Broken At Love (Whitman University) (13 page)

Her name still lingered in my mind when the door slammed open, whacking the wall, and she stood in the room.

Ruby’s eyes widened at the sight of me. “That motherfucking piece of goddamn fucking shit.”

A wet laugh escaped, her presence lifting weight off of my shoulders. “Quinn was only what we already knew. Not more, like I thought. But no less.”

“What did he say?”

“It’s in the sink.”

“He dumped you in a fucking
note
?”

“He didn’t dump me at all. It’s not like we’re dating.”

She crossed to the sink and grabbed the wadded-up ball, smoothing it against the formica. “Best of luck with what?”

“Knowing Quinn, probably with finding someone as good as he is in bed.”

Ruby’s eyebrows arched even higher. “You slept with him? And then he left you this?”

“That would be a yes.”

She bounced onto the bed next to me. “First, I have to know. How was it? Does he look amazing naked? Is his penis crooked?”

“Better than I thought possible, of course, and no.” I flopped back into the pillows, hugging my stuffed animal to my chest again.

“Why are you crying? We talked about this. Sex, okay. Emotionally involved, not okay. He’s…” Ruby pursed her lips and tried to figure out what to say. “Anyone can see that boy is a hot mess. He’s the broken guy that every Hollywood romcom makes you believe will change if he falls in love with the right girl but it’s a lie, Em. He is who he is, and personally I think you should be well rid of him.”

“You’re right.”

I knew she was, too. My life needed to be focused and on track—doing well at the art show in four days so I could convince my parents this would be a living for me, not just some hobby mattered more than being brushed off by a guy.

She was wrong about Quinn, though. I’d felt it more than ever when I’d woken up in his arms; he’d held me tight against him as though letting go was unthinkable. His actions seemed to be more about fear than anything else.

It wasn’t my problem anymore. He had friends and, like ninety percent of the rich kids at Whitman, probably an excellent therapist. He didn’t need me. I’d been silly to think he did.

“Earth to Emilie. You don’t look like you think I’m right. You look conflicted. I don’t like it.” Ruby’s kind blue eyes landed on me and she put her hand on my leg.

“I’m not. I’m going to feel smug about bedding Quinn Rowland and focus on the art show.” I smiled, hoping it worked.

Ruby was my best friend; she didn’t buy it but she did let it slide. She slapped me on the ass. “You know the best way to say fuck Quinn Rowland to the world?”

“Um…”

“Tequila.”

I laughed and rubbed the soft bear against my face, clearing away the tears. It had only been a week, and though I felt more for Quinn in a week than I’d felt for anyone else ever, I couldn’t cry in bed. I wasn’t that girl, especially not when I’d only gotten exactly what I expected. Quinn had promised me nothing, had done far more listening than talking.

He might have been afraid of something other than lust burning between us, but he had left me a healthy fear of my own. Because even if I refused to be a mess over this, or go begging for an explanation, or totally lose my shit like Annette had, I was terrified that I would never feel this way again as long as I lived.

Chapter Fourteen

Quinn

The student art show and the dedication of Whitman’s new museum were today, Friday. I hadn’t seen Emilie since I’d left her on the street late Monday afternoon, but she would be here tonight, and I sincerely hoped there wouldn’t be a scene. My father hated scenes almost as much as he hated me. Almost as much as I hated myself.

I’d gone straight back to the beach house and washed the smell of her body away from mine. She didn’t call or text, didn’t show up out of the blue to yell at me for sleeping with her and bolting. It bothered me and relieved me at the same time. Maybe she’d taken my advice at the eighties prom party to heart and refused to let me break her.

Of all the things I wanted, that would never be one of them.

I’d wanted to break the others. Every time Alexandria took a step forward in her career I’d promised to be at home taking out my vengeance on another woman, but it was different this time. I didn’t know why or how, but that girl had gotten under my skin.

It was done. We needed to get through this opening tonight and then Emilie Swanson and I never had to see one another again.

The museum had turned out beautifully, though the sloped, all-glass facade that reached several stories into the air was a bit modern for my taste. It let great sunlight in during the day, illuminating the pieces that could weather it and hiding the rest in artificially lit expansive rooms and alcoves. The building also housed two concert halls and a full bar.

