The Best Part of Me (14 page)

“I've never had unprotected sex. Ever,” she said.

“Shit,” he muttered, running his hand through his hair.

Shit, I forgot about my nasty STD? Shit, this girl is getting ready to flip and I need to get out of here? Shit, I left the walk-in freezer door open in the pub?

“Shit, what? What do you mean, shit?”

“Shit, as in I didn't even think about it. I usually always think about protection.”

“Usually always? What the hell does
that
mean?”

The corner of his mouth turned up. “It means I always use protection. But I can't say that now, can I?”

“Well, what do we do?”

“What do you mean, what do we do?”

“I mean…” She stopped, looking at him. “I'm on the pill so I'm not worried about that. But…” Her mind was racing through all types of scenarios, and none of them were pretty.

He nudged her chin up with the crook of his finger. “Quinn, relax. I'm clean.”

“And you're sure of this how?”

“I sliced my palm on the underside of a chair at the pub. My aunt, being overly paranoid, sent me to the clinic. I got tested.”

“You got tested for STDs because you cut your hand?”

“No. I got a tetanus shot because I cut my hand. I was already there, so I got a full work-up.” He shrugged.

Oh, thank God.

“How in the world did you slice your hand on the underside of a chair?”

“Bar scuffle. A little over a month ago.”

Quinn rolled her eyes as she pushed her arms into the sleeves of her hoodie. She wanted to say something, but it was an occupational hazard of his apparently. He reached to zip up her sweatshirt. His touch made her heartbeat jump up into the base of her throat.

“And I haven't been with anyone since,” he added.

She nodded at him. The mention of his sex life brought on a whole new uneasiness. She'd known he wasn't celibate. She knew there were other women before her. So why did it bother her so much to hear him talk about the last time he'd had sex?

But a better question was, since when had she become so easy? She'd thrown a couple punches at him, gotten within a few inches of his hot body, and down went her shorts. She needed to get out of the garden cottage and away from him pronto. She already felt her cheeks burning with mortification.

Ewan's eyes roamed her face. “What about you?”

She blinked. “What about me?”

“Have you been tested recently?”

She shook her head. “I'm clear. I got tested over a year ago at a doctor's visit.”

“Over a year ago?”

She shrugged. “I've had a bit of a dry spell.”

Sex didn't seem all that important compared to the other stuff she was dealing with. Like her life being pulled out from under her.

Ewan nodded as he regarded her thoughtfully. “If it'd make you feel better, we'll use protection next time.”

Quinn narrowed her eyes at him. “Next time?”

Ewan smiled, and she felt her legs give out at the two dimples that dotted his cheeks. “Oh, there'll be a next time.” He leaned into her, pressing the front of his thigh in between hers. “Count on it.”

“James Bond, Pierce Brosnan or James Bond, Daniel Craig?” Lisbeth asked while popping ice cubes from the ice tray.

“That's not even a contest. Daniel Craig without a doubt.” Erin reached for the rum on top of the refrigerator. Quinn watched as she struggled on her toes for the bottle. “Shit. Lisbeth, can you get your skinny ass over here and get this rum for me?”

“Out of the way, short stuff,” Lisbeth said as she easily grabbed the neck of the bottle before handing it off to Erin. Resuming her position in front of the ice tray, she asked, “What about you, Quinn? If you had to sleep with one of them, who would you choose, Brosnan or Craig?”

“I agree with Erin. Daniel Craig. Those blue eyes are dreamy.”

“I agree.” Lisbeth sighed. “And his body… Yum. Darcy?”

“Pierce Brosnan. Blonds aren't my cup of tea.”

Darcy was slouched in her chair at the table beside Quinn, scribbling away at her scratchpad with colored pencils.

It was Friday, and they'd met for a girls' night at Lisbeth's apartment in Braintree. It was a new development on a lovely lake only thirty minutes from Quinn's aunt's house. The apartments were all on the second story above shops, cafes, and restaurants in what Lisbeth called a new urban mixed-use community. Her specific unit was above a florist shop.

