“Yeah, Mom told me when it happened. Cancer, right? Like two years back?”
“Yeah. He brought her out to California for treatment, but I think he felt guilty that he’d worked and traveled so much she was able to hide her illness from him for so long. He told me she should have seen a doctor long before he took her. I think he blames himself.”
“That’s terrible.” When I’d heard that Mrs. Rusek had died, I’d thought about reaching out to Quinn, even bought a sympathy card, but in the end I’d decided against it. The card was still at the bottom of a desk drawer at work.
“Then he was in Paris during those attacks. Kind of messed him up a little.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“I didn’t either, not until recently. We haven’t spoken much over the last few years, we’ve both been so busy, but I think he really needs old friends right now.”
“So he’s moving back to Detroit for you?”
“No, but I think it’s part of wanting to go back to when things were simpler or something. He said he’s been feeling kind of lost and wants to ground himself again. Make sure he’s doing the right things with his life.”
“Hmm.” Inside the garage, I turned off the car, disquieted by the way my heart was thumping. It had been ten years since I’d seen him—and probably at least a month since I’d stalked his Instagram—how annoying that the thought of being next to him again was doing things to me. “So did he quit modeling altogether?”
“That’s the impression I got.”
“Maybe he’s lost his looks,” I said hopefully. “Or gained fifty pounds.”
Alex laughed. “I doubt it. And I really have to go, Jaims. But why don’t you go in and say hello? I’m sure he’d love to catch up.”
I sniffed. “No, thanks. I’ll keep my distance.” My dignity had suffered enough at his hands.
“Have it your way, sweet pea,” he said, using our dad’s nickname for me. “Thanks for this.”
We hung up, and I took a minute to gather myself before going into the house. There was a chance I could get in without seeing him, although we’d share a front and side entrance. Both doors led to a hallway; at the side door were steps leading to the basement, and at the front door were the stairs to my flat and a door to his living room.
I walked around to the front, my legs trembling. Maybe he wouldn’t hear me come in, and I could get up to my apartment without talking to him. Stop being ridiculous. It’s been ten years. Maybe Alex was right and he wouldn’t even remember that night. Maybe he wouldn’t even want to talk to me. Maybe we’d just ignore each other for a month.
No chance.
Before I even got the key in the lock, the door was pulled open and there he was, all huge grin and open arms. “Sweet pea!” he exclaimed, like we were long-lost pals reunited at last.
Any hopes I’d harbored about his good looks being the result of countless hours of retouching were immediately dashed. He was even more gorgeous and vibrant in person than in print, a fact I found grossly unfair. I frowned as he scooped me up in his arms and practically dragged me over the threshold into the hall. My God, his body was so hard. Hugging me was probably like squeezing a marshmallow. I wasn’t exactly overweight, but I was short enough that every extra ounce showed. Muscle tone was pretty much nonexistent.
“It’s so good to see you, Jaime,” he said. “You look great.”
“You too,” I said before I could stop myself. I didn’t want him to think I still cared—in fact, I wanted him to know I wasn’t fooled by his charm. I wasn’t that silly little girl anymore, the one who’d doodled his name in her notebooks and blushed when he said hi at school and cried herself to sleep when he asked another girl to his prom. That silly little girl was gone, and in her place was a confident, smart, professional woman who knew her worth and, even better, the truth about love. No more stars in her eyes.
But why did he have to be so hot?
OK, pull yourself together. No drooling.
“I’m so glad this worked out.” Quinn let me go but stood too close, his feet planted wide and his arms crossed over his chest. He wore jeans, a gray knit pullover that hugged his muscular chest and arms, and his feet were bare. His hair was damp and messy on top, just like it had been the last time I’d seen him in person. His full lower lip made me want to bite it. Maybe even draw blood.
“Sorry, I just got out of the shower,” he said sheepishly, ruffling his hair. “Want to come in and catch up? Or maybe go out for a drink? I just need to throw some shoes on.”
“No.” Trying desperately to shove the image of him in the shower from my mind, I elbowed past him and trudged up the stairs. My cheeks were hot, which meant they were probably turning scarlet. They ruined my poker face every time.
“Come on, it’s Friday!”
“I have work to do.” He was naked a few minutes ago. And wet.
“Did you have a bad day?”
“No.” Rivulets of water streaming over those muscles.
“You already have plans tonight?”
“No.” Steam rising as he stroked himself beneath the spray.
“You don’t love me anymore?”
I froze as the shower fantasy exploded into bits, replaced by a humiliation that paralyzed me, one foot on the top step, one hand on the banister. Slowly, I turned my head and glared at him over one shoulder.