Summer Kisses (276 page)

Ben-III grunted. Thanks to his mismanagement, Wurther Advertising was now no longer the go-to agency in town.

Up until the last year or so, I’d totally loved this job. But when Ben-II retired for health reasons, my rationale for staying got a little murky. Except for wanting to make creative director. If I could help influence a major improvement to our image and actual performance, making this company one to be reckoned with once again, I would even be willing to keep working with Ben-III.

“Don’t count any chickens,” he warned.

I didn’t answer though about four highly inappropriate options streaked through my mind.

It’s not that I actually thought Ben-III wanted us to lose the account. But I was pretty sure he wouldn’t mind seeing me fall on my face.

My cell phone rang. Hooray! An excuse to ignore him. “Katherine Mendoza.”

“Katherine, it’s Quinn.”

See? Oreo Eyes knew how to pronounce my name.

That inane thought was quickly followed by this one.

Oh.

My.

God.

Quinn
.

My thoughts ran a million miles an hour for a moment. Why is he calling me? Probably a work reason. Nothing to do with
The Kiss.
Wait. Ben-III was still standing in the doorway.

“Mr. Mitchell.” I tried to sound casual for Quinn’s benefit and professional for Ben-III’s. “Could you hold on for a moment?” I pushed the mute button and turned to Ben-III. “It’s Quinn Mitchell. I’m going to have to take this.” The implication being,
run along now.

He frowned but left. I punched the talk button so I could speak to Quinn. Butterflies danced in my stomach. “Hey, Quinn. What can I do for you?”

“What was the Mr. Mitchell stuff about?”

“Don’t ask.” I didn’t want him to know what petty games I had to play with my boss.

“Oo-kay.” The distinctive click of fingers against a keyboard filtered over the connection.. “Have you seen the
Enquirer
today?” he asked.

“I skimmed the headlines online.” I tried to remember if there was anything of interest. “What did I miss?” I had news alerts set up for clients that would warn me of any impending disaster, but Quinn wouldn’t make it into that queue until he signed on the dotted line.

“I sent you a link.” He gave me the highlights. “So it seems that there was a trainer in our Blue Ash location who was…
indiscreet
with his client list. And apparently, also liked to complain to his girlfriend about those clients, whom he referred to by unprofessional nicknames.”

“Unprofessional?” I switched over to email, clicked on the first link in his message, and read the article with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“Butt-ery Betty. Tammy Ta-Tas.”

“The article claims that this happens all the time in your company,” I said hesitantly. He hadn’t seemed like the kind of guy that would allow that to go on
.
Letting an employee mock a girl because of her size? In fact, yesterday Quinn had been darned near empathetic. But I suppose anything could be faked.

I was torn between rallying beside him and hiding from the world because
I
could easily be called Buttery Betty. Or for that matter, Tammy Ta-Tas. Or Corpulent Katherine or Mountainous Mendoza. I shook my head.

“Believe me. It doesn’t! I personally fired the trainer this morning and met with the manager of the Blue Ash club to make sure this isn’t more widespread. I’ve been assured it’s not.”

“OK. Let me draft a press release. We’ll state that you very much regret that the actions of one employee have reflected badly on your organization and that employee is no longer with the company.”

“I hope it’s that easy.” He didn’t sound hopeful.

“Is there some reason it wouldn’t be?”

“I have…
history
with the reporter. We dated last year. She took it badly when the relationship ended.”

“Oh.” I don’t know why that bothered me, but it did. I had no claim on him. Even if he had laid a smooch on me that easily ranked in the top give—oh, who was I kidding?—top
one
kisses of my lifetime.

“So… I was about to go for a run and wondered if you wanted to join me. Maybe get an early start on your
get-fit-by-the-reunion
campaign?”

Inside, I sighed. And so it began.

I snorted for Quinn’s benefit. “Trust me when I say I don’t run.”

“Why’s that?”

Was he mocking me or was he blind?

“A desire not to succumb to a heart attack.”

He chuckled. God, he had a great laugh. Wasn’t I too old to get weak knees over a man? “A brisk walk on the bike path then?”

