Her Best Friend (17 page)

Amy growled and took a big gulp of port. “Get out of my head.”

But Denise simply wouldn’t bugger off. She followed Amy into the bathroom, calling her a coward and asking the same thing over and over.

What’s the worst thing that could happen?

What’s the worst thing that could happen?

What’s the worst thing that could happen?

Amy stared at her reflection. The answer came from a place deep inside her.

“I could find out once and for all that he doesn’t feel the same way that I do.”

She blinked.

Wow.

Denise was right: she really was a pussy.

She was too afraid to find out there really was no hope. She preferred to live in a kind of never-never land where she could angst over Quinn but still indulge the fantasy that one day, maybe, if the moon and planets were all aligned, he might possibly return her feelings.

Amy gripped the edge of the bathroom sink until her knuckles were white. She stared at herself in the mirror for a long, drawn-out moment. Then she nodded.

“Fine. If that’s the way it has to be.”

Then she swiveled on her heel and went looking for a pair of shoes.

She turned in to her parents’ street and walked past their house to the Whitfield place. The front windows glowed from within, a sure sign that Quinn was still awake.

Good.

She negotiated her way up his driveway safely but tripped on the top step to the porch, barreling into the front door with her arms outstretched. For some reason this struck her as being very funny—so graceful, so elegant, especially when she was about to offer Quinn her heart on a silver platter. She was giggling like a schoolgirl when the front door swung open.

“Amy. Jesus. I thought it was the world’s biggest possum,” Quinn said.

“Possums don’t wear shoes.”

Quinn peered at her. “Have you been drinking?”

“A little. But that’s not important. We have bigger fish to fry, friend o’ mine.”

Quinn raised an eyebrow but stood to one side. “Come on in.”

She followed him inside, stopping in her tracks when she got her first good look at him under decent lighting. He was barefoot and wearing a pair of very dark jeans and a white shirt open at the neck. His sleeves were rolled up over his strong forearms. His dark hair was tousled. He had the exact perfect amount of five-o’clock shadow.

He looked good enough to eat. Strong and sexy and gorgeous.

Irresistible.

“Look at you.” She threw her hands in the air, exasperated and overwhelmed in equal measure. “I come over here with a little speech all ready to go to kind of ease you into it, and here you are, standing around being so bloody gorgeous and freakin’ sexy. How am I supposed to react? What am I supposed to do? Huh? You tell me.”

Quinn froze. “What?”

She gestured dramatically again. “God, Quinn, do I have to say it a million times, spell it out for you in ninety-foot letters? What do you want from me? I love you, Quinn Whitfield. I love you, I love you, I love you. There, happy?”

“You’re drunk.”

She took a step toward him, then another, until they were standing breast to chest, barely an inch between them. She leaned toward him, just enough to feel the heat of his body against hers. She reached up and grabbed the front of his shirt, her hands curling into fists around the fabric.

“Yes, I am drunk. Very drunk. But that does not change what I am about to say to you. Quinn Whitfield, I have loved you since I was fourteen years old. It absolutely freaking killed me when you got with Lisa that summer, and I cried myself to sleep the night you both got married. I know you’re not perfect, but I think you’re wonderful. Sexy and clever and strong and talented and sexy. Did I mention that already…?”

She shook her head to clear it. Not a great idea. The room spun a little. Time to cut to the chase.

“Anyway. That’s how I feel. I think you’re the bee’s knees. The cat’s pajamas. The ant’s pants. If you were mine, there was no way I would ever have even glanced sideways at another man.”

She released her grip on his shirt, smoothing the fabric flat against his chest before giving it a little pat and taking a step backward.

“I wasn’t going to say anything, but Denise said I was a pussy if I didn’t and I am not a pussy. Never have been, never will be. So. Here I am. And that’s how I feel.”

Quinn was very still. She held her breath, waiting for some sign that her words had struck a chord in him. But he simply looked blank. As though she’d thrown him the biggest curveball of his life.

Then she heard it: a whisper, followed by a muffled laugh. A horrible premonition skittered through her brain. She walked to the living room door and glanced inside.

And saw Rick and Naomi Bachelor sitting on the couch, coffee cups in front of them, embarrassed smiles on their faces. Sitting opposite them were Jerome Cooper and his wife Lacey. Like Naomi and Rick, Lacey was an old school friend.

