There was a bug with a whole lot of legs in the tub.
She felt the panic creeping in on her again, a big, fat knot in her throat, blocking her air pipe because everyone knew that bugs traveled in packs. Only the stupid ones got caught. The smart ones lay in wait for her to go to sleep so they could attack.
On shaky legs, she sank to the bed and then plopped back to stare up at the ceiling. Exhaustion, probably nerve based, crept in on her and she lay there thinking that maybe what she needed more than anything was a drink. A stiff one.
She closed her eyes and had actually started to drift off, but there was that drip, drip, dripping.
And God knew how many bugs were mobilizing . . .
Jerking upright, she grabbed her phone. She knew it made her seem weak, but she was going to call Brock. She needed to let him know she’d run away anyway, but . . . oh yeah—no service. She moved around the room, holding up her phone like she was making an offering to the cell-service god.
Nothing.
This was crazy. It was the twenty-first century, who didn’t have service? But hold on . . . at the window, she caught a flicker of a single bar. Gotcha. Dragging the lone chair over to the window, she stood on it, keeping the phone held up high.
Two whole bars.
Score!
Standing there carefully balanced on the chair, with her head, arm, and phone hanging out the window, she hit Brock’s number.
It rang three times before he picked up, sounding winded. “Busy,” he said. “I’ll call you back—”
“Brock, wait!”
“Okay,” he said, sounding surprised at her vehemence. “What’s the matter?”
“Did you read my texts?”
There was a pause. “Hang on,” he said and she rolled her eyes.
She’d sent him a series of texts telling him her entire sordid, woeful tale and he hadn’t even read them. That was Brock.
He came back. “Holy shit,” he said.
“Yeah. So . . . I’m in Wildstone.”
“What?”
“I sort of drove up here earlier today,” she said.
“You just up and drove there? By yourself? What the hell for?”
She let out a mirthless laugh. “Did you not understand the texts?”
“I understood them, but, Quinn, your family, your real family, is here in L.A., including me. We have that stupid fancy work dinner to go to tomorrow night, and you promised to be my plus one and hang all over me like I’m the best thing since streaming.”
She actually pulled her phone away from her face and stared at it, nearly falling out the window in the process. “I don’t think you’re listening. I’m not Quinn Weller!”
He sighed. “Babe, you are. You’re Quinn Weller to the bone.”
“Don’t you get it? It’s like I’ve been living my life from chapter two of my own story! I missed chapter one entirely! And the prologue!”
“You can’t let this derail you,” he said. “And if you’d waited until after that work party I’ve got to attend, I’d have gone with you.”
No, he wouldn’t have. The only thing that Brock ever left L.A. for was work, and only when he had to. “Would you still feel this way if this was you and your parents we were talking about?” she asked. “And your adoption?”
Brock laughed softly. “You mean Mr. and Mrs. Robot? I used to dream of being adopted.”
She closed her eyes. “Yeah, well, I didn’t.”
He sighed. “I know, Q. And I’m sorry, they should’ve told you, but it doesn’t change anything about who you are. It doesn’t. You’re still smart, funny, and . . . amazing.”
That was sweet and she started to tell him so when he spoke again.
“Now get your cute ass home,” he said. “I need you here.”
“I’m not—” she started, but he was already gone, either dumped by her barely there service or because he’d disconnected.
She’d started to pull herself back in the window where she was precariously perched, but she caught sight of a guy getting out of an old beater truck filled with tools parked right in front of the office. The maintenance guy. But hold the phone—she recognized the long denim-covered legs and the big old retriever.
It was her mysterious panic-attack rescuer. “Hey,” she called down to him.
He stopped on the curb beneath a lamppost and looked up at her, his expression shielded by the ambient lighting.
“Hi,” she said, possibly never so happy to see someone in her life. “Remember me?”
His lips quirked.
Yep. He remembered her all right. “I’ve got a problem,” she said.
His smile faded. “You okay?”
She exhaled, feeling like an idiot. “There’s a big bug in my tub and the sink is dripping. Do you have time to help or are you off the clock?”
He studied her for a beat. “I’ll grab some tools and be right up,” he finally said.
She watched him stride off. Maybe she couldn’t find her feels, but apparently she could still appreciate a nice ass.
Good to know.
Five minutes later there was a simple, firm knock at her door. She opened it and stood back to let him in, but he remained on his side of the doorway, toolbox in hand.
“I’m Mick Hennessey,” he said.
Great, but she had no time for introductions. Bug in her tub! “Nice to formally meet you, Mick, but . . .” She pointed to the bathroom.
With a mock salute, he ambled in there.
Quinn remained right where she was, counting off the seconds while she heard nothing. “Did you get him?” she finally called out.
“The bug?” he asked.
“No, the president of the United States! Yes, the bug!”
The only response was the sound of the toilet flushing and she panicked. “You squished him first, right?”
Mick stuck his head out of the bathroom and flashed her a smile. “Worried he’s going to swim his way back up and bite you on the—”
“No!” Yes . . .
He vanished back into the bathroom. Quinn heard some other sounds that were hopefully related to him working on the sink. Unable to stop herself, she made her way over there and peered in. “Where’s your dog?”
“Coop? With my mom. She lives here in town and made stew. Apparently, I don’t rate on the same scale as beef stew.” He was on his back, head and shoulders wedged beneath the sink, legs bent at the knees because he was longer than the bathroom. He wore a T-shirt advertising some pub in San Francisco named O’Riley’s, that had risen up, revealing his low-slung jeans and some impressive abs, including those V muscles that made women so stupid. “Can you fix it?” she asked.
His hands looked confident working the wrench before he pulled his head from beneath the sink and sent her a slow smile.
At the barely recognizable flutter low in Quinn’s belly, and also decidedly south of her belly, she froze in shock. She’d felt next to nothing for a very long time, but it hadn’t been so long that she couldn’t place this for what it was.
Lust.