All the Right Places (RILEY O'BRIEN & CO #1) (10 page)

Quinn took Amelia to a small pizzeria near Riley Plaza. He’d promised casual and close by, and he had delivered.

When he had made his way to the penthouse earlier, he’d had no intention of inviting Amelia to dinner. He was a big boy, and he knew better than to play with fire. And after last night, he had no doubt she would burn him alive.

But once he’d seen her again, he had been eager to spend more time with her. He had dreaded the thought of going back downstairs and heading home to his empty house, and he’d felt an overwhelming sense of relief when she had agreed to dinner.

She sat across from him in the wood-backed booth, studying the leather-encased menu. Her dusky purple T-shirt and matching hooded jacket made her red hair look darker. It was finally drying from her earlier shower, and ringlets were springing out around her face.

Her head was tilted down, and he evaluated the two black things anchoring her topknot. Damned if they didn’t look like pieces from the game pick-up sticks. He’d seen Teagan wear similar hair ornamentation, and the vagaries of women’s fashion baffled the hell out of him.

With Amelia fully occupied with the menu, he took
advantage of the opportunity to study her. He’d told her to take her time getting ready, but he could tell by the constellation of freckles on her face she hadn’t put on any makeup. They were more obvious than usual, and his fingers itched with the need to trace them, especially the ones on the crests of her cheeks.

She must have put some kind of gloss on her lips, though, because they were shiny and wet-looking. Clenching his fist against his thigh, he turned his attention from her pink lips because he was getting hard.

This woman had reduced him to a horny teenager, and he didn’t know whether he should laugh or get drunk. He decided a couple of glasses of wine wouldn’t be amiss.

“Do you want some wine? We could share a bottle,” he suggested.

She looked up, pursing her luscious lips. “I don’t drink alcohol. But I don’t mind if you want to get something.”

He stared at her in disbelief. “But you had a drink last night at the party. I saw you,” he said, somewhat accusingly.

She shook her head. “Still water and a lime. Fools people into thinking I’m drinking.”

He was surprised. Stunned, really. She didn’t drink coffee, and she didn’t drink alcohol. Was she a member of a church that forbade tasty beverages?

She noticed the expression on his face. “It’s not a religious thing,” she said, clearly reading his mind. “It’s just a personal choice.”

He was interested in hearing more about her personal choices, especially when they involved giving up two of life’s greatest pleasures. “So what else don’t you do?”

He hadn’t meant for the question to come out with any sexual overtones, but he wasn’t surprised it had. He’d been thinking about sex since he had seen her wrapped in a robe and looking like a Hostess Sno Ball snack cake.

Her russet eyebrows rose. “I have a whole list.”

“Tell me.” When she looked at him doubtfully, he added, “Please, I really want to know.”

And he did. It went beyond mere curiosity. He had an overwhelming urge to understand her, to know what made her tick.

“You already know about the coffee and the alcohol.”

He nodded for her to continue. Her sigh indicated she didn’t want to pursue this conversation.

“Fine, I’ll tell you.” She paused, obviously gathering her thoughts. “I don’t drink out of straws. I don’t swear. I don’t open my mail on the day I get it. I don’t go to church. And I don’t wear orange or any color in the orange family, ever.”

He silently considered her list for a moment. “I can see why wearing orange is a don’t,” he said finally, nodding toward her coppery hair. “But if you don’t swear, what do you say when you’re angry?”

She shrugged, and he could tell she was embarrassed. “United States presidents.”

He was confused. “You say, ‘United States presidents,’” he repeated.

“No, I say their names, like John Fitzgerald Kennedy or Franklin Delano Roosevelt.”

The thought of Amelia screaming out a president’s name in anger put him into hysterics. Who knew why it set him off, but he let out a deep belly laugh like he hadn’t enjoyed in months, maybe even years. Since his dad’s cancer diagnosis, there hadn’t been a lot of laughter in his family, although they all had tried to maintain a positive attitude.

He laughed so hard his eyes watered, and other people in the restaurant stared. The harder he laughed, the pinker Amelia’s face became.

