His (21 page)

“We need to go,” she says.

“Yeah.”

I want to let her know what she’s in for as we drive to my mother’s penthouse apartment.

“So, Thanksgiving at my mom’s house is pretty . . . upscale,” I say.

“Upscale?” She turns to me with a questioning look.

“Like crystal and cloth napkins. It’s not like the Thanksgivings you see on TV with big families hugging each other and playing board games while eating pie out of the container.”

“I’m mentally canceling my plan to hug your mother and break Yahtzee out of my purse.”

My laugh holds a note of tension. “I guess you’ve met my mother, so you know she’s not the warmest.”

“My mother isn’t, either.”

“Tell me something about your mom.”

She considers for a few seconds before answering. “She sees what she wants to see. Like when my dad was dying, she refused to believe he wouldn’t pull through, even at the very end when the doctors told her there was no hope.”

“That was hard for you.” I can tell by her forlorn expression that it was.

“Yes. I was just a kid, and my dad was telling me his last wishes because my mom refused to listen.”

Traffic is bumper-to-bumper in the city due to the big Thanksgiving parade. We’ll have a long drive to my mom’s. I’m glad for the time alone with Quinn.

“As hard as it was to lose my dad like I did, with no warning, I can’t imagine what knowing he was going to die would have been like.”

“Grueling,” she says softly. “Painful. But I’m grateful I got to have those talks with him at the end. I think it helped me when he passed away.”

My throat is tight with emotion. I clear my throat before speaking again.

“I still sometimes dream about talking to my dad. It was all the time when I was a kid. I’d give up everything I have for just five more minutes with my dad.”

“He’d be proud of you,” she says softly.

I take a deep breath and creep ahead in the long line of cars. “Tell me about a good memory with your mom.”

Quinn smiles and leans her head back against the headrest. “We used to bake cookies together. I loved that. What about you—any happy memories with your mom?”

“Yeah, lots of ’em. I was all she had after dad died. She never had any interest in remarrying. We used to go to Martha’s Vineyard every summer and spend two weeks doing nothing. Just watching movies and walking and eating out.”

“It’s hard for me to picture your mom relaxing.”

I laugh at that. “Yeah, I know.”

Traffic finally picks up, and we make it to my mom’s place. I’m planning to keep Quinn by my side all day so she doesn’t end up getting drilled with questions by my mom.

I park in the garage, and Quinn reaches for my hand on the elevator ride up. She’s nervous. I am, too. I’ve never brought a woman home like this.

I key in the code to Mom’s apartment, which I had set up with a security system like mine. We walk inside and find Mom’s friend Gloria and two other couples are drinking white wine with Mom in the main living room.

“Andrew,” Mom says, coming over to give me a hug, “and you brought your friend.”

She turns to look at Quinn. “My God, what happened?”

“She was mugged,” I say, wrapping an arm around Quinn’s waist.

“
Mugged
?” My mom gives me a horrified look.

“She’s okay.” Eager for a change of subject, I introduce Quinn to my mom’s friends, who all give her a warm welcome.

“Join us,” Gloria says, scooting over to the end of the couch she’s sitting on alone.

“Andrew, get the girl a drink, will you?” Mom says.

I hesitate just a second before going to the kitchen, practically running to get there and back as fast as I can. I pour two white wines from the open bottle on the counter, though I prefer bourbon.

When I walk back into the room, it’s quiet and my mom is looking at Quinn expectantly.

“From Des Moines,” Quinn says. “I started school at University of Iowa but dropped out after my sophomore year to move here.”

“And pursue what?” my mom asks.

I clear my throat and sit down next to Quinn, handing her one of the glasses in my hand.

“Some sort of nonprofit work, I think,” Quinn says, taking a sip from the glass.

“Nonprofit work?” My mother’s look of distaste is almost comical.

“So, how have you been, Mom?” I ask, resting a hand on Quinn’s knee.

“I’m well, dear.”