People in formalwear milled in the lobby, drinks swirling in their cut-glass tumblers, the murmur of their voices muted by the expensive but flawless acoustic design. The building had cost Rowland Communications several million dollars. I tugged at the collar of my tux, hot and uncomfortable for some reason even though I’d basically been born in one. I felt more comfortable in a shirt and tie than anything else except tennis clothes.

I grabbed a drink and swallowed quickly. My nerves numbed and settled, but when my father appeared at the opposite end of the room, shaking hands and smiling in a way he refused to in private, I popped a mint in my mouth.

Teddy didn’t disapprove of drinking, but I’d rather not give him any ammunition. Our eyes met and he gave me a quick jerk of the head, beckoning me to his side. When I got there he grinned a big fake one and patted me on the back, then turned to the group of donors and advertisers. “This is my son, Quinn. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”

I smiled, too, and shook their hands. The chorus of
nice to meet you, heard so much about you, and sorry about the knee
melted into a giant soup of chatter. Together, Teddy and I worked the room for another half an hour before I excused myself, expressing a desire to peruse some of the art for sale by my classmates.

Everyone in the vicinity smiled indulgent approval, but Teddy’s eyes darkened. “The dedication is in twenty minutes. Out here.”

“I’ll be back before then.”

I escaped without a backward glance, not intending to upset him but needing some time to breathe. For all of the parties and people constantly in and out of my house, crowds got under my skin unless they were neatly seated in stadium rows. It had gotten me a bad rep as a player who avoided autographs on the tour, but the crush of humanity pressed around me, shouting my name and sticking shit in my face, really wigged me out.

The clean, wide hallways displayed artwork and provided a less clogged space. People spoke softly in front of different pieces, commenting on brush strokes or color or possible inspiration. The lighting back here was softer, aimed at the walls instead of beating down like spotlights on a stage. It helped me relax, and the art took my mind off my father for five minutes.

Until I turned a corner and found myself in a nearly empty alcove. A girl with long dark hair pulled up into a knot sat alone on a bench. The bare, slumped shoulders were the color of toffee and when I closed my eyes I could smell them again.

I almost ran. Maybe I should have, but we were going to have to face one another sooner or later and we might as well get it done alone. “Emilie.”

She turned slowly, standing to face me, and the sight of her in the cherry red gown literally took my breath away. It hugged her waist on its way to the floor, strapless but tasteful, baring an enticing hint of what I’d held in my hands only days ago.

Unspilled tears shone in her dark eyes and she wiped at them hastily. I pulled the off-white handkerchief square from my breast pocket and handed it over.

Emilie wiped her eyes a few times, then glared at me. “I’m not crying about you.”

“I didn’t assume you were.”

The quiet snuggled around us like a cocoon until her sigh whispered against my ears. “I haven’t sold a single piece.”

“The night is young.”

She shook her head. “Plenty of the others have sold canvases already. It’s me. My father was right about this being a stupid life decision. It’s time for me to face it.”

My arms ached from holding still; I wanted to reach out and tug her against my chest, keep the pain of failure away. No one could do that, though, not for any of us. Sometimes you got your ass kicked, but it didn’t mean you got to walk off the court before the match ended.

“It’s hard to create, Emilie. You put your heart onto canvases and let other people look at it. They can love it or they can trash it, but you’re not an artist until you share your work. It’s brave.”

“Kind of like relationships, no?”

A challenge ignited in the center of her intelligent black gaze. It burned a hole through my skin until I felt exposed and I shrugged. “Some might say that.”

“Not you.”

“There are people who will appreciate your work,” I said, changing the subject. “Maybe they’re not here tonight but it shouldn’t stop you.”

“You really like my work?” The surprise in her voice cut like a knife.

“I told you I did.”

“Yeah, but after what…happened I assumed you were just saying that.”

“To what? Get you into bed?” Anger tightened my jaw. “I’m not a liar.”