It wasn't that Quinn didn't appreciate Lisbeth's personal tastes, but it looked like the pink panther had thrown up all over the inside of the quaint one-bedroom apartment. With wall-to-wall pale pink carpet and cream-colored lace window treatments, it was very feminine. The pink-walled living room had brown suede couches with magenta pillows. The girls currently sat in the eat-in kitchen at a tiny white dining table with pink-upholstered chairs, pounding beer and rum like proper ladies, playing the Who Would You Rather Have Sex With? game.

“Okay, here's another one for you,” Lisbeth said, coming around the kitchen counter, setting two glasses on the table. “Matthew McConaughey or Mark Wahlberg?”

“Matthew,” Erin and Darcy said in unison.

“Mark Wahlberg,” Quinn said definitively.

“I totally agree with Quinn,” Lisbeth said.

“Really? Why?” Erin asked.

“Sure, Matthew McConaughey is great to look at, but I don't think he'd be very attentive. Mark Wahlberg, on the other hand, seems like he'd know his way around the bedroom,” she said. “Right, Quinn?”

“Ah, yeah, right.” Quinn hadn't really put that much thought into it. She just loved “Good Vibrations” by Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch.

Lisbeth poured Coke into her glass. “Oh, here's a good one: Ewan McKenna or Sean McKenna?”

“Oh, that's not fair. It's different when we're talking about celebrities, not real people we know!” Erin plopped down in her chair at the table. “I'd pick neither. I'd pick Rory.”

“He's not an option, Erin. You must pick from either Ewan or Sean. If someone had a gun to your head and said you had to choose between the two of them in order to survive, which would you pick?” Lisbeth smiled, watching Erin squirm in her seat.

“Ugh! Fine. Sean then.”

“Quinn?” Lisbeth raised an eyebrow at her.

“Ewan.”

Lisbeth's eyes lingered on Quinn for a moment, almost as if she was tempted to say something but decided against it. She turned to Darcy. “And what about you?”

Darcy pursed her lips as she looked up from her sketch. “My vibrator.”

Quinn nearly choked on her beer.

Erin was appalled. “A vibrator wasn't one of the choices!”

“A vibrator is always a choice.” Darcy grinned.

“Amen to that.” Lisbeth clinked her glass with Darcy's beer mug. “Well, it's an easy choice for me. I'd pick Ewan. God, he's yummy. I bet he's killer in bed.”

Quinn didn't know about the bed, but he was killer up against the wall in a garden shed.

In the past, she and her girlfriends usually got together and talked about the how, what, when, and where of sex and everything that came before and after. But sex with Ewan wasn't something that Quinn wanted to share.

She didn't feel comfortable talking to Erin, because she would tell Rory, and then everyone would know. She wouldn't put it past Lisbeth to share the news either. She was pretty sure Darcy would keep her mouth shut, but right now, she was happy to stay quiet. She liked it being her little secret. Almost like talking about it would make it less sensational than it really was.

Lisbeth sighed. “And anyway, I've already had Sean, so I'd pick Ewan.”

All heads snapped toward her.

“What?” Darcy gasped, her eyes the size of golf balls.

“I'd pick Ewan,” Lisbeth answered. She was enjoying the looks of surprise as the girls stared at her. Apparently, Lisbeth didn't follow the same philosophy about kiss-and-tell that Quinn did.

“When did you…
have
Sean?” Darcy put her colored pencil down on the table.

Lisbeth shrugged. “High school. Do you want me to tell you about it?”

“No!” they all said at the same time. According to both Erin and Darcy, Lisbeth loved to share the stories of her conquests in the bedroom. In graphic detail.

“Well, he was good compared to the other boys I'd been with back then. At the time, he was probably the best. I've had better since though.”

“God, Lisbeth. Stop talking,” Darcy said, taking a pull of beer. “Poor Sean. You probably gave him a disease.”

Quinn and Erin laughed, but Lisbeth was indignant. “
Poor Sean
had a fucking smile on his face when I was done with him, you cow. You're just mad 'cause you probably wanted him and he picked me instead.”

“Oh, please. I have 372 other things I'd rather do than fuck Sean McKenna.”

“I'm sure Sean would be very upset to learn that he is 373 on your to-do list,” Quinn joked as she sipped her beer.

