Broken At Love (Whitman University) (4 page)

I’d been a fan, as a girl. Like everyone our age who watched tennis, probably. It was more than his face, more than his body, or even his talent. The fire inside him, the way he’d never given in, made me cheer for him, too.

Why wasn’t he inside, drinking and taking swooning girls up to his bedroom in rapid-fire succession?

A clump of sand and weeds tripped me, knocking loose any more musings about Quinn and forcing my eyes and attention back to the mission at hand. It was later than I expected, the sky above smeared with too many stars to count. Clear nights like this one often shifted melancholy through me, the beauty overhead making it impossible for anything on earth to ever compete. It made me want to paint.

Brooke slammed her silver Camaro to a stop in front of the house, nearly taking out a couple of SEA freshmen. Her blue eyes widened as she took in the expanse of the house and its stretching grounds. I opened the passenger door and turned to Marla, anxious to get back and find Ruby. To be honest, I’d started to think that hopping in the backseat and going back to my pajamas would be better than sticking around here, but I couldn’t abandon Rubes.

The party had pretty much been a bust so far. No one had talked to me except Sebastian Blair, Ruby had disappeared, and my pleasing lightheadedness had been downgraded to a buzz. Not to mention a super nice girl had gotten her heart stomped on by a jackass.

Your basic frat party, I guessed.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” I asked Marla. Her face was a mess of tears and mascara, and underneath that, twisted misery.

I wondered if Quinn would toss me out of the party for kicking Marla’s ex in the nuts. It would be worth it, either way.

She shook her head and slid into the car. “No. Thank you, Emilie. I’m glad you were here.”

“What are friends for?” That drew fresh tears. “Hey, it’ll be okay. Jack’s obviously a fucking douche canoe. He should win an Oscar for not letting us see it until now.”

She didn’t answer so I nodded at Brooke, who shifted her car into drive before I got the door shut all the way. The taillights had just disappeared around the corner when Sebastian reappeared at my side, scaring the shit out of me like a damn ghost.

“Oops, sorry,” he apologized, grinning at the fact that I’d lurched sideways.

“What are you doing out here?” Amusing him made me grumpy.

“Would you believe I missed you?”

I snorted. “There are like three hundred girls here and all of them are in skintight dresses, drunk, and gorgeous. So, no.”

He shrugged, conceding my point. “I found your friend. Ruby. She’s at the deck bar.”

We entered the house again, the throbbing bass and squealing laughter even louder after the quiet outside that had been interrupted by nothing but the waves and Marla’s weeping. The thought of my old friend pulled my mouth down into a frown, and I scanned the room for Jack.

“Who are you looking for?” Sebastian shouted over the din.

He grinned, and for a moment I glimpsed what girls saw in him. Shining blond hair, dark brown eyes, good physique even though he was short. It didn’t erase the creeper vibe, at least not for me, and I hoped he’d leave for good once I found Ruby again. “No one. Jack Newton. You know him?”

Sebastian spread his hands. “I know everyone. Why are you looking for him? Does someone have a crush?”

“Hardly. I’d like to knee him in his baby makers.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

More people crowded the deck bar than before, but it wasn’t as loud out here since the noise had somewhere to go. Quinn’s father must have had soundproof windows installed. It’s like he knew his son would someday use the house to descend into debauchery. People smashed against me on every side, but still no Ruby.

“I thought you said she was out here?”

Sebastian turned from the bar, two shots glasses in his hand. He offered me one and I took it, clinking it against his before tossing it back.

“She
was
here.”

Suspicion dug fingernails under my buzz, which intensified after another shot of whiskey. It didn’t make sense that Ruby would send Sebastian to fetch me, now that I thought about it. Or that she would run off again if she had. Or that she had disappeared at all, honestly. Ruby could be flighty, but typically made a good wingman at parties. Wingwoman. Whatever.

“I’m going to go look for her,” I told Sebastian.

“Wait. One more, okay? These are my favorites and I don’t want to drink alone like a loser.” He handed me a tumbler half full of Guinness, then dropped a shot glass of Bailey’s and Jameson into the center, splashing beer all over my hand. “Drink up.”

Irish Car Bomb. I grinned at him. “Love these.”

