accidental 09.5 - interview with an accidental (5 page)

Quinn’s arms sagged forward a little, but only a little, because it was hard to relax them with her huge new knockers in the way. “You’re absolutely right. I was just trying to be fair, but my regret is real.”

Ingrid peered at her, rolling her hand for her to continue. “So the old lady on the tour bus. Before or after Igor called?”

Grabbing the length of her long braid, Quinn wound it around a finger and tried to remember. “I think it was after. It had to be after because then she heard you give me hell for even answering the phone, knowing he was on the other end of the line. So of course, she heard my pathetic story about how I’d saved a lifetime for this trip and thought Igor should be the one to take it with me because…well, you know the rest…”

The rest being Quinn’s intention to propose to Igor in the place she considered one of the most romantic on earth.

Ingrid’s head fell back on her shoulders, her pale throat exposed to the glaring ball of buttery Grecian sun. “Oh, you did not fall for that story she fed you, did you? She must’ve heard you going on about how Igor was a total jerk, and how you’d had it with romance and love for good.”

“Well, I have,” she defended. She had, too. All her life she’d been told to knock off the daydreaming about her Prince Charming and find a man who was real.

If real meant finding a man who scratched his love sac and burped while watching the Playboy Channel, she’d rather keep daydreaming.

Until her ugly breakup with Igor, that is. Since the night she’d found out he’d been sleeping with a leggy redheaded waitress who worked at the Spotted Pig, two doors down from her bookstore, she’d thrown in the towel.

Ingrid’s ringed fingers flashed in the sun in protest. “Stop. Even with everything that’s gone down with that cheating slug, you
still
listened to that crazy woman on the bus. Which means you, in all your unicorns and cinnamon sticks, could manage to find romance at the urologist’s. You’re a diehard, Quinn. Your soul-mate take on life alone could feed a buffet of the love-starved. It’ll come back. Right now, you’re just butthurt. That aside, she was probably just trying to make you feel better. And you, an expert on all things Greek and mythological, fell for it? I don’t get it.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. She
had
fallen for it. Which meant her romantic bone still needed work if she was going to be more of a realist about love. “To be fair, it was a really compelling story…”

She loved a good story. Almost any story, in fact. As long as it was about love—tragic, happy, or anything in between. Until she’d decided no more romance. She’d promised herself from here on out it was sci-fi and cookbooks only.

“Quinn Morris, you know the ins and outs of Greece and all its rich history almost better than you know your own home country. You did
not
believe her, did you?”

Quinn crossed her arms over her chest in exasperation. Well, she almost crossed them. Her big, big balloons really prevented a lot of extracurricular activity. “Blame, blame, blame. How could I not investigate what she told us, Ingrid? I mean, you have to admit even
you
were a little curious about a mysterious golden apple no one’s ever heard about. It was pretty spectacular. How could I not at least take a peek? Seriously, I actually thought she’d probably go home and wet clear through her Depends laughing after feeding me such gibberish, but…”

Ingrid’s eyes rolled upward. “You did it anyway. Now, if you tell me that you actually confessed your heartbreak to a damn produce item in some marble column like she told you to do because she claims the gods can hear your love woes, I’m going to deflate your new cans one at a time. Ping-ping,” she said, making a gun with her forefinger and thumb

Quinn gave her a sheepish look. “But I
did
find the column with the apple. It looked just like it had been stamped there. So I thought, what the heck? Who better than Aphrodite’s shoulder to cry on, right? Goddess of love, blah, blah, blah. And before you say another word—I was just talking out my grief over my breakup, Ingrid. You know, kind of like one big, ugly purge, never really-really expecting anything to come of it, and then…”

“And then?” she asked in that tone she used when she became irritated with Quinn, who was usually much more cautious and less impulsive.

Except today, of course. Today she’d thrown caution to the wind like she was pitching for the Yankees.

The hot breeze whipped at Quinn’s flowing skirt, tugging at her sunhat with the silky pink tulle streams of ribbon tied around the brim—another piece of her “must haves” wardrobe for this trip. Because it was romantic and frilly and she loved both of those things.

“
Quinn
?”