“If you’ll excuse us,” I say to the group, “I want to take Quinn to watch the parade from the balcony windows while it’s still going. We’ll be back.”

She lets me help her up with a hand, and I lead the way across the apartment to the French doors that open onto a balcony. It’s too cold to stand outside, but I point out the parade through the glass in the doors and Quinn smiles.

“I’ve never missed one in the years I’ve been here,” she says. “We always found a good spot to watch it.”

“So you’re from Iowa?”

She nods and sips the wine. “Mm-hmm.”

“You don’t have a Midwestern accent.”

“Hmm.”

Quinn turns and takes in the apartment, decorated in muted cream and rose tones. Mom has some of the vases she’s collected while traveling displayed in a glass case, but her apartment is mostly designed around showcasing her art. She’s a passionate collector of paintings.

“So is this where you grew up?” she asks.

“No, we had a place on the Upper East Side. Mom moved here when I was at NYU.”

I can’t stop looking at Quinn’s legs in those dark brown tights. Behind my polite expression, I’m having dirty thoughts about how much I’d like to rip them off of her so I can feel her smooth, soft skin.

“I had to tell her something,” Quinn says softly. “I figured Iowa was as good a place as any.”

Her expression is somber, and I hate the shame I see there. I put my arms around her and pull her against my chest.

“I don’t care what she thinks,” I say, speaking gently into her ear. “You don’t need to be anyone but you.”

I feel her single note of laughter against my chest. “I don’t even know who that is anymore.”

“You’re courageous. Loyal. Strong. Beautiful.”

She looks up at me wistfully. “I don’t belong here, in the arms of a rich man who graduated from MIT. I’m a high school dropout. I used to climb around in Dumpsters and eat garbage.” Her voice is nearly a whisper, and it’s filled with emotion.

“You’re the most amazing woman I’ve ever been with,” I say, brushing the hair back from her face. “Don’t ever doubt yourself. You’re a survivor.”

“Am I? Is it really surviving if you put yourself into a stupid situation you didn’t even have to be in?”

I take her hand and lead her across the apartment to a guest bedroom, closing the door behind us. There’s a small loveseat in front of a fireplace, and I sit down, turning to face her as she sits down beside me.

“There’s nothing stupid about you, Quinn,” I say. “Where’s this self-doubt coming from?”

She sighs deeply. “I miss Bethy. And I can’t stop wondering if I failed her somehow. I haven’t been to school since I was sixteen, but she was
eleven
, Andrew. Eleven. There’s so much she missed out on. What about the rest of her life? She never even started high school.”

“Why did you leave your life?”

She furrows her brow and looks away. “I thought it was for a good reason, but now I wonder if maybe I was wrong. I just didn’t feel like I had any other choices. I was desperate.”

I lace our fingers together and hold her gaze. “I know you’re afraid to trust me, but if I knew all your truths, I’d keep them locked up forever.”

Her smile goes all the way to her eyes. “You’re so much more than I was expecting.”

“You, too.”

I put a hand on her back to pull her close, leaning in at the same time. I kiss her slow and easy at first, but soon I can’t hold back. I take her hips and slide her onto my lap, my tongue brushing across hers as I pull her against me.

“Let’s take a trip,” I say against her neck as I kiss it. “Anywhere in the world. I’ll drop everything to go. Just tell me where.”

“Anywhere,” she says. “I’d go anywhere with you.”

I slide a hand into her hair and kiss her hard, wishing like hell we weren’t at my mom’s house. I want to be closer to Quinn right now. I want to chase away all her self-doubt and sadness and just revel in how she makes me feel. So
alive
. I’ve never felt so alive.

“I don’t care what your reasons for leaving your old life were,” I say, holding her tightly against me. “None of that matters to me. Only you matter. I’ll protect you from anything and everything, Quinn.”

She slides her hands around my neck and kisses me, moaning softly into my mouth. I want to consume her in this moment; make every inch of her a part of me.