Before I could raise the concoction to my lips, a body slammed into my back. The sticky mixture sloshed all over Ruby’s emerald dress, coating the front of me until the smell of liquor permeated the air. I calmly drank what was left in my glass, slammed it on the bar, and turned to let someone have it.

And saw Quinn Rowland.

He held up his hands in mock apology. “Wasn’t me. Carter Vallon. Want me to get him for you?”

Quinn grinned, displaying a row of sparkling white teeth that somehow sucked all the moisture from my mouth. Teeth shouldn’t be able to do that to a person. I tried to smile back, and I may have managed. “No, it’s fine.”

“Oh, Q! How fortuitous. One of your guests has been soiled by a nefarious frat brother. Do you know Emilie?”

Sebastian’s overly formal language made me give him the side-eye. With everything rumored about him on campus, no one had ever mentioned how absurdly strange he could act. Almost like a caricature instead of a person.

Quinn stepped closer to me, invading my personal space. The scent of him—salty ocean and sweet cologne on top, dusky boy underneath—went straight to my head.

“Not officially,” he replied to his half-brother.

The stress on the word
officially
reminded me of the way I stared at him like a lunatic earlier tonight and my cheeks heated up with embarrassment.

And maybe a little lust.

“Nice to meet you. Officially.”

His eyes lingered on my mouth, then slid down over my neck and chest, landing on the white mess of alcohol and milk decorating the front of Ruby’s dress. If Sebastian had looked at me that way I’d feel dirty, but with Quinn’s clear blue eyes on me I only felt hot.

It was like some kind of voodoo, this guy.

“A shame about your dress. But please don’t leave. My father keeps the closets filled so there are plenty of clothes upstairs.”

The offer intrigued me, and terrified me. I didn’t want to leave, especially without Ruby, but going upstairs alone with Quinn seemed like a recipe for disaster. My stupid body apparently didn’t care what we knew about him. “Well, I…”

He reached out and took my hand. An expression of aversion pursed his lips for the briefest of seconds before it turned to a smile. “Please. I’d really like you to stay. The night has barely gotten started.”

Chapter Four

You’re not sleeping with him, Emilie. You’re not even going to kiss him.

The sober part of my brain kept up a steady lecture as I followed Quinn up the winding staircase in the foyer. Hundreds of eyes landed on my back, making me itchy and uncomfortable, and all of the whispers suddenly seemed to be about me.

Going upstairs with Quinn Rowland. Ugh.

Expensive, cappuccino-colored paint matched the creamy carpet, thick under the soles of my heels. On the first landing I put a hand on the wall to steady myself and slipped out of the heels, which were too wobbly on the plush fibers. I stumbled, balance escaping me because of the liquor Sebastian insisted on pouring down my throat, and as Quinn reached out to support me, that same expression of slight distaste wrinkled around his mouth.

My face grew hot, but from irritation instead of his touch this time. “I’m clumsy. Get over it.”

His eyebrows shot up, and to my surprise, he laughed. It didn’t last long, but the richness of it, the way it burst from his belly, almost had me swooning again. If all the rumors about the prescription drugs at these parties were true, maybe someone had some manic depression bipolar meds I could scam. Apparently spending five minutes with the host had made me a crazy.

“It’s charming, Emilie. I was merely concerned you would fall.”

The explanation was smooth, practiced, but a lie. Nobody lied better than my mother, and I’d learned to read her before my tenth birthday. “I’m fine. Better now.”

He started up the stairs again, but the expensive artwork adorning the walls distracted me. I had never seen such gorgeous pieces anywhere but in a museum.

“Coming? I’m sure you’re starting to curdle.” Quinn winked.

I realized I was dawdling, staring at a particularly intriguing abstract piece at the top of the stairs, but couldn’t tear my eyes away. “Is this a Gauguin?”

“Yes. You know your painters.”

The hint of appreciation in his voice confused me. “Art lover” did not go with the image of him in my head. Quinn moved to my side, his shoulder brushing mine and transferring heat.

“Is it an original?”

“Of course.” He put a hand inside my elbow, sliding it to my wrist and leaving a trail of fire in its wake. “Do you like his work?”

I shrugged. “He’s not a personal favorite. But this is a great piece.”

“You’re an artist?” Quinn asked, fingers tickling my palm.