She gave Ingrid another embarrassed glance, her mouth dry. “And then I said something about Igor being a wolf in sheep’s clothing and how he was going to regret his infidelity so hard. And I swear to you on my beloved copy of Keats, I heard a deep rumble of laughter.”

Ingrid’s eyes grew suspicious, flying upward and then to the surrounding landscape, brilliant and white under the glare of the sun, clearly looking to see if anyone else was around. “Get to the big, big boobies, Quinn,” she ordered, pulling her phone from her backpack.

To not go all the way with this was just putting off the inevitable. “So then the wind picked up with a huge gust of hot air, all while I was going on and on about Igor being a cheat, and how ridiculous that must sound to someone like Aphrodite and a bunch of gods who aren’t exactly opposed to a good genital jamboree and…”

“
And?
”

Quinn swallowed hard, her gulp loud. “And then there was this weird, soothing vibration coming from the ground that rumbled my feet. It spread up my legs and worked its way all along my rib cage. It was incredibly peaceful…er, at first. But then the pillar shook with a god-awful heave, splitting the marble and shooting chips of rock at me in every direction—and it fell! I swear! It fell right out of the column. Just splat, hit me on the head and fell right at my feet.”

“The apple?” Ingrid squeaked.

“Yes! It was as if the column had given birth to it. I swear I’m telling the truth, Ingrid, because look!” She dug around in her straw bag and retrieved the apple, holding it up as it gleamed, gold and perfect in the sun.

Ingrid’s breath shuddered in and out, her voice skipping when she spoke. “
This
made your boobs bigger? An item from the produce section?”

Quinn whirled in a circle, letting her arms flap open wide. “I don’t know, Ingrid! I just know the second it fell from the column, my boobs inflated at least two cup sizes. How, I ask you, does Shawna even breathe with these things?”

Ingrid held up a hand and took a long breath, her eyes scanning the area surrounding the Parthenon. “First, put that thing down.”

Quinn obliged, setting the apple at her feet—feet she could no longer see past her poofy chest.

“Don’t touch it again. Now, I’m calling Nina. She’ll know what to do. So let’s just stay calm and breathe.”

Fear sped up Quinn’s spine as a mental picture of Nina Statleon formed. A brooding, hoodie-wearing, angry, foul-mouthed woman who was nuts with a capital Crazypants. And though absolutely, breathtakingly gorgeous sans makeup and all manner of finery, she was, oddly, very, very pale.

Nina, along with Marty Flaherty and Wanda Jefferson, were Ingrid’s bosses at the office she worked in while studying to become a vet tech. The basement office in Manhattan Ingrid never allowed Quinn anywhere near when they had study dates. Which now, come to think of it, was pretty strange.

Nina evoked fear in her belly after their last encounter, when the woman had discovered what Igor had done and how Quinn had considered not taking this trip to Greece. Nina had been full of
all
kinds of opinions about it. They’d been littered with colorful language and sometimes even threatening stances and the words “limp” and “dick”. She was a little afraid of Nina

But it didn’t make any sense that they’d call her for anything unless they needed a creative swear word or the eating of someone’s face.

Quinn latched onto Ingrid’s arm. “Nina? Why would you call her? How can she possibly help me with my huge lady lumps?”

Ingrid looked as though she was weighing her options and then she said, “There’s some stuff you might need to know about Nina and my other bosses, Marty and Wanda. But not right now. I just need you to trust me right now, Quinn.”

Trust. Sure. What else did she have but trust—and big boobs.

Holding up her phone, Ingrid grimaced. “Ugh! I can’t get a damn signal. Stay right here and don’t move. I’m just going to go over there and call her.”

“But—”

“Not another word, Quinn. I know Nina scares you, but she’s not just my boss, she’s a good friend, and she
will
know what to do. She can help, and I promise to tell you why later.”

Quinn couldn’t imagine Nina as helpful. Maybe she’d be helpful if World War Three erupted, but in something as sensitive in nature as this?

Fat chance.

She watched as Ingrid stomped over the debris of the column, kicking up dust with her heavy, black work boots in search of a cell signal.

“Quinn Morris?” a deep, velvety voice asked.

Whirling around so fast she almost lost her hat, Quinn found the face that went with the voice.

