Love Me Crazy (5 page)

Before she’s off her stool, Quinn takes three large strides toward her and snatches the plates. “I’m sorry, Kat. I really am, but you don’t understand what I was going through.” He tucks the plates against his side and reaches out to her with his other hand.

Her eyes, rich blue like her siblings’, tear up. She claws the tears as they fall, leaving streaks of angry red on her cheeks. “What I understand is Dad died and two months later you were gone. What else is there to
understand
? You. Left.”

Quinn rubs his forehead and leans back against the counter. “But I’m here now.”

Her eyes rage, growing wide. She steps into him and shoves his chest. “Do you want applause? A back pat? What, Quinn? You being here now doesn’t change the fact you missed four Christmas, all of our birthdays, my debut, and Ellie’s wedding.”

“I’m staying for the wedding.” He frowns and after putting the plates in the sink out of her reach, shoves his fists in his pockets.

“Oh, that fixes everything. Let me hug you. Let’s go grab a beer. So glad you’re back.” The sarcasm rolls off her tongue easily.

“I mean it, Kat. I’m sticking around.”

“Until things get tough. You know they always do. Mom’s worse than before and every little thing sets her off. She doesn’t even stay here anymore. Did you know that?”

“Ellie told me.” He steps closer. “But do you blame her? She lost Dad. This is the house where all her happy memories are stored.”

“
I lost Dad, too, and I stay here
because
of those happy memories. What’s your excuse?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t have one.”

“So you’re really not going to give me a reason? Not even a ‘couldn’t hack it’ or an ‘I’m a wuss’ excuse?”

He taps his chest. “I couldn’t hack it and I
was
a wuss.”

She folds her arms over her chest. “And you aren’t now?”

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Sorry doesn’t fix anything. You left,” she sneers through clamped teeth. “I waited for you. I ran to the mailbox on my thirteenth birthday looking for any sign you still existed. Do you know what I got?”

Quinn’s stiff stance doesn’t budge. He’s rooted to the kitchen floor, the only clue he’s still alive is the slight rise of his chest with each labored breath he takes.

“I. Got. Nothing.” Kat ignores the tear running down her cheek. She stares at him like a starved cheetah circling its prey. Unmoving. Indecipherable.

They stare at each other, neither offering a white flag, neither charging on.

Quinn breaks first. “I’ll be on the patio with Ellie. She expects us for dinner.” He doesn’t wait for a reply, just turns away and leaves the room.

Kat stumbles backward and grabs the fridge handle. She presses her head against it.

My heart breaks for her. I imagine she trusted Quinn with her whole being. He was probably her hero, I don’t know. I’m an only child and don’t know what it’s like having an older sibling, but it seems logical to think he was her idol.

I
should go to her. I push the door, but in the end, let it close. I’m supposed to stay out of the Covington’s’ affairs. I really should just lock the door. Pretend I didn’t hear anything. But how? Every time I see her, the pain etched on her face right now will haunt me.

I push the door open and step into the kitchen. Our eyes meet. I nod in greeting then glance around the kitchen to survey the mess. I rifle through cabinets until I find a small dustpan and broom.

“I’ll do that. It’s my mess.” She puts her hand over mine to take the broom.

“It’ll get done faster if I help.” I offer her a smile and the harsh lines around her eyes soften. “I’m Cassidy, your mom’s intern.”

“Oh, right.” Her eyebrows hitch. “You poor thing.”

I shrug. “Too soon to tell.”

She laughs and lets go of the dustpan to fetch the trashcan. “I’m Kat.”

“I figured that out.” I test the waters, wanting to not completely ignore what happened by pretending everything is all right. Because it isn’t. And I hated when people did that to me. Chocolate, soup, blankets, nothing materialistic will fix betrayal, only time. And more time.

“I’d apologize for disturbing you, but I’m not sorry. It felt good to throw something at him.” She picks up the bigger chunks of china and I sweep the smaller pieces into a pile.

“Kick boxing also helps.”

She looks up. “He frustrates you, too?”

“Oh, no, I-uh, don’t know him that well, I just meant, when I used to get aggravated about something that I had no power over, I’d take it out on another person. In a controlled environment of course.”

“Your face turned red.” She grins.

“
What?” I touch my cheeks.

“He does frustrate you, doesn’t he?”

