Not entirely in a bad way—they were hopeful, and he believed in me. But he’d poked a big hole in my world view, and now I couldn’t really see past it.
I don’t want what your mom did to make you feel like you can’t be there for her. You aren’t like that, no matter how hard you try.
Fiona pulled open the door with a bashful smile. And holy shit did I want to be there for her. Our first date was test enough. A second date, at her apartment, where I fucking cooked for her, was as advanced as I got.
I didn’t expect to need her so much. All of three hours had gone by, and I was starving for her.
“Pajamas,” she said, pointing at her worn NYU sweatshirt and tiny shorts. “And wine.” She held up a bottle of red, barefoot and without any makeup. I dropped the bag on the ground and yanked her towards me for a long, soulful kiss.
“I missed you,” I said.
“I just saw you,” she teased, fingers in my hair.
“Yeah, well, it wasn’t enough.”
I let her go with a whole lot of regret. Grabbed my bag and stepped inside Fiona’s home. I cocked my head toward the music, coming from her sitting room. “Fleetwood Mac. Rumours album?”
She led me inside. “I think it’s good for second date ambiance.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
Like all Manhattan apartments, Fiona’s was no bigger than a shoebox, but it was bright and neat and full of interesting things. I set my bag of groceries on her galley kitchen counter, then strolled into her small sitting room. French doors led to her bedroom. One whole wall was full of records.
“This all you?” I asked, tugging out a Catch-22 album and a Dead Kennedys album with Bikini Kill nestled in between.
“It’s all me.” She came to stand next to me. Decorating the shelves were photos of her and her family, academic awards, ticket stubs from concerts and shows. “It’s funny. I told you last night about the cacophony I grew up in. But I very rarely don’t have music on when I’m home.” She bit her lip, casting a quick look over at a tiny office desk. Above her laptop were taped lists, calendars, sticky notes. “Last year, when I was systematically dating potential husbands, I never turned on music during the very rare occasions that I invited them here.”
“Why not?” I nodded at the shelves. “This is you.”
She blew out a long breath, reaching for my hand. “And a week ago, I told you my soul mate was probably a fan of yacht rock. With a straight face. It should have been a sign I was going about things all wrong. But I was so sure I had to deny my truest self to reach that goal. As if, I don’t know, your partner and husband are an item to place on a shelf like this and not a living, breathing person.”
I tugged on the end of her ponytail. “You’re playing music for me, though.”
Her smile was warm and vulnerable and so very pretty. “I didn’t think twice about it either.”
Fiona Quinn controlled my heart rate just by breathing or standing next to me. It was like my heart had to hammer itself to death against my ribcage. “Come cook me dinner?” She swayed back to the kitchen and began pulling down glasses. I was momentarily stunned by the giant black-and-white posters on the wall: Debbie Harry, Annie Lennox, Stevie Nicks, Patti Smith, Joan Jett.
I shook my head. “Fucking incredible.”
“Oh, my tribute to my favorite formidable women?”
“Yeah,” I said, rubbing my jaw. “These men you dated, what did they say when they saw these portraits?”
There was the sound of wine pouring into a glass. Then Fiona, in a tight voice, saying, “They didn’t usually recognize them.”
Our eyes met over her wine glass. “You were okay with that?”
“I’m learning I don’t know anything about love.”
I grinned. “Well, you helped Pop today, and he was very thankful. He and Angela are still on their date. Out to dinner now at a local spot near her apartment.”
“You’re serious?”
I collected the glass of wine and lightly tapped it against hers. “The Devlin men are learning all kinds of things about their hearts these days.”
I wrapped an arm around her waist and gave her a series of kisses on her cheek as she laughed. “Two dates in, and you’re suddenly a romantic, huh?” she teased.
“You don’t know shit, princess,” I taunted, opening her cabinet and searching for pots. I found one, filled it with water, and popped it on her stove. “And be prepared to be blown away by my culinary skills.”
“You’re cooking me a delicious, traditional Puerto Rican dish courtesy of Mateo’s mom, right?”
She was perched up on her kitchen counter, feet swinging, smirking as she sipped.
“Hate to disappoint you, but no,” I said. “For that, Mrs. Rivera will cook us dinner one of these nights, and you’ll be much more impressed than if I tried to recreate dishes I haven’t made since I was a teenager.”
I removed hot dogs and a of box macaroni and cheese from my grocery bag.
“Tonight I’m cooking you the meal I used to cook for Pop when he worked late nights at The Red Room.” I pointed a fork at her laughing face. “Don’t knock it till you try it. I was a half-decent cook for a kid.”
“I remain unconvinced.”
I added the pasta and greased a skillet. Then I turned and planted myself between her legs, skating my fingers up her thighs. “I’m starting to notice a pattern here.”
I ghosted my mouth along her neck, along her jaw.
“In what way?”
“Every time you say you need convincing, what you mean is that you, Fiona Quinn, require orgasms.”
She wrapped her arms loosely around my neck. “I do require orgasms though. And you’ve proven yourself adept in that area.”
“Just you wait until after dinner,” I whispered against her ear. She shivered and arched into me. My fingers skated up to her waist, slipping beneath her sweatshirt to press against warm, bare skin.
“I think your water is boiling,” she purred.
I stepped back slowly, hands up. “I’m adept in all the areas.”
She snorted, sipped her wine, watched me as I sliced up hot dogs. I couldn’t help but sing along with the music as I did so.
She did too, harmonizing with me like her mom did with her dad.
“You’re cute as hell, you know that?”
“Trust me, I do.” Head cocked, ponytail swinging, she looked sweet and happy. She looked like the kind of woman I’d want to come home to after a day at the shop.
She looked like my girlfriend.
My elbow sent a big cup of utensils flying to the floor. Before she could say the word, I scooped them up and laughed nervously. I’d never had a girlfriend, really. Never even had the urge before.
“What kept you at the office late tonight?” I asked, hoping she couldn’t tell I was nervous.
“A new client.” She looked pleased, content. “A very lovely couple, both in their eighties, both extraordinarily rich and still head-over-heels in love.”
“For that long, huh?” I righted all the utensils before tipping the pasta into the water.
“A true happily-ever-after.” We shared a blush. “They have a large plot of land outside the city they’d like to turn into a community space—a dog park, a playground, a little pond for ducks and geese. It would be part of their estate, after they both die. A real legacy and testament to their love.”