Broken At Love (Whitman University) (20 page)

“Emilie, I have no idea, but I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you.”

Surprise shot into her gaze. Maybe that would be enough. Maybe it would keep her here.

“Why?”

“You’re beautiful. You’re smart and driven and talented. You don’t fall down my rabbit hole of innuendo unless you want to tumble with me.” I traced a finger from her neck down to her waist, teasing where it pleased me most to see her reaction. “This little body responds to mine like someone built it for me. You know all of my secrets but you’re still here.”

She leaned up and kissed me, her tongue paying me back for teasing her. “Wow.”

It wasn’t what she wanted. She wanted it all. To hear my deepest desires and the feelings ripping me to shreds. She deserved it.

“What’s wrong?” It was a question she knew the answer to. I knew she knew.

“It’s not fair of me to withhold my expertise in all arenas. Plus if you don’t get dressed we’re never going to leave this bed for the rest of our lives, and your evil plan to thwart my father will be dead in the water.”

I watched the hope and light fall out of her face. When she hid it with that reluctant smile I felt like the biggest asshole ever born.

Chapter Twenty-One

The exercise helped clear my head.

Emilie’s tennis was above average and we had more than a few good volleys. Sweat dripped off me by the time my knee started to ache, and we sat cross-legged at the back of the court with bottles of water.

“You’re not bad.”

“You were taking it easy on me,” she panted, wiping her forehead with a wristband.

The tennis clothes Ang brought to the cottage had included a teeny tiny white Lacoste skirt that displayed Emilie’s perfect legs in a way that thoroughly distracted me. The way it flipped up and showed her ass didn’t help, either. But I had taken it a little easy on her.

“I wasn’t looking for a brawl. It felt good to be out on the court.”

“When was the last time you played?”

“The last day of Wimbledon almost a year ago.”

I gave her a smile in an attempt to hide the pain, but as usual she saw right through it. She handled it with as much grace as she did everything else, reaching out and squeezing my hand, then tossing her empty bottle into our bag.

“What do you miss the most?”

“About tennis?”

“Duh.”

I had to think about it because there were so many things I loved. The travel. The friends, the smell of the balls, the way racket strings sounded when I pummeled a perfect serve. Crowds cheering a good point. A night match under the lights. The parties, the free clothes, the fresh air.

One thing most of all. “The competition. Nothing feels better than stepping out onto that court ready to go to battle. It’s all fresh at the beginning. No points on the scoreboard, no flubbed volleys or shanked serves. A blank canvas to be painted.”

“You loved winning.”

“No, not necessarily winning. I mean, I always wanted to win but it was more the feeling of possibility. Every new match was a wrapped gift waiting to have the ribbons yanked off. You could stink it up but manage a win because the other guy pulled a hammy. Or play the best game of your life and still not be able to find a way to win.”

The last part was the truest, and it didn’t just apply to tennis. It was the same with my father, and maybe with Emilie, too. I could step onto the court but it didn’t mean I would win. I could tell her I loved her, too, and still watch her walk away eventually.

With a game, it invigorated me. When it came to real life, it scared me shitless.

“How can you always be so brave?” I asked.

This sexy pixie of a girl had stood brave in the face of my insults, the truth about who I am, to her father so she could live the life she wanted. She’d watched her little sister die. I wanted to understand.

Everything I’d tried since stepping off a tennis court terrified me.

“I’m scared all the time, Quinn.” Emilie’s bottomless eyes found mine, drew me under. “I promised Anabel—my sister—that I wouldn’t regret anything, not ever. She wanted to do so many things she’ll never get to do. Kiss a boy. Fall in love. Have the kind of mind-blowing sex we just had in that cottage. Grow up to do what she loves. I don’t know. If you think I’m brave, it’s only because the idea of being fifty years old and miserable about all the things I’d wished I done scares me more than taking a chance now.”

It made sense. She was afraid of regrets. I was nothing but a bundle of them. In that moment I knew, without a doubt, that Emilie would be one of mine. “How do you know you won’t regret telling me how you feel?”