“Look, you don’t have to do this, Quinn. I appreciate the effort, but it’s really unnecessary.” How sweet that he wanted to help me get in shape, but I wasn’t interested in a pity date. Or someone who was trying to change me.

“I’m not offering for
you
. As you might imagine, it’s been kind of a lousy morning, and I’m looking for a way to spend the evening that doesn’t involve sitting in front of the TV, working, or swimming laps until I drop. If you don’t want to go for a walk, how about having dinner with me?”

Wait. Was Quinn Mitchell begging me for a date? Nope. Couldn’t happen. My planets would never be that well aligned. Plus, where was Mr. Confidence? The Quinn Mitchell I knew would have said something like, “We have a reservation for eight tonight. Pick you up at seven-thirty.”

“I was actually going to cook tonight.”

“I eat,” he said hopefully.

He wasn’t going to give up. And did I want him to? Not really. Okay, if I was going to be honest with myself, then no. Not at all. I sighed as if I were making a concession by
letting
him come by. “Fine. Come at six-thirty and bring a bottle of wine and your appetite.”

“Really? Thanks.”

We ended the conversation, and I hung up the phone.

I had been thinking of throwing together a meatloaf for myself. But if Quinn was coming for dinner, I wanted to cook to impress.

But what should I make? I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt he wouldn’t let much of my usual cook-to-amaze fare pass his lips. I loved rich food. It would probably kill him on sight.

Maybe seek my Latin roots? If I took a little-of-this-a-little-of-that” approach, I could sneak a few delicacies in along with something healthy.

Part of me couldn’t believe I was going to so much effort. It wasn’t like he would be so overwhelmed by my prowess in the kitchen that suddenly he’d declare his undying love.

And yet, I intended to cook as if it were possible.

On my route home, there was a great little market run by a Venezuelan couple who were friends of my dad’s. They had everything I needed, and I was back on the road with wishes of luck and a large bag full of groceries in under fifteen minutes.

When I reached the house, I jumped into gear.

I had exactly two hours to make dinner and get ready. I’d worn jeans, a sweatshirt, and a pair of Keds to the office since no clients would be there. My hair was pulled into a haphazard topknot. No way could I greet Quinn looking like that.

He probably looked good straight from bed after only two hours of sleep. That brought to mind thoughts I
definitely
should not think. Quinn. In bed. In nothing but a sheet and a smile. My mouth went as dry as I thought about how to ensure he only got a couple of hours sleep.

I chopped peppers and tried to rid my overactive imagination of the vision. I browned chicken in a cast-iron skillet and whipped up batches of homemade salsa and guacamole, endeavoring to keep my thoughts clean and away from contemplating Quinn naked.

It wasn’t working. Chances were I’d answer the door still imagining it.

Even by the time I’d pulled into Katherine’s driveway, I still hadn’t figured out what had possessed me to plead for dinner with her. I make a habit of not getting involved with anyone I work with. Building this business is too important to me to eff it up because of a bad relationship. I never dated any of my trainers or staff. I never dated any clients—though I certainly get plenty of offers. I’ve never even been tempted to do more than flirt with a sales rep or vendor.

At least, not until Katherine.

The Amanda Shoemaker fiasco also made me cautious of getting involved with anyone who could influence the business in any way. And the director of my advertising campaign certainly qualified.

Knocking on the front door, I recited a litany of reminders about why I shouldn’t get involved with Katherine.

They fled as the smell of garlic and spices wafted from the kitchen when the door opened. I sniffed deeply in appreciation and smiled. “Something smells good. Italian?”

“Nope. I decided on a Mexican theme.”

Which explained the salsa music playing over the speakers. It seemed she literally had her entire house wired for sound.

Remembering the picture of her obviously Hispanic father, I asked, “Is your family actually from Mexico or do you just cook like they are?”

“Actually, my dad’s from Ecuador.”

My stomach grumbled.

“Hungry?” She ushered me into the foyer.

“Starved.”

Her hair hung down in shiny waves well past the middle of her back. I wanted to touch it to see if it was as soft as it looked. Fingertips tucked in the back pockets of her white jeans made her breasts thrust out in a very perky manner. My eyes dropped to the dipping neckline of her soft, dark blue sweater, and I swallowed hard.
She totally had my number.