Oh, and the body.

Yes—dear future soul mate and Jesus forgive her—
the body
.

She blinked in the glare of the bright sun. “Yes?”

A man with wavy hair like rich dark chocolate and sprinkled with golden highlights approached her. He took the strides separating them with confidence, on thighs that bulged and rippled beneath his tailored white trousers. When he stood before her, the apple resting in the gap between their feet, he smiled at her.

Winningly. Beamingly. His smile left deep grooves on either side of his mouth and flashed a set of brilliantly white teeth offset by a deep olive complexion. Yet, Quinn was able to note, even in her fear, his smile didn’t quite reach his liquid amber eyes.

No. His eyes were cold and wary. And suspicious. Very suspicious.

“Who are you?” And hey. How did he know her name?

The upward tilt of his lips grew sly, and his burnt-orange knit shirt rippled against his broad chest when he said, “That’s my apple. Excuse me, if you would.”

In a matter of seconds, Quinn not only realized once more the enormity of what had just occurred with the pillar, but that possibly the apple could be some sort of rare Greek artifact, and this beautiful man was some kind of Indiana Jones in search of his Temple of Doom.

It wasn’t every day an apple plopped from marble as if it had fallen off a tree. Which had to mean it must have some kind of value, and
she’d
found it.

The chiseled man eyed the apple. His expression flashed with apprehension so briefly, Quinn might not have caught it if she wasn’t looking, but he instantly relaxed his utterly gorgeous face and covered up any trace of his worry with an arrogant gaze down at her.

Huh. Yeah. Something wasn’t kosher here. Without thought, she gave him a blank look to distract him before swooping downward, using a deft hand to sweep the fruit off the ground.

“That’s my apple,” he repeated, low and easy.

“I beg to differ.” She held it up, ignoring the fact that he could be dangerous, and waved the gleaming fruit at him. Just who the hell did he think he was? “I think it’s
my
apple.”

He edged closer, his spicy cologne lodging in her nose, his stance not quite one of menace but most definitely one of impatience. The sheer size of him made her knees waver.

“I assure you, it’s my apple,” he cooed in a silky-rich timbre.

Quinn’s eyebrow cocked upward in haughty fashion. “By what authority?”

“My ancestors’.”

“And who are your ancestors?”

“You’d never believe it.”

“Try me. An apple—a shiny golden one I’ve never heard of in all my studies on Greek mythology—just fell out of a pillar in the Parthenon.
A. Pillar
. I’m game for just about anything.”

His luscious lips thinned in obvious aggravation. “It’s none of your business.”

Quinn bristled. Hold on. Maybe this was an enormous archeological find and he was some bad guy who wanted to sell it to the highest bidder? What if this was a part of Greek history and he was going to cheat the people of this fine country out of something that was rightfully theirs and sell it for some ridiculous amount of money?

Briefly she thought of all the movies she’d seen and the idea that maybe she was going too far with the fantastical.

But how far was fantastical? Didn’t an apple just fall out of some inanimate marble? Didn’t she have boobs reminiscent of basketballs?

Planting her free hand on her hip, she used her best “I’m in charge of this rodeo” voice and said, “I guess it’s my business if you hope to prove this is really your apple. If you don’t want to share and give me a good reason for claiming ownership, I’m sure the Greek authorities would be pleased to hear all about this
apple falling from a pillar
, which is insane to begin with. But I bet they’d really like to hear all about how it’s
yours
.”

This time he didn’t just edge closer, he loomed over her, his height, in her estimation, a good ten inches taller than her five foot four. “Give me the apple, Quinn,” he demanded, his smooth jaw clenching.

When he spoke her name, it slid off his tongue like a dollop of warm caramel. And again, the romantic in her wanted to savor this moment and take the time to create a story for the piece of fruit and its connection to this walking, talking sex god. However, the big, albeit hot, goon obviously wasn’t going to let her.

No. He glowered at her. Glowered so hard, were she a tea rose in an English garden, she’d have withered under his glare.

Quinn smiled, suddenly filled with adrenalin and totally fearless. Maybe it was the way Igor had so callously treated her, or maybe it was just more than past time, but suddenly she was a take-no-shit kind of girl.