“Yes. I paint abstract like Gauguin but more…free, I guess.” I never knew how to explain my art to people who didn’t understand technique.

“Ah. A fan of Pollock, I suppose. Or maybe Turner.”

Surprise lifted my gaze to his face. Our eyes connected and in Quinn’s I saw something like intrigue for the briefest moment before he hid it behind polite interest.

“Turner’s my favorite, yes. How did you guess?”

“You’re very beautiful. Your hands…” He turned my right palm up, tracing up and down my fingers. “I can see how easily art could drip out of them.”

Breath stalled in my lungs, barely escaping in gasps. How was it possible to get so thoroughly turned on by a guy holding you hand and talking art? I pulled away and crossed my arms over my chest. “You could tell who my favorite painter is because you think I’m beautiful?”

The warmth in his gaze disappeared as quickly as it arose. He smirked, cocking a head toward the Gauguin. “You know he died of syphilis? I sincerely hope you don’t share the penchant painters seem to have for venereal disease.”

The shift in conversation surprised me into an unladylike snort. Quinn’s eyebrows went up in surprise. “I think we’re in the clear,” I managed to get out.

The fact that I’d basically made a comment that made it seem like we’d both need to be concerned with my STD status heated my cheeks with a mortified blush. Quinn either didn’t notice or chose not to comment, leading me up the remainder of the stairs and down the hall in silence. We stepped through French doors into a gorgeous bedroom, the carpet and paint the same neutrals the hallway but set off by crimson bedding. Moonlight glinted off the ocean and streaked in through the giant windows on the back wall.

They were cracked open, allowing a cool salty breeze into the room. It helped clear my fuzzy head. “Your house is amazing.”

“It’s not mine, but thank you.” He stepped to another set of double doors, opening them wide to reveal rows and rows of shirts, dresses, skirts, shoes, and accessories. “Take what you’d like. I’ll wait out here.”

“Thank you.” He didn’t move while I crossed the threshold into the closet, giving me another whiff of his skin, but I held it together. His hostess-with-the-mostest routine started to bug me, and despite the fact that my body wanted to yank his clothes off, the rest of me needed to get back to Ruby.

These parties were supposed to be the events of each quarter, but so far I’d been vaguely harassed by Quinn’s brother, had my heart broken for Marla, and gotten the stinkiest drink possible dumped all over me.

The doors clicked quietly at my back, leaving me alone with more clothes than I’d ever seen in one place, and neither my mother nor I were lacking in that department. At all.

Halfway through a rack of dresses, fatigue hit me. Partying no longer sounded like a fun idea—in fact, nothing sounded better than having a cup of coffee or two to sober up, finding Ruby, and going home. Maybe if Toby invited me to the French Open party, it would be better.

Instead of grabbing any number of sexy, gorgeous dresses I dug into some drawers and eventually found sleepwear under piles and piles of flimsy, silky nighties that looked like they fell right off a Victoria’s Secret runway. Quinn could be hoping I’d walk out in one of those.

I dismissed the thought, sure I wasn’t his type. Annette’s willowy frame, magazine-perfect hair, and long legs came to mind, reinforcing my suspicion. No need to worry about impressing Quinn, and why on earth would I care if I were his type, anyway?

In the back of the last drawer I found a few pairs of cotton shorts and an assortment of t-shirts; I grabbed a pair of plain gray bottoms that were shorter than I’d like, but passable, and an Australian Open top from a few years ago. Luckily the Irish Car Bomb hadn’t soaked through to my bra, but my underwear was a different story.

It would have to stay. Ruby’s no-purse rule meant I had nowhere to stuff it if I took it off, and I couldn’t leave dirty panties in Quinn Rowland’s guest room closet.

I padded barefoot to the doors, the nasty green dress tucked under an arm, and went back into the bedroom. Quinn jumped up from the edge of the bed and as his eyes took in my outfit, they turned into hardened jewels. Sapphires.

“Where did you find that awful thing?” His voice sounded strangled.

“The shirt? Is it okay? I don’t think I want to stay anymore. I’m kind of tired, so I’m going to find my friend Ruby and go home.” Unexpected, uncharacteristic shyness curled my toes into the carpet. I was a lot of things around guys, but shy wasn’t typically one of them. “I’ll bring the clothes back.”