He came back. “Holy shit,” he said.
“Yeah. So . . . I’m in Wildstone.”
“What?”
“I sort of drove up here earlier today,” she said.
“You just up and drove there? By yourself? What the hell for?”
She let out a mirthless laugh. “Did you not understand the texts?”
“I understood them, but, Quinn, your family, your real family, is here in L.A., including me. We have that stupid fancy work dinner to go to tomorrow night, and you promised to be my plus one and hang all over me like I’m the best thing since streaming.”
She actually pulled her phone away from her face and stared at it, nearly falling out the window in the process. “I don’t think you’re listening. I’m not Quinn Weller!”
He sighed. “Babe, you are. You’re Quinn Weller to the bone.”
“Don’t you get it? It’s like I’ve been living my life from chapter two of my own story! I missed chapter one entirely! And the prologue!”
“You can’t let this derail you,” he said. “And if you’d waited until after that work party I’ve got to attend, I’d have gone with you.”
No, he wouldn’t have. The only thing that Brock ever left L.A. for was work, and only when he had to. “Would you still feel this way if this was you and your parents we were talking about?” she asked. “And your adoption?”
Brock laughed softly. “You mean Mr. and Mrs. Robot? I used to dream of being adopted.”
She closed her eyes. “Yeah, well, I didn’t.”
He sighed. “I know, Q. And I’m sorry, they should’ve told you, but it doesn’t change anything about who you are. It doesn’t. You’re still smart, funny, and . . . amazing.”
That was sweet and she started to tell him so when he spoke again.
“Now get your cute ass home,” he said. “I need you here.”
“I’m not—” she started, but he was already gone, either dumped by her barely there service or because he’d disconnected.
She’d started to pull herself back in the window where she was precariously perched, but she caught sight of a guy getting out of an old beater truck filled with tools parked right in front of the office. The maintenance guy. But hold the phone—she recognized the long denim-covered legs and the big old retriever.
It was her mysterious panic-attack rescuer. “Hey,” she called down to him.
He stopped on the curb beneath a lamppost and looked up at her, his expression shielded by the ambient lighting.
“Hi,” she said, possibly never so happy to see someone in her life. “Remember me?”
His lips quirked.
Yep. He remembered her all right. “I’ve got a problem,” she said.
His smile faded. “You okay?”
She exhaled, feeling like an idiot. “There’s a big bug in my tub and the sink is dripping. Do you have time to help or are you off the clock?”
He studied her for a beat. “I’ll grab some tools and be right up,” he finally said.
She watched him stride off. Maybe she couldn’t find her feels, but apparently she could still appreciate a nice ass.
Good to know.
Five minutes later there was a simple, firm knock at her door. She opened it and stood back to let him in, but he remained on his side of the doorway, toolbox in hand.
“I’m Mick Hennessey,” he said.
Great, but she had no time for introductions. Bug in her tub! “Nice to formally meet you, Mick, but . . .” She pointed to the bathroom.
With a mock salute, he ambled in there.
Quinn remained right where she was, counting off the seconds while she heard nothing. “Did you get him?” she finally called out.
“The bug?” he asked.
“No, the president of the United States! Yes, the bug!”
The only response was the sound of the toilet flushing and she panicked. “You squished him first, right?”
Mick stuck his head out of the bathroom and flashed her a smile. “Worried he’s going to swim his way back up and bite you on the—”
“No!” Yes . . .
He vanished back into the bathroom. Quinn heard some other sounds that were hopefully related to him working on the sink. Unable to stop herself, she made her way over there and peered in. “Where’s your dog?”
“Coop? With my mom. She lives here in town and made stew. Apparently, I don’t rate on the same scale as beef stew.” He was on his back, head and shoulders wedged beneath the sink, legs bent at the knees because he was longer than the bathroom. He wore a T-shirt advertising some pub in San Francisco named O’Riley’s, that had risen up, revealing his low-slung jeans and some impressive abs, including those V muscles that made women so stupid. “Can you fix it?” she asked.
His hands looked confident working the wrench before he pulled his head from beneath the sink and sent her a slow smile.
At the barely recognizable flutter low in Quinn’s belly, and also decidedly south of her belly, she froze in shock. She’d felt next to nothing for a very long time, but it hadn’t been so long that she couldn’t place this for what it was.
Lust.
She staggered out of the bathroom to get a grip. But there was no grip to be had. With no idea of what was happening, or why now, she moved to her suitcase on the bed just to keep herself busy. She’d come here to Wildstone on mindless adrenaline, not planning on staying past her tomorrow’s morning meeting.
But suddenly she realized that what she really needed was time to process her new reality. Pulling her suitcase across the bed toward her, she entered the code to unlock it and . . . nothing happened. It wouldn’t open. She tried again.
Still nothing.
Out of patience, she tossed the suitcase hard to the floor and tried again.
No go.
“Dammit!” She kicked it a few times and that’s when it happened.
A buzzing.
From inside her suitcase.
She stared at it in growing horror because it was her electric toothbrush, it had to be, but it sure sounded a whole lot like—
“Your vibrator’s batteries are going to die.”
This from Captain Helpful, who was leaning casually against the doorjamb of the bathroom, looking amused again.
“It’s my toothbrush!” she said. “I swear it.”
“You’re blushing.” He smiled. “Cute.”
Appalled, she tried again to open the suitcase, while it just kept buzzing like her toothbrush was having a seizure. Grinding her back teeth into powder, she kicked the suitcase again for good measure.
The buzzing got louder.
Mick let out a low—and sexy—laugh. Damn him.
Unbelievable. Desperate, she got on top of the suitcase and jumped up and down. This didn’t stop the buzzing but it did burst the thing open, and when she hopped off, her stuff got flung far and wide. Clothes, bathroom stuff, the birth control pills she took to control cramps since she sure as hell wasn’t having any sex . . . everything except the toothbrush.
“Oh my God,” she said, scrambling through it all to find the damn thing—which of course, thank you, laws of Newton—was still buzzing. When she finally wrapped her fingers around it, she lifted it high and blew a strand of hair from her now-sweaty face. “See?” she asked triumphantly. “Not a vibrator.”