“I’ve known him all of one day.” I fan my face with the hand broom, then stop when I realize it.

“So?”

I stare at her. How did this get turned around on me? “He’s a little bit . . . frustrating, yes.”

“He’s a lot frustrating.” She hands me a plate from the sink. “Throw it, it’ll make you feel better.”

The plate bobbles in my hand. I set it down quickly. “I’m good.”

She sighs heavily and sinks against the counter. “I swear it’s like he came back to cut open a wound that finally healed.”

“Maybe he feels the same way.” I dare a glance in her direction. “Probably opened his own scars, too.”

She studies me, tapping her finger against her arm. “You think so?”

I nod. “It’s possible.”

“Good.”

I laugh under my breath.

“Let him suffer a little.”

I’m glad she can laugh about it. Hopefully she’s just angry from the shock of his return. Five years is a long time to not see someone. I know if I returned home tomorrow, just opened the door and said, ‘hey, I’m home,’ my parents would shake me until I turned blue. They’d
probably
yell and throw a few dishes of their own. Would they forgive me? Who knows. I’m not interested in finding out.

After I comb out my wet hair, and listen to Kat—who followed me into my room and hasn’t stopped talking since—gab on about places I should visit while I’m in town, we head to the patio.

“Just remember, it’s summer, your car will overheat in seconds, so make sure you keep it hydrated,” she says as she pulls a chair back from the table.

“Right.” What? Feed my car water? “And how do I do that?”

“I’ll check everyone’s cars tomorrow.” Quinn pulls a chair out for me.

“Mine’s fine. Wes keeps it running,” Kat quips. “Since you’re not around.”

Ellie glares at her. “Thanks,
we’d
appreciate that.”

Maybe I should’ve stayed in my room.

Ellie tells Quinn about all the major events he’s missed. She goes into excrutiating detail about Kat’s debutante ball–her dress, her dates. Yes, plural.

Quinn nods at the appropriate times, takes bites of his food when there’s a lull, and keeps glancing at Kat like he’s scared she’ll fling another dish at his head. I feel sorry for him. For all of them. Ellie’s trying so hard to carry on with yearly updates like a festive Christmas card, Kat’s stewing in obvious repulsion, and Quinn looks guilty on all counts.

And guilt, I understand.

As much as I put up a good game when my parents are mentioned, a little guilt sometimes slips through. I lost them, thus lost my security and faith in the world as I knew it. But the guilt I felt wasn’t because I left
them
without a daughter, it was because I left
me
without a family. Like giving up chocolate at Lent. Chocolate is a guilty pleasure for a reason. My family
was
my guilty pleasure yet I gave them up, knowing I craved the parents they could be. The parents they were before they found out I was a genius.

Maybe Quinn craves his family as they were before he left. I don’t have the right to judge him based off the little I know. And besides, he’s making an effort to mend his broken family, though I would never make that effort with mine. He deserves the sympathy I feel for him. He paid the cost and lost their trust. Now he has to earn it back. The least I could do is be supportive on a subliminal level.

“Sounds like you had a great time at your debut,” Quinn says. “I’d love to see pictures.” I think he forced it out because the lines curving around the corners of his mouth aren’t moving when he talks.

“You wouldn’t need pictures had you been there”—Kat pushes back from the table with a sigh— “as my escort.” She stares at her brother like she wants to say more. Instead, she shakes her head, picks up her drink, and heads over to the fire pit.

Ellie rises, too. “Sorry,” she mouths. “Work in progress.”

Seeing this as an escape for me and an opportunity for him to mend one hell of a fence with his sisters, I toss my napkin on my plate, and scoot back from the table. “Dinner was delicious, but I think I’ll head to bed.”

“Stay,” Quinn whispers. “Please.”

“I’m not even supposed to be out here with you guys. Your mom told me to keep to myself. Worker bee.” I point at my chest. “Client-slash-family equals off-limits.” I point at him.

He grabs my finger, turns it in until my hand fists into a ball. “There’s no division here. We’re equals.”

I
snort. The Covingtons own Charleston. They live and breathe charm and wit and blend so seamlessly with the other big names around them, their flaws disappear completely. Kat’s outburst tonight would never happen in public. I got a sneak peek behind the scenes of true Covington life, but damn if I’m going to believe we’re equal. Mrs. Covington highlighted that point in my initiation packet. I work for the family, they do not work for me. Quinn Covington is top-shelf liquor, I’m a melting ice cube kicked under the cabinets.

