Just Say Yes (2 page)

The Pitch

Quinn had been replaying her lunch with the girls the previous day. And it had caused her to come to a startling discovery: her life was boring.

But
I'm
not boring. Am I?

Granted, she was bored at that particular moment as she waited for her meeting to start. When she'd accepted the job at
Estelle
magazine in D.C., Quinn had thought she was taking a giant leap into the big time. But what she'd really stepped into was a hostile work environment where she was basically a glorified lackey. Every day for the past five months she'd ridden the elevator to the twenty-sixth floor of the thirty-four-story building in the business district with the hope that they'd actually let her write something worthwhile that day. And every day she rode back down with her hope cowering in a corner like an agoraphobic at a One Direction concert.

The unfulfilling job, her nonexistent love life, and yesterday's conversation with her best friends made her realize that she was a naive idiot stuck in the rut of playing it safe and made her want to claw out of her own skin.
Like a werewolf. Werewolves are dangerous. Well, except for the ones in
Twilight. Quinn shook her head, chastising her inner child for proving her own point. She really
was
lame. What twenty-seven-year-old career woman read
Twilight
? A boring, safe, immature one, that's who.

Quinn clutched her notebook to her chest as she bit her thumbnail when Rita Davenport, editor in chief of
Estelle
, stormed in. “So, what have you got for me?” she demanded. No “Hey, how ya doing?” No idle chitchat, no warm looks or pleasant body language. Rita was all firm lines and cantankerous words.

Everyone in the room snuck glances at one another. Quinn was surprised she was actually allowed in these meetings, which her coworkers had dubbed the Dance with the Devil because that's exactly what they were. The writers did their best to make mundane stories seem interesting to Rita, hoping she wouldn't flay them alive. Quinn rarely said a word since she was firmly cemented in no-man's-land, also known as retractions and clarifications. She had inherited the distinct pleasure of addressing the feedback from readers, and the occasional lawyer threat, about what their magazine had screwed up in the previous month's issue. She had also written a few small stories for their Web site, mostly local human-interest pieces that no one read but made the magazine seem like it gave a shit about people.

Estelle
magazine's core demographic was women in the twenty to forty-five age bracket. And judging by the things that made it into the monthly publication, most women in that age range were vain, sex-crazed corporate climbers who would drain the blood from virgins and inject it with a syringe found in a crack den if they thought it would take a wrinkle off their foreheads. Quinn couldn't relate, and usually she was proud of that fact. But after obsessing about her date and why she always ended up with dorky mama's boys, she wasn't so sure. Maybe she was going about life all wrong. Maybe one had to be a little ruthless, a tad careless, and somewhat spontaneous in order to be happy. Because if there was one thing Quinn was sure of, it was that she wasn't happy.

“Really? Are you all suddenly mute? Let's go. Give me
something
.”

Claire, a cute blond woman who had worked for the magazine for going on five years—a near record—cleared her throat. “I was thinking about doing a piece on the new female district attorney who's doing really great things to clean up the streets of D.C.”

Rita looked at her like Claire had suggested an article on athlete's foot. “Boring. Next.”

Tyler was next to speak up. He was as awesome as he was gay, and out of everyone in the room, he was Quinn's favorite. “What about a how-to on the different ways to tie scarves?”

Rita turned down the corner of her upper lip in disgust. “This is for the September issue, Tyler. I doubt people are going to be into reading about scarves while they swelter in the oppressive D.C. heat. Can anyone make sense today?”

Lucy, a twentysomething with blue hair, was the next to speak. “How about a makeup comparison? We can ask a few of our interns to try out different products and rate them.”

“We do that every summer. It's unoriginal and safe. I want the September issue to be . . . edgier. More dynamic. Think, people.”

