The Romance Report (2 page)

“That’s right. I forgot about your uncle. Dad was
telling me he owned a little diner that received some positive press.”

“It’s a restaurant, not a diner, and yes, it’s
received rave reviews. Uncle Patrick is putting a new flair on Irish fare. It’s
not mutton and potatoes anymore. He’s going to the local farms and
incorporating fresh produce and meat into new dishes. Anyway, he and I traveled
to out of the way eateries and met several amazing chefs and home cooks. His
plan is to incorporate what he learned and create something different from
other restaurants. I’m excited.”

“At least you can cook. I’m all thumbs in the
kitchen. You must fix me a home-cooked meal soon.”

Fortunately Quinn was saved from responding to
Tad’s not so subtle hint by the arrival of dinner. Jack slid her plate in front
of her. She swooned from the intoxicating scent of oranges mixed with spices.
She closed her eyes and inhaled. When she opened them a few moments later, she
saw Tad holding a forkful of food in front of his face and peering closely at
it.

“I don’t think this is seafood fettucine,” he
said.

“Why do you say that? It looks like it to me.”

“No. It smells funny.” He sniffed and wrinkled his
nose. “This,” he shoved the offending fork at Quinn, “has some kind of weird
spice or something besides seafood and pasta.”

Quinn looked at the forkful of pasta. She reached
over and took it from him. She tried a bite and tasted nothing out of the
ordinary. “It’s fine. Try it. If you’d prefer, we can trade dishes.”

“I don’t want your dinner,” Tad said each word
slowly as if she didn’t understand English. “What I want is a freakin’ prime
rib and a normal dinner. Instead, I get some weird fusion pasta crap and
crabs.” Tad slammed the fork down on the table. His hand hit the edge of his
pasta plate on its downward journey. The plate flipped, and the pasta flew
across the table and landed all over Quinn.

All conversation in the restaurant stopped. Quinn
felt a noodle slide off her head and down into her cleavage. A shrimp
somersaulted off the edge of the table and into one of her Prada heels.

“What is wrong with you?” Quinn said through
gritted teeth. “You are a pompous, spoiled brat. I can’t believe my mother
thought we’d hit it off. I’d rather date a rabid raccoon than you!” She spotted
Jack easing his way towards their table, unsure if it was a smart move or a
death wish. She reached down and dumped the errant shrimp from her shoe.

“I’m a spoiled brat?” Tad hooted. “Really? I took
you out as a favor to your parents. It’s not like I make a habit of dating
flaky chicks in dead-end jobs. You’re lucky I even bothered to show up. I
turned down a date with a gorgeous accountant to go out with you, a loser who
writes a blog about food.” He threw a hundred dollar bill on the table and
stood up to leave.

Quinn felt the blood rushing to her face. A hot
anger roiled up from her stomach. “What the hell kind of name is Tad? It’s a
frog, for Pete’s sake, not a name for a grown-ass man. And it’s an online
magazine, not a blog!” Quinn yelled. She picked up one of her shoes and threw
it at Tad. Time slowed as it sailed through the air, toe over heel. It sailed
right past Tad and hit smack dab into the head of the gentleman sitting behind
him.

CHAPTER TWO

To:
 
Randall Kent

From: Quinn Daniels

Subject:
 
Change in
Restaurant Review

Randall,

Due to unforeseen circumstances, I was unable to
review Marlowe’s Restaurant. I apologize for the delay. I plan to review
Gryphon’s this evening and I will have the review in your inbox for approval by
8 a.m. Friday morning. Again, I apologize for the delay.

Quinn

To:
 
Quinn Daniels

From: Randall Kent

Subject: Re: Change in Restaurant Review

Quinn,

Let’s talk about this. Come see me in my office
today at 2 p.m.

Randall

  
Quinn
strolled through the glass door announcing in discreet black letters Kent
Publications, Inc. at a few minutes before 2 p.m. Ginger, the chic brunette who
manned the front desk and guarded Randall Kent’s office like Quinn’s cat
guarded her toy mouse, was talking on the phone. Ginger wiggled her
French-tipped fingers to Quinn and mouthed, “Go on in.”

  
Quinn
stuck her head into Randall’s office. Randall sat frowning at his laptop. He
looked up, scowled and motioned for her to have a seat.

