Just Say Yes (3 page)

“Who told you you were all of those things anyway?” Tim asked.

Her only response was a slight shrug as she looked out over the pool.

“Okay, I'll just ask all of them, then.” Tim stood up and turned toward the deck, where her friends were still congregated. “Hey, everybody, I was just—” He was cut off by Quinn leaping onto his back.

“Shh. Don't be embarrassing.”

Tim tried to ignore how good it felt to have Quinn pressed up against him. Her long, thin frame molded against him, her full breasts pushing onto the corded muscles in his back. He quickly gave his dick a silent warning to behave as he reached up and unhooked Quinn's hands from his shoulders. He kept hold of one hand as he turned around to face her. “Then tell me. Who said you were boring?”

“I just am.”

“Bullshit.”

Quinn's eyes widened slightly. “You said a bad word,” she teased.

“I did. And I'm going to say a lot more of them if you don't tell me who was calling you names.”

“Aww, you going to defend my honor?”

Tim didn't return her smile. “Absolutely.”

Quinn tilted her head slightly, and he would've given anything to know what she was thinking. She blew out a breath, pulled away from him, and sank back into her chair, resting her arms on her thighs. “Do you ever wish you were someone different?”

Tim wasn't sure how to answer that question. He was sure she knew about his past—at least the highlights. He'd drunk enough water at bars while he was out with them to make it pretty obvious. Not to mention the fact that Lauren knew all about Tim's problems with addiction. The girls didn't seem like the type of friends who kept secrets from one another. “I've been someone different,” he finally answered as he sat back down beside her.

Quinn looked over at him. “Oh. Yeah. Sorry. That was a stupid question.”

“No, it wasn't. Now tell me why you asked it.” Tim couldn't believe Quinn would want to be different. As far as he was concerned, she was perfect.

She sighed. “I don't know. I just . . . Sometimes I feel like this isn't how my life is supposed to shake out. That there's so much more out there waiting for me if I'd just grow a pair and go look for it.”

Tim couldn't help but smile at Quinn's choice of words. She wasn't a saint by any means, but she didn't typically speak so candidly either. “What's stopping you?”

She looked confused.

“From looking for it,” he clarified. “If you think life has more to offer, then why aren't you doing something about it?”

“I already told you. Because I'm safe, and traditional, and—”

“Don't give me that shit again,” Tim interrupted. “Give me the truth.”

“That is the truth. I'm cocooned so deeply into my own comfort zone, I can barely breathe, let alone get out.”

“Just take it one step at a time.”

“I kind of already did that, actually,” she explained. Tim gave her a look that told her to keep going, so she did. “I pitched an idea for an article. A kind of exposé into the life of a sheltered woman looking to spread her wings, if you will.”

“That sounds great.”

“Yeah, except now I have to actually go through with it. I was only pitching the idea, but now my editor wants
me
to write the article. And I have no idea how I'm going to do that. I don't even know the kinds of things I should write about.” Quinn sighed deeply. “How am I supposed to know what type of person I want to be? I can't even pick the right type of guy to date.”

Tim felt his jaw tighten at the mention of Quinn and guys, but he ignored it because there wasn't anything that could be done about it. “What type
do
you date?”

“In a nutshell, mama's boys,” she said with a hollow laugh. “It's fine. I just couldn't understand why I always date these guys who still live at home and think playing video games is a stimulating activity. Then I started reflecting on it and realized that it's because I play it safe and look for guys who will be the least likely to hurt me. I don't take risks, and I don't like leaving things to chance. It's just how I'm wired.”

He wanted to tell her that was a good thing. There was a reason she was attracted to guys who were essentially the opposite of him: they were better. They hadn't spent years on the streets doing whatever it took to get their next fix. They didn't hurt the people who loved them. They didn't fuck up everything they had to chase a high that was never as good as promised. “There's nothing wrong with that, Quinn. Trust me. I've taken enough risks in my lifetime to satisfy the quota for a football team. And it hasn't made me a better person, or more fulfilled, or happier. It made me stupid and thoughtless.”

“You don't think you're those things now? Happy and fulfilled?”

“I am them now, for the most part. But that's because I've stopped being a reckless jackass.”