Katherine caught me looking and adjusted the top so it sat squarely on her shoulders, ruining my view, but she did so with a grin. Just because she had my number didn’t mean she was willing to dial it.

I desperately wanted to kiss her hello, but since I’d decided the night before we were only going to be friends, I settled for a hug. But I
had
to touch that hair and see if she was as soft everywhere else as I remembered.

As she stepped aside to shut the door, I reached for her.

She put her hand up, catching my shoulder. “Watch it there, Sparky. The last time you tried that the police had to be called.” She offered a big smile.

I chuckled, feeling my resolve slip. She was saying “no,” but that beam gave me reason to believe she meant, “maybe later.” I handed her the bottle of wine I’d brought.

“Thanks. Dinner will be ready in a few minutes. Come on back to the kitchen, and we can uncork this.”

I took a deep breath and followed. I ground to a halt as we passed the dining room and whistled between my teeth. “This is worthy of Martha Stewart.”

The table was set with a mix of blue, orange, green, and yellow Fiestaware—a fact I knew only because my mom collects the stuff and I buy it for her for special occasions.

“Thanks,” Katherine said.

Fresh flowers perched in a squat, round, orange vase, and giant margarita glasses with ice water and lemon sat next to each setting. Candles flickered in small orange glass cups.

As we got to the kitchen, a new song came on over the radio, and she did a little shuffled salsa dance step. Not a bad dancer. She had a natural sense of rhythm, not to mention hips designed for Latin dancing. My mouth watered and not only from the fantastic smells spilling out of the ovens.

Oh, hell.
Friends only
, Mitchell.

“Have a seat.” She pointed to a barstool on the other side of the island. Wine glasses and a corkscrew were already sitting on the tiled surface. She handed the bottle of wine back to me, and I went about opening it.

“Is there anything I can help you with?” I poured a glass and offered it. Gestures of help definitely earned me points if her surprised smile was any indication.

“Nope. I think I’ve got everything under control.”

I sipped my wine, letting the flavor dance on my tongue.

She took a drink as well. “This is really good.” She picked up the bottle and studied the label for a couple of moments.

The oven timer buzzed, and she set down her wine glass, crossed the kitchen to the double ovens, and pulled a pan from the top one. I sniffed the air as she returned to the counter to place a dozen or so gutted and filled tiny tomatoes covered with a thin layer of browned cheese on a plate. God, they smelled good.

“Wow, what are we having?”

“These are stuffed cherry tomatoes. I also have fresh tortilla chips with homemade guacamole and salsa. In about two seconds, I’ll pull the mango wedges wrapped in ham with cheese out of the oven. And the phyllo pastries full of spicy chicken and black beans are already done.”

My stomach rumbled again. “Oh… Sounds good.” And it did. The problem was that it also sounded like something that would require an extra couple of miles of my feet against the pavement tomorrow.

Somehow, she managed to read my mind. “Don’t worry. The tomatoes and phyllo pastries are low in everything bad for you. The mango wedges are only slightly out of control. I won’t pretend the chips and guacamole are good for you, but they still shouldn’t be missed. Neither should dessert.” She smiled.

She’d thought this through, and I appreciated that.

Picking up the serving plates, she layered them up one arm like a restaurant pro. “Grab the wine, will you?” she asked as she made her way from the kitchen to the dining room.

I followed, liking the casual swish of her bottom under her snug jeans as she performed another little shuffling dance step. For a full-figured girl, she had a great ass and could move pretty well. My palms itched to reach out and grab her by the hips.

She seemed... different from the last time I saw her. Taller. I glanced down and saw her height was helped along by impossibly high, but thick, chunky heels. With them, however, she was less than two inches shorter than me. I’d never looked a woman in the eye without the aid of a step or pinning her to the wall before.
I liked it.

Damn.
I totally shouldn’t think about pinning anyone to the wall because it made me want to knock the dishes out of her hands and press her against the closest vertical surface.

Katherine was a big ball of temptation I had trouble resisting. An impression that was multiplied a hundred-fold as we started to eat.