“So, let’s say you stub your toe, and instead of saying ‘damn’ or ‘shit,’ you take our presidents’ names in vain,” he clarified.

She nodded. “You should try it. It’s a good history lesson,” she said prissily, which got him going again.

When he had finally stopped chortling and caught his breath, he moved on to another don’t that had caught his attention. “Why don’t you open your mail on the day it arrives?”

She frowned. “I never agreed to tell you why I don’t do certain things.”

“Maybe one day you will.”

He really hoped she would, although he didn’t know why it mattered so much to him that she would trust him with something so personal. “Is that all that’s on your list?”

She leaned forward, crossing her arms on the table. The movement drew his attention to the V neck of her shirt where the upper curves of her breasts were visible, and he started to sweat.

“No, that’s not all, but it’s all I’m going to tell you right now.”

Now he was really intrigued. He raised a brow, indicating that he wanted her to continue. She shook her head.

“Why don’t you tell me about some of the things
you
don’t do?”

“A better question is what haven’t I done yet?”

She smiled at his quip but didn’t speak. She looked at him expectantly, and he took a few moments before answering her question as honestly as he could.

“I don’t eat avocadoes. I don’t fly coach. I don’t lie to people I love. I don’t wear pajamas to bed. I don’t have one-night stands.” She gave him a skeptical look, compelling him to add “anymore” to his last statement.

She was silent for a moment. “We have some don’ts in common.”

“Which ones?”

She sent him an arch look. “What do you think?”

Before Quinn could blink, his mind had conjured up an image of Amelia in
his
bed, sans pajamas. Talk about wishful thinking.

“I’m not going to guess.”

She smirked at his cowardice. “I’ll give you one. I don’t lie to people I love, either.”

He nodded his approval. It was a good rule to live by.

“Why no avocadoes?”

“I’m allergic to them. I break out in hives.”

It was really too bad since he loved guacamole, but if he didn’t resist the temptation, he ended up in the ER. There had been a couple of times when he’d actually thought it was worth it. Of course, he’d been a stupid kid at the time. He was smarter now and had more self-control.

Just keep telling yourself that, chief.

She nodded. “Then that’s definitely a good don’t.”

He realized the whole exercise, which had seemed silly at first, made him feel strangely exposed.

It felt like Amelia knew more about him than anyone he’d
ever dated, and that intimacy sent conflicting emotions of delight and dismay swirling through him. He looked at her and instinctively knew she felt the same way. Fortunately, the server stopped by to take their order, and Quinn was able to direct the conversation to a safer topic.

“I read that you moved to Nashville with Ava Grace after she won
American Star
. Do you like living there?”

She nodded. “Yes, I love it.”

“I’ve only been to Nashville a couple of times, but I really liked it.”

“Why did you visit? Business or pleasure?”

“Pleasure. I was visiting Nick Priest. Do you know him?”

“Yes, I know Nick.” She smiled, her brown eyes dreamy. “His picture must be in the dictionary beside the words ‘eye candy.’”

He felt a surge of irritation at her statement. Did every female on the planet think Nick Priest was God’s gift to women?

He groaned. “Not you, too.”

She shrugged. “I appreciate a good-looking guy as much as the next girl.”

“Do you also appreciate silence?” he joked because Priest rarely spoke. Apparently his lack of verbal skills didn’t hurt his standing with the ladies.

She laughed, the husky sound rippling across Quinn’s senses. He shifted, trying to lessen the pressure in his jeans. He couldn’t believe he was getting a goddamn hard-on while Amelia sat across from him talking about another man.

He took a big swig of his beer, hoping it would cool him down. He desperately tried to concentrate on Amelia’s words instead of imagining her propped on the edge of the table with his head between her legs and his tongue against her clit. He caught the end of her sentence—something to do with Ava Grace—and picked up the thread of conversation.

“You and Ava Grace seem to have a unique relationship.”

By all accounts, the pair was devoted to one another, and he found their relationship very interesting, what little he knew about it, anyway.

Amelia nodded. “We’re each other’s biggest fan.”

He wondered where her family fit into things. His parents and siblings were his biggest fans. He also had a handful of
buddies. Priest was one of those guys, although he didn’t talk to Quinn much more than he talked to anyone else.