The word “edgier” made Quinn retreat back into her brain. She could be edgy if she wanted to be. As Rita continued to verbally condemn people's ideas with words like “childish,” “dull,” and “conventional,” Quinn couldn't help but apply every one of them to her life. She suddenly felt suffocated by all the things she'd never experienced because they were wrong, or against the rules, or dangerous. There was a whole world outside the confines of the office they all sat in. Its vibrant walls and trendy furniture made them feel hip when they were really just geeky posers who were able to string words together better than the average person. Suddenly, Quinn had an overwhelming need to feel deserving of the fuchsia Barcelona chair she was in. She wanted to belong in an office that had bright orange and lime green walls. A prudent, respectable girl didn't belong here. A badass did. “I have an idea.”

Everyone's eyes swung to her, probably as shocked as she was to hear her voice.

“Well?” Rita said impatiently.

“I, um, was thinking that, um . . .” Quinn took a deep breath and organized her thoughts. Rita would never agree to the pitch Quinn was about to make if she couldn't even get it out. “We should do a lifestyle column that focuses on doing things that people always wish they'd done but never
actually
had the guts to do.”

Rita was silent for a beat as she seemed to turn the idea over in her head. “Like what?”

“Like, uh, like . . .” Quinn hadn't thought that far ahead. “Asking a stranger out on a date . . . breaking a law . . . things like that.”

Everyone in the room was silent as they watched Rita think the pitch over. “I like it. You have until the end of July. Since everyone here seems to work at a snail's pace, it should give you plenty of time to discover yourself before we need to go to print.”

“Wait—you want
me
to write it?”

“It was your idea, wasn't it?”

“Yes, but—” Quinn stopped herself. It had come out as just an idea of something that she'd like to read about: how someone else took her life in hand and really lived it. She hadn't considered being that person herself. But the more she thought about it, the more she wanted to be. Even though it scared the hell out of her. “Never mind. I'll get started right away.”

Rita gave her a curt nod before interrogating the rest of the group for viable articles.

Which gave Quinn plenty of time to burrow back into her head and wonder what the hell she'd just gotten herself into.

•   •   •

Tim shoved his hands in his pockets as he got out of his truck and walked toward the white house with blue shutters that his brother had told him to look for. He was happy to be invited to Lauren's parents' house to celebrate the fact that Lauren had gotten her master's in psychology.

Withdrawing one of his hands as he approached the front door, he briefly wondered if he should just walk in, but decided against it before reaching out to ring the doorbell. Lauren's mom had worked for Tim's dad before he had died and Scott had taken over his medical practice. Therefore, he felt some level of formality was required.

A small slightly round woman answered the door, smiling broadly.

“Hi, Mrs. Hastings.”

“Tim, I'm so glad you made it. And call me Pam,” she added with a wave of her hand.

Tim nodded and entered the house when she pulled the door open wider. “Your home is beautiful.”

“You Jacobs boys are so polite. I'm not sure how either of you puts up with Lauren,” she replied with a laugh. “But thank you. Make yourself comfortable. The gang is all out on the back deck.”

“Thank you,” Tim said as he started for the back of the house. It wasn't difficult to locate his brother; Tim heard his voice before he even reached the deck doors.

“Lo, if you don't stop spraying that damn bug repellent all over the place, I'm going to have to take it away from you.”

Lauren huffed out a laugh. “I'd like to see you try.”

Tim stepped out onto the deck in time to see Scott make a move toward Lauren, who quickly lifted the bottle as though she were going to spray him in the face with it.

“I'm not playing with you, Scott. This is my party, and I'll spray Off! if I want to.”

“You're causing a haze to settle over the deck,” Scott complained.

“That means it's working.”

“Are you still getting bitten?” Scott challenged.

“Yes.”

“Then it's not working. Give it to me.” Scott rushed her, but Lauren threw the bottle into the backyard before he wrapped his hands around her stomach. “Do you want to explain what the point of that was?”

Lauren laughed and turned in to Scott's chest. “I panicked.”

“Can you two stop canoodling? I'm trying to keep dinner down,” Cass jibed.