“Don't you think those experiences enabled you to be them though? That by making mistakes and seeing how bad things could get, you actually found out how you
did
want to live?”

She had him there. Tim was one hundred percent formed by the lessons he'd learned. He was a better person at thirty-five because he'd been such a bad person from ages fifteen to twenty-seven. Tim had hit rock bottom about four times, and each time that rock bottom had gotten deeper. It made him appreciate being firmly aboveground. “I'm kind of an extreme case though. I don't recommend my type of living to find out who you are.”

Quinn offered him a slight smile. “I'm not saying I want to hang out in dark alleys and befriend gangbangers. I just want to push the envelope a little. I don't want to look back on my twenties and be bogged down by all of the things I
didn't
do.”

Tim sat quietly for a minute. “Okay, you want to unleash your inner rebel, then we'll do it.”

“We?”

“Oh yeah. There's no
way
I'm missing out on this.”

Recipe

Sunday morning Quinn woke up more hungover than she'd ever been. Sure, she'd been known to have her fair share of drinks when she and the girls would go to a bar or a club at night, but she didn't make a habit of drinking during the day. There was something about drinking when it was still light out that made her head hurt. Maybe it was the fact that she'd sat outside in the heat for most of the party. Or that she hadn't had much to eat and had hydrated herself with nothing other than beer. But she had a sneaking suspicion that much of the reason she didn't feel well was because her head had been so clouded with its own thoughts lately. Typically, Quinn was up early, opting to make the most of her time. But as the morning sun streamed in through the windows, she covered her head with the blanket in an attempt to block out any light and willed herself to go back to sleep.

She could hear the quiet that had become a staple of her home since her roommate, Kristen, had gotten engaged and for all intents and purposes moved in with her fiancé. But her phone dinging for the second time to alert her that she'd received a text made it clear to Quinn that she'd be getting up.
Probably the girls making sure I'm alive.
And she knew they wouldn't stop until they at least got some sort of a reply.

She rose slowly, as if the subtle movement might literally make her head explode, and headed for the hall bathroom to get some Advil and water. When she returned to her room, she moved toward her dresser, where she usually kept her phone charging overnight. But it wasn't there. In her drunken state, she must have forgotten to plug it in and instead left it in the clutch she'd brought to the party. Her phone dinged once more as she grabbed the purple Vera Bradley off her bed. She was sure the last ding was from one of them too. But when she slid her phone out and clicked the
HOME
button, there were two texts from a “Mr. Sexy.”

Hope it's not too early and I didn't wake you. But I thought you might be in dire need of a caffeinated beverage this morning.

Then there was the second text that had come through a few minutes later.
Meet me at Espresso Yourself?

Who is this?
Quinn replied.

She stared at her phone for a few moments until she saw the dots indicating that the other person was composing a reply before it came through.
Lol. Who do you think Mr. Sexy is?

Though there was no one in the room with her, she felt her face heat with embarrassment. She didn't remember ever programming anyone's name into her phone as “Mr. Sexy.” And that could mean only one thing: she'd done it yesterday, and now she had no recollection of it. Quinn thought back to what she could remember of the party.
Tim?
she wrote back.

The reply seemed to come almost immediately.
See, I knew you'd remember. Now, what about that coffee? I'm headed into the restaurant in a bit to do some inventory and make up schedules. I could meet you at 10 if that works.

Sure. Coffee sounds good. And I didn't actually remember. Just used a little deductive reasoning (which is actually pretty impressive given my current state). The only two guys I recall talking to at the party whose numbers I didn't already have were you and Lauren's grandfather. I was pretty sure I was more likely to call you Mr. Sexy than a white-haired eighty-two-year-old.
Quinn figured her lengthy explanation had been a sufficient reason for giving Tim such an embarrassing moniker.

Lmao. I should probably say thanks for the compliment. But before I get too excited about being better-looking than someone almost two and a half times my age, I should probably mention that you didn't plug my number in as Mr. Sexy. I did.

Quinn felt her stomach flip as a wave of nausea hit her. Something told her it was more from calling Tim sexy than from her hangover. Before she could think of something to write back, another text came through.
And don't forget to bring your list.

Somehow, despite her vague recollection of yesterday's events, she knew exactly what Tim was referring to. He'd asked her to compile a list of five to ten things that were out of her comfort zone. And apparently he wasn't letting her off the hook.

