish.

“You’re wrong. Way wrong. We grew up together. He’s like my brother.”

Denise slowly shook her head, her red curls bobbing. “Pretty convincing, Ames, but I’m not buying. I always wondered about you two, you know. I mean, he’s so hot. Those dark eyes. That ass. Sometimes I get sweaty just looking at him. And you guys have always been so close.” A new thought seemed to cross her mind. “My God, how do you stand it?”

Amy stared at her friend. For a second all the denials she should make hovered on the tip of her tongue. She’d held her secret to her chest for years, fully aware that once it was revealed she’d become an object of pity to her friends and family. Poor Amy, chasing a lost dream. But the past few days had been so confusing, so damned hard. The temptation of sharing her innermost thoughts with someone else was too strong to resist.

“I have no idea. At the moment, I’m seriously thinking about going to the doctor and asking him to prescribe something to turn the clock back to pre-puberty. Just for the month that Quinn is in town. That, or I’m going to have to borrow that sex catalog you keep talking about and buy something big and scary and industrial.”

Denise did the eye-popping thing again. “Wow. I was right. You have got it bad.”

Amy leaned across the table and pointed a finger at her friend. “You have no idea how bad. Get this. I’ve been in love with Quinn since we were both fourteen. How ’bout them apples?”

In for a penny, in for a pound, right?

Denise blinked, then her mouth turned down at the corners. “Oh, Ames, that’s so sad.”

Amy thumped her fist on the table. “No! Don’t you dare feel sorry for me!” She said it so loudly that several heads turned. “I’m fine. I’ve been fine. I will continue to be fine. Loving someone you can never have is not the end of the world. It’s not like I don’t have a rich and fulfilling life. Big deal if one tiny aspect of it is not perfect. It’s not the end of the world.”

“You already said that.”

“Because it bears repeating,” Amy said, thumping the table one last time, just to ensure she’d made her point.

She looked around for their waiter and gestured him over to the table.

“Could we have another bottle of wine, please?” she asked.

“Maybe another bottle isn’t such a great idea. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this drunk.”

“Another bottle is the best idea I’ve had all week. I feel great.”

“Right.” Denise wiped the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “So, does Quinn know how you feel?”

Amy rolled her eyes. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because we’re
friends.
And as soon as I tell him how I feel everything will be weird and awkward and wrong and nothing will ever be the same again.”

“Maybe. But what if he feels the same?”

“He doesn’t. Believe me.” Amy focused on the waiter as he appeared to fill her glass. “Leave the bottle, thanks.”

“How do you know if you’ve never asked?”

Amy made a big show out of pretending to think it over, cocking her head to one side theatrically. “Hmm. Let me see. Because he married someone else after going out with her exclusively for most of our high school years? That was a bit of a giveaway.”

“But he’s getting a divorce. He’s a single guy now.”

Amy took a big slug of wine. “He’s not interested in me. He’ll never see me as more than his friend.”

Denise opened her mouth. Then she closed it without saying anything.

Amy eyed her over the top of her glass. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on, ’Nise. You’re dying to say something. I can practically see the words forming in a speech bubble above your head.” Amy stumbled over the word
practically,
but she was confident Denise got the gist of it.

“Okay, fine. I never thought I’d see the day when Amy Parker was a pussy about something.”

Amy blinked. “A pussy. You’re calling me a
pussy?
”

“That’s right, I am. A big old pussy. Meow.”

Amy jabbed a thumb at her own chest. “I threw a muffin at Barry Ulrich’s head. That’s how much of a pussy I am.”

Denise waved a hand in the air, dismissing the muffin assault with the flick of her brightly lacquered nails.

“Everyone wants to throw a muffin at Barry Ulrich’s head. You might have been the first but you won’t be the last.”

“I took on the council,” Amy said. “I saved and planned for ten years to buy the Grand. Those are all pretty non-pussy things.”

“They are. But being in love with Quinn for sixteen years and not telling him how you feel now that he’s available cancels them out big-time.”

“It does not.” Amy couldn’t believe Denise was giving her a hard time over this. She’d expected sympathy and support after spilling her big secret, not a pep talk on being assertive.

“You need to tell him,” Denise said.

“You’re nuts.”

“What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

Amy slurped more wine before answering. “He could laugh at me. Worse, he could feel sorry for me.”

“He might. But he might not.”

“That’s not a risk I’m prepared to take.”

“So you’ll live your whole life never knowing?”

Amy leaned both elbows on the table and prepared to fully humiliate herself.

“If you must know, I laid a kiss on him yesterday and he freaked out. Told me he thought it was a bad idea for us to be anything other than friends. So I think I have a fair idea how he feels. Mystery solved, case closed.”

Denise sat straighter in her chair. “You kissed? You and Quinn? Did he kiss you back? How long did it last?”

“Not long enough,” Amy said darkly.

“But Quinn kissed you back?”

Amy shrugged dismissively. “It didn’t mean anything. He was being kind. Quinn’s always kind.”

“Guys don’t kiss women because they’re being
kind,
Ames.”

“They do if they’ve been friends for thirty years.”

“Was it just a kiss? Did he go past first base?”

“I’m not going to answer that.”

Denise gasped. “He did! How far past? Second base?”

“Denise.”

“Oh my God. He got to third base, didn’t he?”

Amy glared at her friend. “None of your business.”

“Third base is not kindness. Definitely. Third base is lust. Quinn has the hots for you.” Denise said it unequivocally, as though it was fact, beyond contradiction or argument.

Amy shook her head. Her brain sloshed around thickly and the room shifted on its axis. Okay, maybe the third bottle of wine had been a bad idea. “He was being polite.”

Denise reached across the table and grabbed both of Amy’s hands. “Listen to me. I know you’re as drunk as a skunk or we wouldn’t even be having this conversation, but you need to talk to Quinn. Men do not put their hands down the panties of women they do not want to have sex with. Trust me. I’ve had enough hands in my panties to know.”

Amy squeezed her friend’s hand and blinked. Three Denises wobbled in front of her, all of them watching her with fond concern. “You’re a sweetie. I appreciate you cheering me on from the sidelines. But I think I need to go to the bathroom now and throw up.”

She staggered to her feet and made her way across the dining room to the ladies’. Once she was in a cubicle she braced herself and waited for her dinner to make a return appearance. Nothing happened, and after a few minutes the world stopped spinning quite so madly and her stomach settled.

A rap sounded on the cubicle door.

“Ames. How you doing?” Denise asked.

“I’m okay. No regurgitation to speak of so far.”

“Always a good sign. Want me to call you a cab?”

“It’s okay. I can do it.”

Ten minutes later she was stumbling up the gravel drive to her cottage.

“Drink lots of water” had been Denise’s last words before she rolled Amy into the cab, but it was what she’d said over dessert that Amy couldn’t get out of her head.

“Am not a pussy,” she told her front door. She stabbed the key repeatedly at the lock until it slid into the slot, then shuffled her way into the house.

Just because she’d chosen a lifetime of friendship over the possibility of something happening between her and the man she loved did not make her a coward. It made her sensible. Practical. Realistic.

She toed off her high heels and walked to the kitchen, zigzagging from one wall to the other. She flung open the pantry door and dug around until she found a dusty old bottle of port hidden up the back behind the spices.

“Knew you were in there somewhere,” she said to the bottle. She poured herself a good glassful and sipped at it, pulling a face at how sweet it was after the crispness of the Semillon sauvignon she’d been drinking with dinner.

Still, it was the only alcohol she had in the house and it would do the trick.

I never thought I’d see the day when Amy Parker was a pussy about something.