Scott kissed Lauren on the cheek before he looked up and his eyes caught Tim's. “Hey, bro.” He disengaged from Lauren and made his way toward Tim, pulling him into a one-armed hug.

Lauren hugged Tim after Scott moved away. “Thanks for coming. Even though it's completely ridiculous to have a party for getting out of grad school.”

“It's not ridiculous,” Scott said, appalled. “You worked hard. You should get a party just like everyone else.”

“
Who
is everyone else? No one else I graduated with is having some big shindig in their parents' backyard. You and my mother are insane for insisting we have this.”

Scott raised a hand. “First of all, ‘big shindig' and ‘parents' backyard' are mutually exclusive terms. If you'd let me rent out Clay's like I'd wanted to,
then
—”

“Then it would be pretentious and obnoxious in addition to being unnecessary,” Lauren interjected.

Scott glared at her for a second. “Is dealing with you always going to be this exhausting?”

Lauren smiled brightly, looking pleased with herself. “Yup.”

Scott pulled her into an embrace. “Just making sure.” He chuckled right before kissing her chastely.

“Yuck. Get a room,” Simone complained through a smile.

Tim shook his head at their antics. “How was your graduation?”

“Long-winded and dull,” she replied with a smile. “Have you eaten yet? There's a ton of food in the kitchen.”

“I'm good for now.”

“Okay. Well, make yourself at home.” Lauren drifted back toward her friends.

“How's the restaurant been?” Scott asked.

“Going well. Business is starting to pick up.”

“That's great. So being an executive chef is everything Wolfgang Puck made it out to be?”

Tim smiled at his brother in response before his eyes began to skim the crowd congregated on the deck. He tried to act disinterested, as though he were casually taking in the people before him.

But that wasn't the truth. And as he stretched his six-foot-two frame to get a better look around, he caught a glimpse of the familiar head of red hair that made his heart rate jack up every time he saw it. Quinn was sitting alone in the backyard by the pool.

“Who are you looking for?” Scott questioned, making Tim shrink back slightly.

“No one,” Tim lied. “I'm going to grab a water. You want anything?”

Scott looked at him curiously for a second before shaking his head.

“Be right back.” Though Tim hoped he wouldn't be. He walked over to the coolers that were lined up against the railing and dug around for a water before he descended the three steps that led to the yard and began walking toward Quinn.

Tim had seen her a dozen or so times since Scott had begun dating Lauren, and he'd looked forward to it every time. Not that he'd ever let anyone know that. Tim was almost eight years older than Quinn, and he had a history that was seven shades of fucked up. There was no way a girl like her needed to waste her time with a guy like him. But that didn't stop him from dreaming.

He couldn't help but feel a twinge of concern. Quinn's best friends were all enjoying the party, yet she was sitting alone in the backyard. He took in her posture as he approached, immediately knowing that something was off with her.

“Hey, stranger,” he said as he plopped down in the chair beside her.

“Hey,” Quinn said quietly.

He noticed the way her eyes drifted over him, taking him in from head to toe. It made him feel like fucking Superman. “So what's up? Why are you sitting over here?”

Quinn took a long drink from the beer bottle she was holding. “That's an interesting question.” The words were slow leaving her mouth.

Is she drunk?
“That's why I asked it,” Tim said with a grin.

“Cheeky.”

Yup, she's wasted.

Quinn was sitting cross-legged in the chair, and she turned her entire body toward Tim when she spoke again. “Did you know that I'm safe and traditional and predictable and a whole lot of other boring things?”

Tim took a sip of his water. “I did not.”

“Well, I'm glad that I was here to enlighten you,” she said as she drained the rest of the beer.

“How many of those have you had?”

“I lost count at seven.”

“Wow. Looking to dash that whole boring thing by getting your stomach pumped?”

“If that's what it takes,” she murmured as she lifted the bottle back to her lips. Upon realizing that it was empty, she muttered a “figures,” and set it clumsily on the ground under her chair.