  
“So,
Randall, I’m sorry about dropping the ball on the Marlowe’s review. Something
came up and honestly, is Italian-Caribbean fusion a trend we want to promote?
It might appear like we’re jumping on whatever food trend is hot for the
moment, but if it lasts less than six months, it lessens our credibility. A
review of Gryphon’s would be a better tie-in to the entertainment piece that
Brian’s writing about the remodeled theater on the same block,” Quinn said
hurriedly. “I promise you I can review Gryphon’s and have the article to you by
tomorrow morning.”

  
“Something
came up? Would you care to elaborate on what that might have been? Say perhaps
an arrest for disturbing the peace, simple assault, destruction of
property…this is according to my contacts in the police department. Shall I
continue?” Randall asked in a tight voice. He leaned back in his chair, crossed
his arms and fixed Quinn with a glare.

  
Quinn
gulped. She wouldn’t finagle herself out of this one. She came clean. “My
mother insisted I go on a date with the son of a family friend. He was a complete
ass and threw pasta all over me. I lost my temper. I didn’t mean to bean the
guy in the head with my shoe. It was an accident.”

  
“An
accident is spilling a glass of wine. An accident is hitting the rear end of
the car in front of you. An accident is not picking up a shoe and assaulting
someone in the middle of a crowded restaurant and having a video of it blasted
across social media!” Randall’s rose in volume until the glass shook in the
window behind him.

  
“Wait,”
Quinn said, “there’s a video?”

  
“Yes!”
Randall snarled and spun his laptop around for her. “A couple was celebrating
their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary last night. Their kids were shooting
video with their phones of their dad giving his wife an anniversary band.
Imagine how thrilled they were to capture you screaming like a banshee with a
shrimp hanging off your ear in the background.” He punched a key with his
finger and the video played.

  
Quinn felt
her stomach sink into her ankles. She should have stood up to her mother and
said no to the date with Tad. She watched in horror as the events of the
previous evening played on the screen. The budding filmmakers had even gone so
far as to add special effects to the final scene. Quinn’s Prada heel bounced
repeatedly off the bald head of the man with the comic book style “Kapow!”
emblazoned on the screen with each ricochet.

“Crap,” Quinn said in a small voice. She sank down
in her chair.

“Crap is right. A heap of crap is what you’ve
tossed my good name in with your behavior. Not only did I get an angry phone
call from Todd Marlowe demanding Under the Radar write a public apology and a
glowing review, but the man you hit with the shoe is none other than the
brother of the mayor. Fortunately for you, he decided not to press charges. I also
managed to convince the police to drop the matter. Unfortunately for you,
you’re out of a job and a career because I’ll be damned if I give you a
reference. I don’t care if your uncle is the chef to the president himself,
you’re finished. I’m not going to have my magazine’s reputation smeared by the
juvenile antics of a self-indulged spoiled brat throwing a temper tantrum. Now
get out of my office!”

“But…” Quinn started to protest that it wasn’t her
fault, but the fury she saw on Randall’s face stopped her cold. She slunk
quietly out of his office and slipped past Ginger without a glance. It wasn’t
until she made her way out of the building did she allow the tears to fall. She
leaned back against the cool granite and gulped in fresh air in an attempt to
calm herself. Wiping her eyes, Quinn took another shuddering breath and slipped
sunglasses out of her bag and put them on to hide behind the dark lenses.

“Quinnie, crying isn’t going to turn that spilt
milk into butter, so put your big girl panties on and get over it,” Quinn said
in her best imitation of her Grandma Rose’s Irish brogue.

She straightened up and whistled at a passing
taxi. She asked the driver to take her to her brownstone on Franklin. As the
cab pulled away from the curb and whipped into the heavy traffic of Broad
Street, Quinn realized this might be the last taxi she could afford in the
foreseeable future. She imagined the small sum in her savings account dwindling
to zero without the steady paycheck Kent Publications provided. Her small
dating disaster of the night before mushroomed into a hurricane of destruction
with each passing block. Rent. Utilities. Cat food for her cat, Fat Panther.
People food. She needed a job and she needed one quick.

“You know what? Just drop me off here. I’ll walk
the rest of the way,” Quinn instructed the driver. She handed him the fare and
felt like a loser giving him a fifty cent tip. “Sorry about the tip. I got
fired a little while ago. I can’t find a decent guy and I don’t know what I
want to be when I grow up and…” She stifled a sob.

The driver handed her back her fare. “This rides
on me, honey. I’ve been in some tight spots myself.”