“Hey, Amy,” Naomi said lamely.

Lacey waved awkwardly. “Long time no see.”

“Oh, God,” Amy said. She took a step backward.

“Amy,” Quinn said. He reached out to grab her elbow.

She jerked away from him, spinning on her heel and lunging toward the front door. “I have to go.”

Oh, boy, did she have to go.

Sixteen years she’d waited to declare herself to Quinn Whitfield and she’d done it in front of an audience. Every word she’d said was going to be all over town tomorrow. Everyone would know.

Everyone.

“Amy,” Quinn said again, but by some miracle she got the front door open first try. She raced out onto the porch and down the steps to the driveway.

“Amy!”

She broke into a flat-out run. She had no idea where she was going—somewhere quiet and dark to hide for a while. Somewhere she could pretend that she hadn’t exposed herself to practically the whole town as well as Quinn.

Somewhere she could close her eyes and pretend she hadn’t seen the blank shock on Quinn’s face when she’d told him she loved him.

She was convinced she could hear Quinn following her so she tucked her chin into her chest and put on a surge. It was only when she turned the corner, puffing and blowing, that she saw there was no one behind her. Through the alcohol haze she remembered Quinn’s house full of dinner guests and the fact that he’d answered the door in bare feet. She was safe. For now.

The moment she stopped running bile burned her throat and she bent over and lost her dinner in front of Mrs. Patterson’s roses.

She used the Pattersons’ garden tap to rinse her mouth and clean up the mess. Then she headed home, her feet heavier than lead, her shoulders hunched.

The worst thing that could happen had happened: she’d told Quinn she loved him…and he’d said nothing.

Not a thing.

“Idiot.” He wasn’t sure if he was talking to himself or Amy.

He opened the front door and entered the house, pulling up short when he realized his dinner guests were all standing in the front hall shrugging into their coats.

“We’ll get out of your hair,” Rick said.

“Don’t want to overstay our welcome,” Lacey added with an awkward smile.

“Nobody is in anybody’s hair,” he said. Even to his own ears it sounded false.

Naomi reached out and patted his arm. “We figured you’d probably want to go find Amy.”

He did. But he also needed a few minutes to process the bombshell Amy had just dropped on him.

Amy loved him?

It didn’t seem possible. And yet on some deep, gut-driven, instinctive level it felt right. True. Real.

Lacey and Naomi exchanged looks.

“Listen, Quinn,” Lacey said. “Before we go, we wanted to let you know that what happened tonight was none of our business. What we heard won’t go further than this room, okay?”

“Yeah, I might be a hairdresser but I know when to keep my lips zipped,” Naomi added.

“Thanks. I appreciate it,” Quinn said. The last thing he wanted was for Amy to feel stupid or foolish or exposed.

He walked them to their cars and accepted their thanks for the meal, remembering at the last minute that he’d promised Rick over dinner that he’d take a look at a property contract the other man was worried about.

“Drop it by the Grand tomorrow if you like,” Quinn said.

Rick’s face lit up. “Really? I know it’s small fry compared to the stuff you normally do up in Sydney, but I’d really appreciate a second opinion.”

“No worries. Drop it by,” Quinn assured him.

He watched them drive off, then he returned to the house and closed the door behind him. For a long moment he simply stood in the empty silence of his childhood home, his mind resonating with one thought: Amy loved him.

He remembered the heartfelt sincerity in her big brown eyes as she’d grabbed his shirt and made her declaration. Yes, she’d been rip-roaring drunk, but she’d meant every word she’d said.

He limped to the bathroom and wiped the dirt out of the cut on his foot. Then he pulled on socks and his boots and grabbed his car keys.

Four minutes later he pulled up in front of Amy’s house. The windows were dark but he climbed the steps and knocked on her front door anyway. She didn’t answer and he knocked again. He knew she was home—could feel her presence in the house. He tried the door, but it was locked.

“Amy. Let me in,” he called.

Nothing.

“Amy. Come on. We need to talk.”

He tried for another ten minutes, then he called her landline and her cell. She didn’t pick up. Finally he got in his car and drove home.

He walked into his parents’ living room and stared at the coffee cups and dessert plates left over from dinner.