A sharp knock sounds at the door, and we both turn as it opens.

“
Oh
,” my mom says, looking both scandalized and pissed at the same time. “What is this? You spend ten seconds with our guests and then sneak away for a groping session?”

“Ah . . . it wasn’t intentional,” I say.

She gives me a skeptical look.

“We’ll be right back in, promise.” I smile at her. “Almost done groping.”

She closes the door, and I squeeze Quinn’s ass, groaning softly as my erection presses against her.

“Stop, she can
hear
you,” Quinn whispers frantically in my ear.

“I’ve made no secret of my feelings.” I kiss her neck again.

She slides off my lap and walks to the mirror to fix her hair and straighten her clothes.

“You’d rather be out there than in here?” I ask, adjusting myself as I stand up.

“No, but we can pick this up later.”

“We most definitely will.” I approach her from behind and wrap my arms around her, cupping one of her breasts and reminding her again that I have a raging hard-on for her.

“Let’s go,” she says with a smile in her voice.

Mom and her friends are passing trays of hors d’oeuvres when we walk into the kitchen.

“Dinner will be done in about ten minutes,” Mom says.

She always has her cook prep the side dishes in advance, and she heats them up and makes the turkey herself. I slip on oven mitts and take a dish of sweet potato casserole from her as she pulls it out of the oven.

“Dining room?” I ask.

“Yes, please.”

“Let me know if I can help,” Quinn offers. My mom doesn’t respond.

“Mom,” I say sternly.

“Hmm? Oh, I think we’ve got it covered,” she says to Quinn.

I give my mother a pointed look and take the casserole into the dining room. Her table is about the size of a football field, and it’s decked out with a cloth tablecloth and napkins, floral centerpieces, and china. Classical music is playing over the apartment’s sound system.

When I walk back into the kitchen, Gloria is shaking her head and looking at Quinn.

“I don’t know what it is,” she says, “but you are just
so
familiar to me.”

Quinn shrugs and smiles. “Maybe you’ve seen me around the city.”

Gloria draws her brows together. “Did you ever intern at MAC?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“And you never went to NYU?”

Quinn shakes her head. “Just the University of Iowa.”

“Have you done any work with the Center for Abducted Children? I’m on the board there.”

The color drains from Quinn’s cheeks. She clears her throat. “No, I sure haven’t.”

I go to Quinn and wrap her in my arms. I can feel the tension in her body.

“Let’s go carve that bird,” I say.

I rub a palm over her back and pick up the platter my mom has the golden brown turkey on. She left the knife on the table, and I set to work. Quinn leans against the wall in the dining room, still looking shaken.

“You okay?” I ask in a low tone.

She nods silently.

“You want to do some shopping tomorrow?” I ask. “Maybe get some gifts in the mail for a certain someone?”

“That would be nice,” she says, smiling weakly.

“Nothing like the day after Thanksgiving in the city. I’ll brave it for you.”

I take a bite of turkey over and put it in her mouth. “Good?”

“It’s very good.”

“When you only cook one thing, you get really good at it,” I say with a wry smile.

“I
heard
that,” my mother says from the kitchen.

I steer the dinner conversation toward mundane topics like the economy and our city’s mayor, making sure nothing comes up that would make Quinn uncomfortable. We stay for a couple hours after the meal, and then I announce we’re leaving.

We say our good-byes, and I can feel Quinn relax as we step onto the penthouse elevator. I know she wants to keep her secrets, but I can’t stay silent about this.

“Gloria mentioning the Center for Abducted Children gave you a scare,” I say.

Her sigh is all the acknowledgement I get.

“Hey,” I say softly. She turns to me. “Were you kidnapped, Quinn? Is that what you and your sister are running from?”

The horrors she may have been through are flying through my head. The anger burning through me right now is even worse than what I felt for the men who attacked her.

She shakes her head and gives me a sad smile.

“No. I wasn’t the one who was kidnapped. I was the kidnapper.”