She stared at him, her heart pounding. “How do you know?”
“Because I know you. Or I’m starting to. I’ve seen you with Greta and Trinee, and the café you thought you didn’t want. I’ve seen you with Tilly, and no matter what she throws at you, trying desperately to prove she doesn’t need you or anyone, you keep your patience.”
“She’s my sister,” Quinn said. “And the café is, was, Carolyn’s.” She hesitated. “My mom’s.”
“And Lena?” he asked. “You’ve gathered her in too, like one of your chickens. What’s your excuse for caring about her?”
Dammit.
He laughed softly. “Let yourself go, Quinn. Let it happen. It’s okay to love this place and everyone in it.”
And you, she wondered. Is it okay to let myself love you as well? But she knew the answer to that. It wasn’t okay. But looking into his eyes, seeing the easy attraction, she told herself it was okay to stay in the moment and enjoy this for as long as she could.
To that end, she stood and kicked off her shoes as her fingers went to the button on her jeans.
Coop lifted his big head and gave one excited bark. His humans were on the move!
Mick raised a brow at Quinn.
“It’s hot,” she said. “And my brain’s tired of thinking. I’m going for a swim.” She wriggled out of her jeans while he watched, eyes hot now.
“This swim,” he said. “Is it a solo swim?”
“Only if you’re slow.” She pulled off her top and turned to the water, but before she’d taken a single step, she was lifted into the air and thrown over Mick’s shoulder.
“It’s not me who’s slow,” he said and dove into the water with her.
THE FOLLOWING SATURDAY morning, Quinn stood in Carolyn’s kitchen wearing nothing but Mick’s T-shirt, undies, and some whisker burns. Tilly had spent the night at Katie’s, and Quinn had had a sleepover of her own.
Later, after Tilly came home, she was going to have the let’s-move-to-L.A.-and-make-this-real conversation.
She was nervous as hell about that.
But it was time. Past time . . .
The hens were very busy clucking and muttering among themselves. Such a simple life, she thought, and yet . . . it felt right. She’d been fighting that for a while, but she couldn’t deny the truth.
She was happy here. She would definitely miss being here, including the sexy, six-foot, naked guy she’d left in her bed.
The knock on the front door surprised her and she looked down at herself. Definitely needed more clothes on before answering. Dodging out of the kitchen, she stopped short in the living room, staring in shock out the window that ran alongside the front door.
It was Brock.
Before she could think it through, she pulled the door open. “What are you—”
He hauled her into him and kissed her.
She was so shocked she froze in place as his arms tightened on her so that they were pressed up against each other in a familiar way that once upon a time had both comforted her and turned her on.
It did neither now.
She took a big step back and shook her head at him, and then realized that Mick had come into the living room.
When she’d left him flat on his back, spread-eagled on her bed, he’d been sated, boneless, and practically purring. He’d certainly been relaxed.
He wasn’t relaxed now. In nothing but unbuttoned jeans, he stood there with a carefully blank look on his face, tension radiating from him.
Not sure how much he’d seen, Quinn decided to deal with one problem at a time and turned on Brock. “What are you doing here?”
“Thought I’d visit my fiancée.” He said this with his eyes locked on Mick. “I’d ask you the same question but I think it’s pretty obvious what you’re doing.”
Resisting the urge to tug Mick’s shirt down lower on her thighs, she shook her head. “I thought you were in London.”
“I’m back. Surprise.”
“Mick,” she said with what she felt was remarkable restraint, “this is Brock. Who is not my fiancé. And also knows how I feel about surprises.” She gave Brock a long look. “Brock, this is Mick.”
The men stared at each other. Neither spoke. Awkward didn’t even begin to cover it.
Quinn’s dad wasn’t a quiet man. When her dad got angry, he blew his lid so everyone knew it. Brock was very much the same. And those were the only two real relationships she’d ever had with the male species.
Mick was nothing like either of them. He was . . . stoic. When angry, he got quiet. She had no experience with this and had no idea how to defuse the situation. The only thing she could think of was that she had to get rid of Brock so she could explain things to Mick, but she knew Brock wasn’t going anywhere until she made him. “Brock,” she said. “We need to talk.”
“I agree,” he said.
She nodded and turned to Mick. “Can we have a minute?”
For a single heartbeat, Mick remained still, his body language carefully neutral, calm even. Then he gave her a single nod and turned away, giving a low whistle for Coop, who’d been sleeping on the living room rug.
Quinn assumed Mick would go back into her bedroom, or maybe the kitchen. Instead he walked—still shirtless and barefoot—right out the front door, Coop at his heels.
He must’ve had his keys in his pocket because he headed to his truck and drove off, leaving a small cloud of dust thanks to the dry weather, and a big hole in her heart.
“Fiancée?” she asked Brock, pissed off. “Seriously?”
“Hey, you once made a promise to marry me if we were both single when we hit forty.”
“You know neither of us meant that!”
He blew out a sigh. “I want to mean it, does that count?”
She shook her head in temper and whipped around, heading to her bedroom.
“Where are you going?”
“For pants!”
“Don’t do that on my account.”
“Brock?”
“Yeah?”
“Shut up.” She shoved herself into a pair of jeans and moved back to the living room.
“So who is he?” he asked.
“None of your business.”
“Come on,” he said. “I’ve got eyes in my head. He’s someone to you.”
“More than a wild oat,” she agreed, and that it was true no longer surprised her. “He’s an engineer from the Bay Area. He doesn’t live here either, his mom does. He’s helping her remodel her house and then he’s out.”
Brock took this in. “So . . . you’ve once again got yourself an out clause? Nicely done, Q.”
Not a can of worms she intended to open, not with him. “Why are you here, Brock? The truth.”
He ran a hand over his head and gave her a sheepish grin. “I came because your mom pleaded with me to talk some sense into you, but somehow when you opened the door and I saw your wild oat standing behind you with that bite mark on his neck, I talked myself into fighting for you instead.”
Oh dear God. She’d left a bite mark on Mick? “You’re not the fighting type.”
“Yeah, the urge was temporary,” Brock admitted. “I mean when the guy opened the door minus his shirt and with you in it, the first thing I felt was jealous.”
“So that’s why you kissed me.”
He nodded. “But then you didn’t respond to it and I felt . . .”
She raised a brow.