He didn’t know what to do. That was the truth of it. Amy’s words were echoing inside him, over and over. And he didn’t know what to do.

I have loved you since I was fourteen years old.

It absolutely freaking killed me when you got with Lisa that summer.

I cried myself to sleep the night you both got married.

He rubbed his jaw.

He hated the thought of Amy being in pain because of something he’d done. Or not done. Couldn’t stand it.

He thought back to the day of his wedding, remembered Amy standing with them at the altar as both bridesmaid and best man—“best person,” as she’d insisted on being called. She’d smiled and laughed with them, cheered when they exchanged vows. Been the best friend that both he and Lisa had expected of her.

Then she’d gone home that night and cried herself to sleep. Because of him. Over him.

“Shit.
Shit.
”

He had no idea how to sort out his feelings. Guilt and fear and regret and sadness, all mixed up together.

He hadn’t known. Had never even had a clue. If he had, he would have—

What would he have done?

He sat on the edge of the couch and put his head in his hands.

What would he have done? What would have happened if Amy had declared herself years ago during that long, hot summer when they’d all been fourteen and he’d been thinking about her and dreaming about her? What if it had been Amy who’d leaned across his French textbook and looked him in the eyes and told him she thought he was hot and she wanted to kiss him, the way Lisa had?

He closed his eyes as a cascade of possibilities flashed across his mind, a whole alternative life.

After a moment he opened his eyes again.

The truth was, he would never know. Because it was Lisa he’d hooked up with that summer, and it was Lisa he’d fallen in love with and it was Lisa he’d married.

And it was Lisa who’d betrayed him, and Lisa he was about to divorce.

He couldn’t go back. And, in all honesty, he wouldn’t want to. Even though things had not turned out great with Lisa, the two of them had had their moments. He’d been happy, definitely, for some of their time together. He had loved her.

But their marriage was over now and he was free to find a new way forward. A new future.

And Amy loved him.

Amy, whose firm, warm little body had been obsessing him all week. Amy, whom he’d loved wholeheartedly as his great friend since before he even understood what the word meant. Amy, who could always make him laugh, who could infuriate and challenge him like no other, who had shared so much with him.

He scrubbed his face with his hands, suddenly understanding the full import of Amy’s visit this evening. She’d declared herself to him. After sixteen years. And she’d be expecting an answer. A response.

She’d want to know how he felt. What he wanted. If their friendship was to remain a friendship or become something else.

The thought brought him to his feet again. He moved to the fireplace to poke at the dying embers of the fire. Then he crossed to the window to stare out at the darkened street.

He loved Amy. That was a given. He desired her. But Amy didn’t just want sex from him. She wanted a relationship, a future. Not exactly your typical dating situation. In fact, it took the concept of performance anxiety to a whole new level. Every word, every action, every emotion would be loaded with sixteen years of expectation, anticipation and history.

In a few weeks’ time he was going to be a divorced man. A very different man from the twenty-four-year-old baby lawyer who’d exchanged vows with his teen love six years ago. His marriage and breakup and divorce had left the inevitable marks on him. He wouldn’t be human if they hadn’t. He was angry and a bit bitter. Hurt. He suspected it might be hard for him to trust again, to take someone at their word.

He was also partner in a profitable, lucrative commercial law firm in Sydney, hundreds of miles away from the old cinema Amy had thrown her heart and soul into. He had responsibilities. Obligations.

There were so many things that could go wrong. So many things that might not match up. That was what it all came down to in the end: the potential for disaster. More than anything, he didn’t want to disappoint or hurt Amy.

He went to bed and stared at the ceiling. No stunning insights came to him in the wee hours. When morning came, he had absolutely no idea what he was going to say to her.

He forced himself to make a few decisions before rolling out of bed. He would tell Amy that he was attracted to her. Very much so.

He would tell her that he loved spending time with her.

And he would tell her about his doubts. And his fears. And he would see what she said in return.

He drove to the Grand with a belly full of knots. This was Amy, after all. He was desperate not to screw things up between them.

As he’d half suspected, she wasn’t waiting for him. She’d been so plastered last night that the odds were excellent she’d woken with a hangover. He bought himself a take-out coffee and settled in to wait.