Quinn felt a fresh set of tears form at the sight
of the man’s friendly smile. “Thank you. I promise I’ll find you once I get a job
and give you the biggest tip ever.”

“I’m sure you will. The name’s Saul. You get in a
bind, you call dispatch and ask for me. I’ve got a daughter about your age. I’d
like to believe someone is looking out for her as she makes her way out into
the world. Now get back in and let me take you the rest of the way home.”
 

Chapter Three

  
“The
tragedy in this whole situation is a perfectly good dinner was sacrificed.
Darling, if it’d been me, I’d have pulled that shrimp right out of my bustier
and nibbled on it just to spite his pompous ass,” Sean said. He took another
sip of his cocktail. “Mmm…what did you call this thing again? It is absolutely
delish.”

  
“A Smoky
Mary. It’s a Bloody Mary made with smoked salt, jalapenos, and fresh tomatoes.
It’s my very own creation. Since I crashed and burned at my journalism gig, a
smoky drink was fitting,” Quinn said
 
glumly. “I get a dream job writing about food
and I blow it. I’ll have to go back to working in the advertising department at
the Times, if they’ll even take me back. No job. No money. No man. That’s it. I’m
done with romance. I’m giving up on men for good. I’ll become the crazy cat
lady who lives in a shopping cart and eats cat chow along with her twenty
feline friends. Somebody get me a crocheted beret and unmatched socks!”

  
“Aren’t
you overreacting just a little? I mean, it was a guy your mother set you up on
a date with for Pete’s sake. It was bound to go
 
sour. No offense, but your mom cares about facts, political connections
and appearances. Romance is not her strong point,” Indie pointed out to Quinn.
She ran her small fingers through her bright blue hair causing it to spike even
more. She looked like a punked-out cartoon hedgehog with glasses.

  
“I couldn’t
give up men,” Sean declared as he licked the salt from the rim of his glass. He
fluttered his lashes at Quinn. “This boy needs love like a flower needs
sunshine. The difference between you and me is I prefer my men driving a shiny
sports car with a fat …”

“Sean!” Quinn and Indie squealed in unison.

“Wallet. What? I was going to say wallet. Sheesh.
Get your mind out of the gutter.” He winked at them and continued, “Quinn dates
poor, starving artists. Boyfriend has got to have a J O B or he is not going to
date me. Standards. You’ve got to have standards or you’ll end up homeless in a
box with Johnny Nightdriver as he plays guitar for your beanie weenie supper.
Now, your mama’s got standards but her taste in men runs towards the kind with
a stick up their…”

“Sean!” Both girls squealed again.

“Behind. Listen, I’m keeping it G-rated, but if
you make me another oh-so-tasty cocktail, I can bump it up to PG-13. Anyhow, as
I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, you’ve got to set standards.
For example, Sean Carlos’ Rule Number One is boyfriend has got to have a job.
Rule Number Two is he has to be smoking hot and dress to impress. Don’t come
pick me up in raggedy old jeans and a broken down t-shirt. You might as well
pack yourself right on down the stairs and back to your shack and toothless hound
dog.”

“He needs to be smart,” Indie chimed. “Not so
smart that he’s a jerk, but smart enough to be able to know what’s going on in
the world and talk about it.”

“Funny,” Quinn added. “He needs to have a sense of
humor, in and out of the bedroom.”

“He needs to have a big…”

“Sean!” Indie and Quinn whooped with laughter.
Indie laughed so hard that she began to hiccup. Quinn patted her hard on the
back in a half-hearted attempt to help. The watered-down remains of Indie’s
Smoky Mary spilled on the white couch.

“Crud. Sorry. Let me go grab a rag and clean it
before it sets,” Indie hiccupped as she attempted to stand up and make her way
to the kitchen.

“Girl, that is going to stain. This is why I don’t
do white. Hell, this place looks like the inside of a loaf of Wonder Bread,”
Sean said, looking around him.

“My mother decorated. She’s a firm believer that
black is slimming and white furniture screams sophistication.” Quinn rolled her
eyes as she imagined her mother’s voice in her head giving decorating advice.

“What it screams is boring. No pizazz. No
personality,” Sean replied.

“That’s your problem,” Indie said. She scrubbed at
the offending red spots with a wet dishcloth. “You have no color. Everything is
black and white. That works for facts and news, but life’s not like that. Life
is messy and colorful and…messy.”