•   •   •

By the time Quinn looked at the clock, she had only fifteen minutes to get ready before she had to leave. She'd have to skip a shower—which she desperately could have used since she was pretty sure she smelled like a brewery. Instead, she quickly washed her face, put on a little moisturizer, and ran a brush through her hair before throwing it up in a loose ponytail. Frantically, she searched her closet for something that was cute but didn't scream,
I took time to get ready.
She opted for coral linen shorts and an off-the-shoulder white tee. She hoped the look said flirty-casual, though she didn't know why she was so concerned with how her outfit would be perceived.

She barely made it to the coffee shop by a few minutes after ten. The bells jingled as she opened the door and shifted her large sunglasses from her eyes to the top of her head so she could scan the tables for Tim. Maybe she'd get lucky and be there before him so she'd have time to settle her thoughts. Was someone with such a checkered past really the right person to help her figure out how she wanted to live her life? She knew that didn't mean Tim was a bad
person
. He wasn't
now
. And truthfully, he probably never had been. But his bad-boy image couldn't be ignored. And if she were being honest with herself, the last thing she wanted to do was ignore it.

Quinn was reminded of that when she spotted Tim seated at a small, two-person table by the window. He was leaning back in the chair, his broad shoulders open and relaxed. His army-green V-neck tee was stretched deliciously over his chiseled chest. As she took a seat across from him, Quinn noticed how the copper tones in his blond hair nearly glowed in the sunlight.

Tim smiled brightly. “Here she is in the flesh. I'm glad to see you survived.”

As he lifted his cup of coffee to his lips, Quinn's eyes raked over the tattoos that covered his strong arms. Deep blacks to subtle grays, bright oranges, shades of red, and some cooler tones as well. She could see two gold wings surrounded by a deep blue background peeking out of the top of his collar. His skin was like a canvas, and she couldn't help but wonder what else was under that T-shirt.

It suddenly occurred to her that she'd been so caught up in her visual molestation that she hadn't even said hello to him yet. She laughed awkwardly, unsure of exactly how long she'd been staring at him without saying anything. “Yeah,” she finally responded. “I survived. Although barely. I haven't been that drunk since my uncle's wedding when I was sixteen.”

“Now we're talking,” Tim said, with clear enthusiasm in his voice. “Not that I encourage underage drinking, but it'll help with this whole . . . process if we know there's a rebel inside you somewhere that just needs to be unleashed. You know, instead of having to create one from scratch.”

“Don't get too excited. It wasn't intentional. My cousin and I ordered piña coladas from the bar all night. My parents used to get me virgin ones when I was a kid when we went to dinner sometimes. Guess the bartender at the wedding assumed we were twenty-one. I didn't even realize they had alcohol in them until I drank five and fell asleep at the table.”

Tim barked out a loud laugh. “Now that sounds more like the Quinn I know.”

“It was so embarrassing.” Quinn shook her head. “Mainly for my parents, though, because I was too hungover to go to the family brunch the next morning. I can't even wash my hair with coconut shampoo. The smell still makes me sick.”

Tim ran a rough hand over the scruff on his face. “Well, I think you've clearly come a long way. You're hungover now, and you managed to come to a place with coffee and muffins. Consider it a do-over.”

“Speaking of coffee,” Quinn said with a smile, “I'll be back in a minute. Do you want a refill?”

“Actually, I do. I'll get it, though. What would you like?” Tim asked as he rose from his seat.

Quinn's mouth opened, her lips preparing to say
medium hot coffee, two creams, one sugar
as if by reflex. But thankfully her brain censored what would have been her standard choice of beverage, the one she'd had a thousand times. Here she was, having coffee with Tim Jacobs so they could devise a plan for how to accomplish all the things she'd been too afraid to do all her life. “How about a mocha latte?”

•   •   •

Tim returned to the table a few minutes later and placed one of the drinks in front of Quinn, who eyed the beverage suspiciously. “Whipped cream?” she said, spinning the cup in her hands. “That's different.”

Tim chuckled. “If you're that scared of whipped cream, I think we have our work cut out for us.”

“I usually only eat it on ice cream, but I like it.”

