But it’d been two years almost to the day since she’d felt a zing for anything. She sighed and Brock tilted his head at her, eyes softer now, understanding.
He knew. He’d been there when she’d found out about her sister Beth’s death. But his understanding didn’t help.
She’d rather feel again, dammit.
The front door opened behind them and Quinn glanced over. Both her parents and Brock’s stood in the doorway, all four of them smiling a greeting at the chickens coming home to the nest, where they’d be pecked at for all the details of their lives.
Quinn loved her parents madly and they loved her, but brunch was going to be more invasive than a gyno exam on the 405 South at peak traffic hours.
Brock grabbed Quinn’s hand, tugged her into him and planted a kiss on her lips. It wasn’t a hardship. He also looked good, and he knew it. He kissed good as well and he knew that too.
But though they’d slept together occasionally over the years, it’d been a while. Two, to be exact. Still, the kiss was nice, and normally she’d try to enjoy it—except he was only doing it for the show.
So she nipped at his bottom lip. Hard.
Laughing, he pulled back only very slightly. “Feeling feisty?”
“I’m not sleeping with you.”
“You should.”
“Pray tell why.”
“It’s been so long, I’m worried you’re depressed.”
This was just uncomfortably close enough to the truth to have her defenses slam down. “I’m not depressed.”
“Not you,” he said. “Your vagina.”
She snorted and pulled free. “Shut up.”
“Just keep it in mind,” he said, a smile in his voice. He took her hand back and held it as he led her up the front path, clearly having already accessed that she was a fight risk.
“I should’ve bitten you harder,” she murmured, smiling at the parentals.
“Next time,” he murmured back, also smiling. “Feeling vicious today, I take it?”
“Annoyed,” she corrected.
“Ah. I guess turning old does that to a person.”
He was nine months younger than her and for just about all their lives—they’d met in kindergarten when he’d socked a boy for pushing her—he’d been smug about their age difference. She nudged him with her hip and knocked him off balance. He merely hauled her along with him, wrapping both his arms around her so that by all appearances he’d just saved her from a fall. His face close to hers, he gave her a wink.
And suddenly it occurred to her that this wasn’t about her at all, but him. His parents must be on him again about giving them grandbabies. The truth was everyone expected them to marry. And she got it, she did. Brock had been her middle and high school boyfriend, and they’d gone off to college together until they’d had a wildly dramatic and traumatic breakup their first year involving his inability to be monogamous. Oh, he loved her. She had no doubt. But he also loved anyone who batted their eyes and smiled at him.
It’d taken a few years, but eventually they’d found their way back to being friends. Best friends at times, and had gotten into the habit of being each other’s plus one. They even had a promise that if they were still single at age forty, they’d put a ring on it, but it was more a joke than a real vow.
“You’re only making it worse for both of us,” she whispered as they got close to the front door.
“If they think we’re working on things,” Brock said out the side of his mouth, “they’ll leave me the hell alone.”
She shrugged, conceding the point. There were hugs of greeting and airy almost-but-not-quite cheek kisses. “Still not used to it,” Lucinda murmured to Quinn, clinging for an extra minute. “It never feels right, you here without her . . .”
She didn’t mean it hurtfully, Quinn knew it. Her mom wouldn’t hurt a fly, but as always, a lump the size of Texas stuck in her throat. “I know, Mom.”
“I miss her so much. You’re so strong, Quinn, the way you’ve moved on.”
Had she? Moved on? Or was she treading water, staying in place, just managing to keep her head above the surface? One thing for certain, she’d buried her feelings, deep. It’d been the only way to survive the all-encompassing grief, which sat like a big fat elephant on her chest. She’d locked it away in a dark corner of her heart and built a wall around it, brick by painstaking brick to contain the emotions that had nearly taken her down.
But she knew she was lucky. She had a job she loved, parents who cared, and a best friend slash fall-back husband if it ever came to that. Yes, she was turning thirty soon and that surprise party still lay in wait regardless of the fact that she didn’t want it. And while she’d like to pretend that wasn’t happening, it wouldn’t derail her because compared to what she’d been through, there was nothing scary ahead of her.
Famous last words.
A week later, Quinn was in line for her usual afternoon before-work latte when she felt the weight of someone’s gaze on her. Turning, she found a guy around her age with black tousled hair and black rimmed glasses, who looked a lot like a grown-up Harry Potter.
He was staring at her with an intensity that had her blinking and then craning her neck to peek behind her. No one, which meant he was staring at her. She turned away and did her best to ignore him. The women in line in front of her were chatting . . .
“Orgasms after the age of fifty suck,” one said to the other. “No one tells you that but they do.”
Her friend agreed with an emphatic head bob. “I know. It’s like sand paper down there in Lady Town. Takes an entire tube of lube and a bottle of gin.”
The first woman snorted. “Don’t get me started. Alan can’t give me ten minutes to find the G-spot but he’ll spend thirty minutes looking for a golf ball . . .”
Quinn must have made some sound because they both turned to her with apologetic laughs. “Sorry,” Dry Vagina said. “But it’s just one of the many, many things coming your way, along with hot flashes and murderous urges.”
Yay. Something to look forward to.
“Excuse me,” someone said behind her.
Harry Potter, her stalker.
“I need to speak to you,” he said.
Oh boy. “Sorry,” she said but before she could finish her polite excuse, one of her new friends spoke up.
“No need to make a hasty decision, honey. He might be suitably employed with no baggage.”
“Impossible,” Dry Vagina said. “That’d be like finding a unicorn.”
“Are you a unicorn?” the first woman asked him.
Harry Potter blinked at her and then looked at Quinn with more than a little desperation. “Can I please talk to you . . . alone?”
“Not alone,” the first woman said. “That sounds like stranger danger. You can do your pickup line magic right here in the crowd, or better yet do it online like the rest of the world.”
The guy never took his gaze off Quinn. “You’re Quinn Weller, right?”
How did he know her name? “You’re going to need to go first,” Quinn said.
“I’m Cliff Porter. I’m an attorney and I really need a word with you. Privately.”
She stared at him, trying to come up with a reason why an attorney would be looking for her.