“Indie’s right. You date the losers you date
because you want to add a little excitement and some spark to this oh-so-drab
world. You need to find a different coloring box to pick from than the one you’ve
been choosing from lately. No more generic crayons made of cheap wax. You need
the real deal,” Sean announced. He stood up and strutted into Quinn’s bedroom.
Quinn could hear the sounds of drawers opening and shutting and hangers
scraping across the metal closet rod. A few minutes later, Sean carried out a
mountain of black clothing and dumped it onto the couch. “You missed your
calling. You’d have gone far in life as a death metal singer or a gothic
heroine in a punk rock video. Even your panties are black.” Sean dangled a
black thong off his pinkie finger.

“It’s all become crystal clear,” Indie piped. She
jumped up from her seat on the ground and draped a black dress around her
shoulders like a cape. “You are a vampire quietly living amongst us as you wait
for your chance to swoop in and suck our blood. Mwahaha.”

“Ha ha. You two are a riot. Not much I can do to
change my wardrobe now. No job means no money for clothes. Remember?” Quinn got
up and began to mix another batch of cocktails. She eyed the vodka bottle and
added another dash of it to the pitcher in front of her. She sliced a jalapeno
and garnished three glasses. “No man is ever going to want to go on a date with
me once they see my screaming like a fishwife on YouTube. I might as well take
my vow of celibacy now and be done with it.”

Sean took the glass Quinn presented him and
sipped. “Mmm…that’s good. It has enough kick to put my creative juice into
overdrive. Shawna, the most sought after queen in the city, is gonna give you a
makeover. By the time I’m done with you, no one will recognize you, not even
your mama.”

“I’m not sure about you giving me a makeover, Sean.
I don’t do the heavy eyeliner and flashy sequins thing,” Quinn protested. She
imagined herself with Tammy Faye eyelashes and platform heels tottering into a
five-star restaurant.

“Puhlease!” Sean waved his hand at her. “Like you
could carry that style. No. I’ve got a friend whose mother is a buyer for some
big department store. She gets tons of clothes and doesn’t even wear half of
it. She’s begging me to take it and give it to some of the other girls in the
business. Carrie is about your size so most of it should fit. In the meantime,
let’s do something about your hair.”

“What’s wrong with my hair?”

“It’s black,” Indie said. She had settled her tiny
frame cross-legged on top of the pile of black clothes.

“I am not dyeing my hair blue or purple or green.”

“What’s your natural hair color?” Indie asked.
“I’ve known you for ten years and have no clue.”

“What makes you think it’s not black?” Indie
raised one skeptical eyebrow at Quinn. “Alright. It’s boring brown.”

“Give me a minute to grab some supplies from
downstairs, and I’ll turn you into a goddess of love.”

Sean went out the door of Quinn’s apartment to the
ground floor where he lived with his grandmother. His grandmother, Reyna Garza,
owned the building and had lived in the brownstone since she married in the
late 1950s. Her husband had passed away fifteen years ago, but until recently,
she was able to manage on her own. A fall down the icy front steps last winter
had prompted Sean to give up his apartment in the Fan District and move in to
care for her while she recovered from a broken ankle. His grandmother didn’t
know about Sean’s other persona, Shawna, and he had no intention of telling
her. She believed Sean worked as a bouncer in a nightclub. The truth was that
Sean aka Shawna headlined at Hello Sailor! Nightclub in downtown Richmond three
nights a week. Under the smoky lights of the club, Sean transformed from a
handsome young Latino to a raven-haired minx with a sultry voice belting out
1940s wartime ballads.

“Do not let him turn me into Dolly Parton,” Quinn
begged Indie. She took a big gulp of her drink and gasped as the heat of the
jalapeno mixed with the vodka washed down her throat. “I still want to be me
after he’s done.” A fine sheen of sweat broke out on her brow. She wasn’t sure
if it was from the jalapeno or the fear of the pending makeover.

“Do you even know who the real you is?” Indie
asked. “I’m serious. It seems like everything you do is tied to your mother’s
approval. Your degree, your décor, even your wardrobe. Your only act of
rebellion was quitting your job at the paper and taking off to Europe with your
uncle. What happened to that girl?”

“I don’t know,” Quinn said in a small voice.
“Grandma Rose went into the nursing home and living at home with my parents
wasn’t an option if I wanted to keep my sanity. I think Mom and Dad were gone
for work so much that I want a way to connect with them. Besides, I’m
twenty-six years old. Jetting off to Europe was fun, but I have to have a job
and an apartment. I have to be a grown up.”