Quinn laughed softly, and the sound made Tim smile. In fact, Tim found himself smiling almost nonstop when he was around Quinn. Maybe it was her bubbly personality—how naturally warm and charming she was to be around. Or maybe it was the fact that she was genuinely innocent without being naive. Whatever it was, Tim had never known anyone like Quinn before.

“What? What's so funny?”

Tim blew on his coffee and then took a drink before answering. “It's just that you said you liked it, but implied that if you didn't, you weren't even going to try it.”

Quinn stared at him in silence for a moment before finally saying, “Well, I mean, I would have at least
tried
it.”

“Good.” Tim gave a firm nod. “Because you're about to try a lot of things you're not sure if you'll like. Speaking of which, let's hear 'em.”

He could sense Quinn's nervousness as she removed her phone from her bag. She let out a long huff, which blew a strand of hair from her face. Tim's eyes watched her slender fingers as she tucked it behind her ear. Then his gaze dropped lower, to the soft, lightly freckled skin on her cheeks and neck and then down to her exposed shoulder. For a brief second, he let himself imagine what it would be like to run his tongue along that same path. But he immediately halted all inappropriate thoughts. He was there to help her. As a friend.

“Okay, so how does this work? Do you just want me to read it to you?”

“Sure,” Tim said.

“Well, I didn't have a whole lot of time to think about this list since you just gave me this assignment yesterday, and I was drunk up until a few hours ago. And the first two are ones I had to put because I mentioned them in the pitch meet—”

“Quinn.”

She looked up from her phone. “Yeah?”

“Just read them. No qualifiers.”

“Okay.” She took a deep breath before continuing. “Commit a crime, ask a stranger on a date, pose nude for an art class, get a tattoo, sing—”

Tim nearly spit his coffee out. “Wait. Back up a second. “You're going to pose nude? You, Quinn Sawyer, are going to sit naked in front of a roomful of strangers and let them stare at you while they re-create your image on a canvas?”

Quinn looked confused. “I didn't say I was going to actually
do
all these things. I thought we were just tossing around some ideas.”

“No way. This is it, baby.” Tim clapped his hands together once, hoping his excitement might rub off on her. “This is the list. There's no going back. Besides, I've always wanted to learn to paint. This seems like the perfect opportunity, don't you think?”

Quinn's eyes widened in what looked like horror.

“Relax. I'm kidding,” Tim said. When Quinn settled, Tim added, “We might be using pastels.”

“Tim, I'm trying to be serious here.” She crumpled up a napkin and threw it across the table at him.

“Me too. And if it's on your list, you're doing it.”

Quinn looked at her phone, and Tim could see her right thumb tapping.

“Uh-uh. No erasing. Give it here,” he said, reaching across the table and playfully stealing Quinn's phone from her.

He studied it for a few seconds before reading the rest of the list aloud. “Sing karaoke . . . That's an easy one. Play hooky from work.” He glanced up at Quinn, confused. “You've seriously never even called out of work and said you were sick when you weren't?”

Quinn shrugged. “I don't like lying.”

“It's not really lying. You
are
sick. Sick of working.” Her face told him she wasn't buying it. “Okay, okay,” he conceded, returning his attention to her phone. “What does ‘hit' mean? The one you started to erase.”

Quinn crossed her arms and bit her lip as if she were physically forcing her mouth to keep quiet.

“Fine. Guessing will be more fun anyway.” Tim's eyes narrowed as he thought. “Hit an old woman in the face?”

“Why would I want to do that?” Quinn asked in shock.

“
You
tell
me.
It's
your
list.”

“It didn't say
hit an old woman in the face.
”

“Hmm.” Tim lifted his eyes toward the ceiling in thought. “Hit it and quit it.”

Quinn's response was a simple “No.”

“Hit on a sexy tattooed chef.”

“Stop,” she said, though her smile told him she was actually enjoying his game.

“Then you'd better tell me, because they're just going to keep getting worse.”

“Fine. It said hitchhike. But there's no way I'm doing that. It's dangerous. I could be raped or killed.”

Tim felt his demeanor change immediately. His muscles tensed at the thought of someone . . .
any
one hurting Quinn. He would never let that happen. He took a deep breath and looked into Quinn's sweet blue eyes. “Everything we do, we do together. I would never let you get hurt, Quinn.”