Darcy shook her head. “Honestly, can we please stop playing this goddamn game? It's lowering my IQ.” She grabbed the red pencil she'd been doodling with earlier and furiously colored away at the paper in front of her. The tip of the pencil snapped off.

Quinn watched Darcy's face wash with color as her lips flattened into a tight line. Quinn had a feeling it wasn't because she'd broken her pencil but because Lisbeth had slept with Sean. Her cheeks were flushed, and her leg was bouncing under the table. Quinn reached over and patted her knee. When Darcy looked up, Quinn smiled. Her friend shrugged before looking back down at her sketch pad. It had never crossed Quinn's mind that Darcy could have a thing for Sean, but it really shouldn't have come as a surprise.

Sean wasn't just good-looking, he was gorgeous and an all-around nice guy. He was approachable and funny, and during the short time that she'd known him, he'd never had an unkind thing to say about anyone. Quinn could see how that would be attractive to Darcy.

It was too bad for Darcy that every time Quinn had seen them together he'd treated her more like a little sister than a woman he might be interested in.

“Yes, yes, let's get to the business at hand,” Erin piped up. “We are party planning!”

“What party?” Quinn asked.

“Darcy's twenty-seventh birthday!”

“Fuck me,” Darcy grumbled. “Why are you doing this? I hate parties.”

Erin walked over to the couch and rummaged through her giant tote that she used as a purse. “We don't care. We've never had a birthday party for you, so we're throwing one. No arguments.”

“Christ,” Darcy mumbled.

Although she didn't talk about it directly, Darcy hadn't exactly had the best childhood. Erin hadn't told Quinn much other than Darcy had moved to live with her grandmother in Ballagh when she was ten years old. Her parents were musicians in New York City, and things hadn't been all that stable.

“When are your classes over?” Lisbeth asked, referring to Darcy's interior design courses.

Darcy ignored her question, refusing to cooperate in their party planning.

“I'll just call down to your school and talk to the registrar if you don't tell us.”

“They're over in another week,” she grumbled.

“Great! Your semester will be over right before your birthday. Let's plan it for next Friday. My parents will be out of town, so we can have it at my house,” Erin said. “We need to decide on invitations, guest list, food, games—”

“No games,” Darcy interrupted. “I draw the line at games.”

Erin pouted. “Fine. No games.”

“How about a bonfire?” Quinn asked.

“That's a great idea!” Erin said.

Darcy gave Quinn an exasperated look. Erin put a stack of papers and folders on the table. “Okay, so I have samples of invitations for you to choose from, Darcy.”

“Jesus, Erin. You know I don't give two fucks what invitations we send for a party that I don't want in the first place.” She was silent for a minute as the three of them looked at her. Erin slid three sample invitations across the table toward Darcy and drummed her fingers on the table impatiently.

Darcy moaned. “Fine, that one,” she said reluctantly, pointing to a purple card with green writing.

“Perfect!” Erin replied. “I thought you'd pick that one.” Darcy grumbled something under her breath.

“Okay, now the guest list. Here's what I've come up with so far.” Erin opened a notebook and moved it toward Quinn and Darcy. As they leaned forward to browse the list of about thirty people, Quinn's eyes zeroed in on Ewan's name, and a flutter of anticipation went through her.

She'd told him she would stop by the pub later that night to see him.

When she'd woken up this morning, she'd felt as if she'd had the most wonderful—and erotic—dream. In her dream, she was with Ewan in the garden cottage. He'd cornered her with his warm, wet body and driven her mad with his wicked tongue and his strong hands. He'd pushed her shorts down and thrust into her over and over until the pleasure erupted into an orgasm that would rival a volcanic explosion of epic proportions.

What a wonderful dream she'd had, and the replay in her mind had made her wet all over again. But when she'd swung her legs over the side of the bed, there had been a throbbing ache between her thighs.

And then she smiled because it hadn't been a dream.

The memories of the previous night had flooded back into her mind, and she'd lain back on the bed with a squeal. Oh, it had been better than she could have ever imagined. Weeks of sexual tension had resulted in mind-numbing sex. She would have let him do just about anything to her at that point. It was better than chocolate. It was better than a good book on a rainy evening. It was the best sex she'd ever had.