I pull my hand from his to stack our dishes.

“Hey, we’ve got staff for that.”

I slide the plates back onto the table and squeeze my hands together. “I know; just habit.” I turn and head past the others before anyone sees my cheeks swell with red welts. Being a redhead has its pluses, but obvious embarrassment isn’t one of them.

“Slow down,” he says, laughter chasing his words. “Where are you going?”

“I’m just—” flustered. Out of my element.

“A leaf with no direction?”

“Pretty much.”

He settles his hands on my shoulders and forces me to stop walking. “You’re blowing the wrong way.” He turns me around and drives me toward his family.

“Haven’t heard that one before,” I mutter under my breath.

“Just relax for five minutes and have a marshmallow.”

What am I doing? This is absurd. I don’t relax, drink wine, and gossip about who wore what to the yacht club and OMG so-and-so is dating you-know-who.

“I don’t feel like people tonight.” I shrug his hands off my shoulders.

“
Just me then.” He grabs my hand and pulls me behind a huge magnolia, leading me toward a wrought iron table and two chairs tucked under the canopy of limbs.

I slide into one of the chairs.

“Wait here, I’ll be right back.” Quinn jogs back the way we came and I lay my head on the table.

I shouldn’t be caving to his request. Where has my strength gone? I’m usually the first to put my foot down. This is so wrong.

Quinn returns and places a huge candle on the ground. He drops a bag in my lap and pulls out the tines on a telescopic skewer. “No outdoor dining is complete without toasted marshmallows.”

He plucks a marshmallow from the bag, then slips it on the skewer. He reaches for another but I beat him to it, holding the fluff ball out to avoid any intentional or accidental lap contact from happening. His fingers glide over mine. He grips my hand, curving my fingers around the huge marshmallow. Slowly, he pierces it with the pointed skewer tip and twists my hand until I’m sliding the marshmallow onto the tine. “More?” he whispers.

And I’m worried about a brush of his finger across my upper thigh or his knuckle against my stomach? I stare at him in disbelief, unable to comprehend how freaking hot that just was.

He smiles a seductive half smile, forcing his dimple into full bloom. He pulls me from the chair and hand on my back, thumb tracing my spine, helps me hold the skewer over the flame.

Every nerve in my back tightens, sending waves of heat rolling away from his touch, stretching out like magic fingers made of pure light. I’m reading too much into this, right? Or is this his nature, the gentlemanly charm he shows all his guests?

It’s
safer to think the latter, but he’s remarkably hot as hell, someone to tell stories about, fairyland-style, because getting my fix from someone like him would be a once in a lifetime opportunity. When the sun rises, poof, he’s gone. And then there’s the fact he doesn’t hold a candle to the other guys in my life. He holds a flame gun.

I should curb his expectations, assuming he has some that involve us doing the horizontal hanky-panky. Limiting time with him would do the trick, but how when we’re sleeping under the same roof?

“Tomorrow’s Friday. Ellie said our standing tradition of beach bonfires and drinking games lives on.” Quinn rotates the skewer in my hand when the marshmallow sags toward the flame. “Are you game?”

“I can’t. I need to run errands and work on the seating chart.” I wag the skewer in the air, killing the flame eating the sugar. As fabulous as a day “stuck” with Quinn sounds, I can’t neglect my responsibilities. I need this job. I have bills and rent.

Walking away from my autopilot life under my parents’ control meant forfeiting a bottomless treasure chest. Though they send checks monthly, I’ve refused every cent. Touching their money means spiraling into their world—lavish accessories, designer clothes, a standing invitation at Harvard, since they practically own the research facility.

“That’s a shame. The beach burn is relaxing,” Quinn says, pulling me from my memories. “Plus, redheads and alcohol make an interesting mix.” He runs his fingers through the curl draped over my shoulder. He spirals the auburn strands around his finger, then releases them, letting the curl loosen like silk ribbons on a spool until it falls back against my shoulder.

Pointing
at my chest, I say, “I can assure you, this redhead mixed with any percentage of alcohol will be a night of stupid decisions followed by a hangover from hell and embarrassing stories I don’t remember starring in.”