“When Ava Grace gets compliments on the stuff I’ve designed for her, she sees it as an invitation to tell everyone how fabulous I am. She’s been doing that for most of our lives.”

Her comments were heavy with self-deprecation, and that surprised him. He was under the impression her designs were hot commodities, and most fashion designers he knew were well aware of their status.

Before he could delve into that conundrum, their food arrived. They’d decided to share a pepperoni pizza, and the decadent smell wafting from the gooey pie made his mouth water.

He quickly served up a piece to Amelia before placing two slices on his plate. He took a big bite, moaning around a mouthful of cheesy deliciousness. Cheese, any kind of cheese, was his favorite food, hands down.

He looked up to find Amelia staring at him, her own slice of pizza frozen at her lips. He couldn’t decipher the look on her face, but he figured she was appalled by his lack of manners. When it came to food (and sex), he tended to be more caveman than gentleman.

•   •   •

Amelia couldn’t take her eyes off Quinn’s face. His reaction to the pizza gave new meaning to the phrase “making love to your food,” and when he’d let out that sexy sound, her panties got damp.

Realizing she had pizza hanging from her mouth, she took a quick bite. It was good, but it wasn’t as fantastic as his moans had led her to believe.

They ate in silence for a while, and with her mind left to wander, she had a brief fantasy of what could have happened if Quinn had arrived at the penthouse just a few minutes earlier while she’d been in the shower. She imagined him joining her under the hot water, turning her toward the tile wall, and pressing his tall body against her back before pushing her legs apart and thrusting his hardness inside her.

“Amelia.” She glanced up to find Quinn waving his hand in front of her face. “Hey, there you are.”

William Jefferson Clinton!

How long had she sat here fantasizing about getting down and dirty with Quinn? She’d known going to dinner with him was a bad idea.

She cleared her throat. “Sorry. I was just lost in how great this pizza tastes.”

He smiled. “I’m glad you like it. This is one of my favorite places.”

She let her gaze wander around the restaurant. She and Quinn definitely had different ideas of casual.

Although small, the pizzeria was well designed and sported high-end finishes. Metal sconces highlighted the exposed brick walls and gleaming hardwood floors. Pendant lights hung over the booths, which were upholstered in buttery-soft leather.

“It’s not as casual as the restaurants I’m used to. Nashville isn’t a fancy place.”

When she and Ava Grace had been poor teenagers stuck in a dinky, dirty town, they’d had dreams just like all the other people who hated their lives. Amelia had dreamed of studying fashion and eventually moving to New York, and Ava Grace had dreamed of nabbing a record deal and touring with country music stars like Carrie Underwood and Miranda Lambert.

Their dreams had seemed as far away as the moon, especially for girls who bought their clothes at the thrift store and ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for most of their meals.

But Amelia and Ava Grace were pragmatists at heart, and while dreams were nice, the two of them had possessed something even better. They’d had plans.

In Amelia’s mind, dreams rarely came true, but plans . . . Well, they were a different animal altogether. A smart woman with a good plan and the gumption to stick to it could change her life.

So Amelia and Ava Grace had plotted, devising a plan to move to Nashville. They had considered Austin, but both of them had wanted to get away from Texas and any reminders of the way they’d grown up.

“I stayed with Priest when I visited,” Quinn said, “and it seemed pretty fancy to me. Do you live near him?”

She laughed at the thought. Nick’s huge house was located in one of the most expensive enclaves in suburban Nashville, a far cry from the home she and Ava Grace shared.

“No. We live way out of the city in an old farmhouse.”

Quinn’s dark eyebrows rose. “That seems like an odd choice for a country music star and an up-and-coming fashion designer.”

“I’d agree, but Ava Grace is not the typical country music star, and I needed room for my workshop.”

When she and Ava Grace had first arrived in Nashville, everyone had recommended they rent an apartment downtown or lease a bungalow in one of the trendy neighborhoods where a lot of other musicians lived. But Ava Grace had been insistent that they choose a place with a workshop for Amelia.

“Speaking of workshops, what do you think of the ones at Riley Plaza?” Quinn asked.