“I’d have regretted it my entire life if I hadn’t.”

In the pause that followed I heard all the things I should say—I knew she was right, that I would regret letting this moment pass me by, but the fear of putting myself out there and having her decide one day that she didn’t care after all still made me sick.

Emilie’s presence in my life had helped me start to gather the pieces inside of me that should have been a whole. It’s as though my heart had spent the first twenty years of my life scattered in chunks, and every minute we spent together helped me find one more and paste it back in place.

I wasn’t sure if being put back together hurt more or less than being ripped apart again, but I didn’t want to find out. I was an asshole who let her give while I took, and maybe in the process I’d figure out how to become a human being. But I wouldn’t let her destroy me.

“I have an idea.” Her throaty voice, playful but also tinged with sadness, broke the rustling sounds of the night coming to life.

The air smelled like jasmine and honeysuckle. When I looked up in response to her statement, ready to ravish her in the bushes if she gave me a nod, the bright tennis court lights hit her like a spotlight and I wanted to remember this perfect moment for the rest of my life.

“Oh?” I winked, covering my response to her.

“Stop. I didn’t mean it like that. I assume you have money from tennis? And a trust fund of some kind from your father?”

If anyone else had asked such prying questions I would have laughed in their face. “Yes and yes. It’s enough to keep me in the style to which I’ve become accustomed.”

“You’re not a high-priced hooker, Quinn. Unless you want to be.”

“Just tell me what your plans are for all of my hard-earned cash.”

It was a lot of money for most people. Not by Rowland family standards, and probably not be the Swanson ones, either. About ten million altogether.

“What if you used your own cash to start up the business you pitched to your father? Once it’s built and succeeds, you can always sell to him, be absorbed into Rowland.” She paused, suddenly unsure of herself if the pink cheeks were any indication. “Is it dumb?”

“No.” It sank in over the next several seconds and became not only dumb, but potentially brilliant. I leaned over and kissed her hard on the mouth. “It’s perfect. It’s the way to show my father that I’m my own man, to prove I’m good enough to make it on my own. It might finally make him respect me, even if he doesn’t care about me. It won’t matter. It will be business, not family.”

“I’m sure your father loves you, Quinn.”

“He doesn’t.” Her brow furrowed and I frowned. “Don’t go feeling sorry for me now,
mi sopresita
. I’m used to it.”

“Why?”

I shrugged. “He blames me for my mother leaving before I was a day old. She never wanted kids, I guess.”

Her small hand covered mine, the heat and gritty dirt from the racket spreading familiarity and comfort through my blood. “It’s not your fault, Quinn. You don’t deserve to pay for her mistakes.”

I smiled to reassure her, but it never worked on me. My mother looked at my face the first time I took a breath and knew I wasn’t worth loving. How could anyone feel any differently when the woman who had given birth to me had seen nothing worthwhile in her infant?

Emilie would realize her feelings were nothing more than lust and take a hike, too.

My stomach tightened at the thought and I pulled my hand out from under hers. “It won’t matter. If I start my own business and try to prove my independence and initiative to my father, I’ll still be under Sebastian’s thumb. He’s got me either way. If I don’t do what he asks he’ll splash the pictures all over the internet, sell them to the highest trash-television-show bidder. It will ruin my chances to inherit Rowland—”

“And no one else will work with some kid with a history of drug abuse.” She bit her lip. “There has to be a way to make him see reason, Quinn. Your father will take care of him. It’s not like he needs the money.”

“He doesn’t do it for the money. He loves causing pain and wreaking havoc, toying with lives like people were puppets. To quote my father, he’s a sick little peckerwood. But he’s my brother.”

“You can’t let him control your life. We can figure out a way to deal with him, too.”

“Sebastian’s the only family I’ve got that wants anything to do with me, and he just wants his part of the pie. I guess I don’t mind bringing him along for the ride.”

Anger burned in her black eyes and she crossed her arms under her boobs, glaring at me.

“Or maybe you like it,” she snapped.

“Like what?”