Her car turned in to the lot forty minutes later. His chest tightened the moment he saw her. She parked next to him and he smiled faintly when he saw she was wearing a baseball cap and big sunglasses. Definitely hungover, then.

She grabbed her handbag from the passenger seat then slid out of the car at the same time that he got out of his.

“Hey,” she said across the roof.

“Hey.”

“Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“No worries. Figured you might be a little late this morning. After last night.”

He’d meant the comment as a way in to the conversation they needed to have, but Amy surprised him by groaning and clapping a hand to her forehead.

“Oh, God. Don’t tell me I came to your place last night, as well?”

He took a moment to respond. “You could say that.”

“It’s official. You can’t take me anywhere. How embarrassing.” She pushed her sunglasses a little higher on her nose. “According to Denise, I drank nearly three bottles of wine on my own last night. Can you believe that? She poured me into a taxi and sent me home. Then apparently I rolled up at her place a few hours later, wanting to party like it was 1999. I suppose you’re going to tell me I did the same thing to you, huh?”

Quinn had been drunk with Amy plenty of times over the years. He’d listened to her ramble on and on for hours about Art Deco architecture and the golden years of cinema, held her hair away from her face while she vomited, fed her coffee and egg-and-bacon sandwiches to cure her hangovers the next day. Not once had he ever known her to black out.

He had to admit, it was a novel way of dealing with the situation: pretend it had never happened. Or, at the very least, that she didn’t remember that it had happened. The emotional equivalent of an ostrich sticking its head in the sand.

“You mostly wanted to talk, not party,” he said slowly.

She groaned again. “I really embarrassed myself, didn’t I? What did I do? Please tell me I didn’t yack on your mother’s Persian rug.”

Some of the tension eased from Quinn’s shoulders. No matter what concerns he had about the future of their relationship, he couldn’t help but be amused by the zeal with which she was throwing herself into her attempt at damage control.

Meryl Streep, eat your heart out.

“You didn’t yack on the rug,” he said, unable to suppress a smile.

“Bless you. One piece of good news this morning. I feel like someone parked a cement truck on my head overnight.”

She pressed her fingers to her forehead dramatically and started to recount some of the crazy antics she’d gotten up to at Denise’s place.

He watched her, admiring the performance. The throw-away breeziness, the self-deprecating jokes. He could guess exactly what had happened—she’d woken with cotton mouth and a hammering headache and remembered what she’d done. Knowing Amy, she’d probably squirmed with self-recrimination and embarrassment for a while. Then she’d come up with a plan to minimize how vulnerable she was no doubt feeling right now.

Not a very good plan, admittedly, but a plan nonetheless. And she’d been desperate enough to put that not-very-good plan into action.

A huge wave of tenderness and affection washed over him as he stood in the early morning sunshine listening to his best friend pile on the baloney.

She was an idiot. An adorable, gorgeous, feisty, funny, sweet, sexy idiot.

He waited until she paused to draw breath.

“Ames. Come on. This is me.”

She started to say something, then shut her jaw with a click. He could practically hear her debating with herself, trying to decide if she should give her too-drunk-to-be-responsible-for-my-own-actions gambit another shot or not. Then her shoulders slumped and she reached up to tug her cap lower on her face.

“Could we please not talk about this?” she asked, her voice anguished.

“I think we should.”

“Well, I don’t. Let’s forget it ever happened.”

“Sorry, Ames, but it’s not something I’m going to forget in a hurry.”

“You should. You should just wipe it from your mind. That’s what I’m going to do.”

“Ames.” He reached for her sunglasses, sick of not being able to see her eyes.

She shied away from him. “Don’t! Don’t be kind to me, Quinn. Just…don’t.”

Kind?
What the hell was she talking about?

“Listen—”

He broke off as a black Audi convertible drove out of the alley and turned in to the parking lot.

Amy made a surprised sound as it drew to a halt.

“Isn’t that…?”

He eyed the car’s dark tinted windows. “Yeah.”

He watched as his soon-to-be ex-wife slid out of the car, a vision in stylish black. Their eyes met across twenty feet of gravel.

“Quinn,” she said.

“Lisa.”

What the hell was she doing here?

“Amy. It is you under that hat and glasses, right?” Lisa said as she crossed the distance between them. “You look like you’re hiding from the paparazzi.”