“Grown up doesn’t mean giving up who you are,
Quinn,” Indie said gently.

“Ladies, I’ve come armed and dangerous,” Sean burst
into the apartment toting to round cases festooned with 1950’s pinups. “Have
comb and will travel for any hair emergency!”

Quinn held her empty glass out to Indie. “Fill her
up. I’m going to need it.”
  

Quinn leaned her head over her kitchen sink and allowed
Sean to rinse the strange goo he’d smeared all over her hair. She was scared to
even ask him why it was purple and smelled like hardboiled eggs and ammonia.
She said a silent prayer to the god of good hair to please not let her hair
fall out and leave her bald as a buzzard egg.

“Okay. It’s done. Your color looks fabulous if I
do say so myself. Why you covered up these gorgeous chestnut locks with
shoeshine black is beyond me,” Sean said as he inspected her hair. He guided
Quinn to a chair he’d put on the small balcony. “Now for the cut.”

Quinn clutched the damp towel wrapped around her
head. “Cut!” She squawked. “No one said anything about cutting my hair. I don’t
like short hair!”

“Hey!” Indie protested. “I just shake and roll my
way out the door. Short hair is great.” She shook her blue spikes at Quinn.

“Yes, but you are four foot nothing. Short hair
makes you look cute. On me, I’d look like a man. Mom says I have strong features.
Long hair feminizes my face,” Quinn informed her. She clutched the towel even
tighter as Sean attempted to pull it free.

“Like your mother knows hair. She has the same
Hilary bob she got in 1995.” Sean rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to cut it
short. Trust me. I have more fashion sense in my little finger than most people
have in their entire body.”

Quinn relented and released her death grip on the
towel. Sean threw it to the side and took a sip of his drink while he inspected
Quinn’s face. His nose scrunched and he let out small grunts as he circled her
chair. He checked her over one last time, picked up his shears and began to
snip her hair. Quinn gasped as she saw long strands of hair fall to the floor
around her. She closed her eyes and muttered under her breath.

“What’s that? I can’t hear you,” Sean said.
“Relax. You’re going to be my greatest masterpiece. The Mona Lisa of hair. The
white whale of hairdressers everywhere. Longed for but rarely seen.”

“Oh brother,” Indie groaned from inside the
apartment. “Your ego is growing with every snip. How did you become such a
diva?”

“My brother took all my testosterone in the womb,”
Sean said.

“Wait. You have a brother? How come I haven’t met
him?” Quinn asked.

“Julian is my twin brother and he’s in the
military. He’s as straight and macho as I’m gay and fabulous. He does something
with helicopters and weapons. I don’t know. Stuff that gets you muddy.” Sean
waved his scissors in the air. “You’ll meet him soon enough and love him. All
the ladies do and he loves them back.”

“Once you’re done with her hair, I’m going to snap
a picture to post on her profile page,” Indie said.

“What profile page?” Quinn eyes flew open. She
wanted to see what Indie was doing and why she needed a picture of her.

“The profile page I’m creating on True Hearts. I
do some freelance computer security for them and occasionally tweak the
algorithms they use to match prospective dates. I’m making you your very own
account and thanks to my mad skills creating backdoors into their server, its
free,” Indie said. Her fingers flew across the keys of her laptop. She gave one
last tap to the keyboard then set it on the table. She walked out onto the
balcony to inspect Sean’s work. “Wow! I take back everything I was thinking about
your big head. Quinn, you’re stunning!”

“Your undying adoration is apology enough. No
peeking, Quinn. I want to tame those Neanderthal eyebrows of yours, and then
we’ll do the big reveal,” Sean said. He pulled tweezers out and began to pluck.

“Ouch!” Quinn squirmed as Sean continued to pluck
away at her brows. “This is why I don’t wax or tweeze my brows. It hurts! I
thought the natural brow was the newest trend.”

“Natural, yes. Unruly, no. The price of
traffic-stopping beauty, my love, does not come without a little pain and
plucking. Quit bitching and hold still. If you’re not careful you’ll end up
with a uni-brow on one side.”

Quinn winced but forced herself to sit still.
“Online dating is such a bad idea. A couple friends of mine tried it. The guys
they met were nothing like their profiles. What if my date ends up being some
kind of psychopathic killer? You might find me chopped into little bits and
buried in the backyard.”