She walked toward me, the lithe movement reminding me of how supple and acquiescent she was underneath that dress, and I closed my eyes briefly as the summery smell of her washed over me. Her hands reached out and so help me God I would rip that dress off her if she touched me.

They only straightened my bow tie, then returned the dampened hanky into my pocket.

“I know you’re not.” Her smile was hesitant and sad, but not over the two of us. It looked more similar to the pity for me she’d displayed the night we met. “At least, not when it comes to the things you tell other people.”

Before I could respond, her eyes widened and she stepped away from me, brushing escaped hairs back into her bun and behind her ears. I turned to see a handsome couple striding toward us. The tall Latina woman with the most generous rack I’d ever seen and snapping pitch-black eyes could only be Emilie’s mother. The man stood a head taller than his wife, even in her four inch heels, but when he drew near I realized we were about the same height—around six-foot-two.

Emilie’s genes had largely come from her gorgeous, petite mother and not this blond-haired stern-looking man with ruddy cheeks. He spared me a glance, following it with a grimace. She eyed me with interest, then slid her inquiring gaze to her daughter, who heaved a sigh and stepped to my side.

“Mom, Dad, this is Quinn Rowland. Quinn, my parents. Esme and Gerald Swanson.”

“Nice to meet you,” I responded, reaching first for her mother’s tiny fingers. They were cold but grasped mine firmly before letting go so I could shake hands with her father.

“Emilie didn’t tell us she’d made friends with the local celebrity,” her father said too loudly.

I raised my eyebrows, feeling strangely protective of her in the presence of this man who struck me as a bully. “Are you a tennis fan, sir?”

“Of course. We’re not Rowland Communications but my family can be quite civilized.”

“How did the two of you meet?” Her mother continued to eye me with more scrutiny than required. Mothers tended to like me a lot less than their daughters did.

“Actually, I was just in here admiring the artwork. Emilie and I have only met casually but her work is quite stunning. Don’t you think?”

I felt Emilie’s wince at the word
casually
more than I saw it, but her mother’s face said she hadn’t missed the brief discomfort. Her gaze sharpened but her blusterous husband interrupted.

“What does a washed-up tennis player know about art?” he snorted.

Irritation ground my teeth together. It was a good thing this dalliance with Emilie had ended because I wanted to throttle her father every time he opened his mouth. “I wasn’t always a tennis player, Mr. Swanson. But I should go. Emilie, lovely to see you again.”

I bent and brushed a kiss across her cheek, not missing the way it transferred a spark to my lips, then left, intent on getting far away from her. Her father’s blaring baritone stopped me before I could move beyond earshot, though, and I stopped in the hallway to listen.

“Enough of this foolishness, Emilie. I’ve put up with it long enough, and we came here tonight to support you, but—”

“—You didn’t come here to support me,” Emilie interrupted smoothly. “You came here to watch me fail. And I have. So I guess that makes you pretty happy.”

“Don’t be silly, darling, we came to be there when you failed and help you make the decision to move onto a different path, that’s all.” Her mother’s voice might not be as offensive as her father’s, but the words were meaner for it.

“I’m not quitting.”

The righteous defiance that spilled past Emilie’s lips warmed me from the inside with something that must be pride. It felt strange to feel it for someone else and not my own accomplishments.

“Then you will attend college without our help,” Gerald Swanson said bluntly. “I won’t pay for what is clearly a waste of money. Come, Esme.”

I moved quickly, worried that if his ruddy face came into view my anger would burst free and destroy the assumption that Emilie and I didn’t know one another. My own father’s lips tightened when I reentered the lobby, looking pointedly at the clock. The dedication began in five minutes.

I nodded my understanding. Off to one side of the room, near the bar, I found the museum sales manager. Shining blonde hair that seemed too perfect to be natural ended just below her ears, setting off her luminous green eyes. A simple black dress hugged every ample curve. I’d have to have been blind not to notice, but the way her hungry gaze raked me rankled.

“I’d like to make a purchase,” I said shortly.

“Certainly, Mr. Rowland,” she purred.

The scent of floral perfume clogged my nostrils and I took a step back. “How many pieces by Emilie Swanson are in the catalogue?”