“All of it. The games, the control, the fucking a different girl every time you turn around. The idea that you can prove you’re strong by exposing the weaknesses in others. Maybe the real reason you don’t care about getting rid of Sebastian is because without him you don’t have an excuse.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

But what if she wasn’t? Disgust burned in the back of my throat, acidic and sour.

Maybe I did like the game a little too much. Maybe I didn’t know who I was without it anymore. The truth was I didn’t give two shits about Sebastian; the guy was a menace. Why was I standing up for him? Did I really not want out from under his blackmail because it meant I would no longer have an excuse to hide from my life?

“Am I? Sebastian’s your excuse to give up, to keep everyone at arm’s length. But sooner or later you’re actually going to turn into the Quinn Rowland you pretend to be to seduce women—sad and broken beyond repair.” She reached for my hand again but I moved it out of the way.

This was it. My chance to save her from herself once and for all.

“You can believe whatever you’d like, but Sebastian’s my brother. You and I barely know each other. I’m not going to sit here and cook up schemes with you about how to toss him out of my life for good, leave him with no one.” I gave her my best cocky smile while my insides shriveled. “If you don’t like it, feel free to leave.”

Tears filled her eyes. Every one that slipped down her cheeks tore holes in my heart but I didn’t move. We stared at one another and whatever she glimpsed in my face pushed her to her feet.

“I
am
going to leave, Quinn. Not because I don’t care. Because I care too much to stand around and watch you self-destruct.” She paused. “You know, I never saw you retire during a match. Never. Not when you were really hurt and you probably should have. Not once.”

I never had. Not even when it hurt. And look where it had gotten me.

Emilie and her tennis skirt disappeared down the path to the cottage, but I stayed under the hot lights until the timer doused them hours later. Dried sweat left salty deposits my skin and chilled me in the late night air. The smell of my workout and the scent of Emilie’s body rose around me like a cloud and I breathed deep, pulling all of the good memories deep inside, burying them where they wouldn’t rise up to haunt me.

It was time to get over my father’s latest rejection and rejoin life. Sebastian was waiting and in a few days, a new top seed would be, too.

The French Open

Chapter Twenty-Two

Emilie

Ruby leapt on my bed, causing the mattress to squeak and my side to bang against her knees. My muscles were sore, inside and out, from the romp with Quinn, and every movement brought his face to memory.

Confusion dominated my emotions. He cared about me. Together we were amazing. But he let fear control his life—fear of failure, fear of…love? Of not being loved? I hadn’t quite figured it out but the truth was, it would kill me to be with him and watch every day as catering to Sebastian’s whims turned him into a shell of the charming, driven guy I’d fallen for.

“Look what I’ve got,” Ruby teased in a singsong voice.

I cracked open an eye to see her wide grin, her thick blonde hair mashed into a messy bun atop her head that didn’t come close to containing the pieces that curled around her face and down her neck. The sports bra and shorts, not to mention the sweaty reek, said she’d gone on a run without me.

“What?”

Her arms were behind her back and she moved them slowly. An envelope dangled in front of my nose, and I finally made out the return address.
New York Foundation for the Arts.

The sight of it sat me straight up in bed, all thoughts of Quinn and his problems replaced by the opportunity that could make or break my future. When I went to take it from her, Ruby snatched it away.

“Nope. Not until you turn off the Taylor Swift.”

“It’s Adele.”

“Potato, Potahtoe. Whiny breakup music. Makes me want to vom.”

She had a point. Not about the vomiting, but about my maudlin mood. I reached over and hit pause on my iPod then held out my hand.

I’d applied for the summer fellowship after my paintings had sold at the museum opening. My father refused to accept my passion and promised to pull his financial support next semester, but I was determined to make my own way. I’d applied for four fellowships, but this was the big one. If I got it, it pretty much guaranteed that after graduation I’d be working with some of the most important up-and-coming artists, buyers, and critics roaming the world at present.

The envelope tore easily and I pulled out the single page with shaking hands. Tears pricked my eyes and my heart raced. “I got in.”