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Okay. Okay, maybe her panic was a bit of an over-reaction. Quinn was right. He wasn’t asking to marry her. He hadn’t even mentioned love. So why was her heart throwing a tantrum in her chest, screaming for her to run, run, run?
“Let’s not argue, all right?” Quinn said softly, any sign of a smile long gone from his face. “I didn’t mean this to be some grand declaration. Just think about it. That’s all. No big deal.”
What kind of a person was she that she just wanted to shout “No!” and stomp from the room? He was being reasonable, though hehadgone back on the whole premise for this relationship. In the end she only nodded and tried to ignore the rabid butterflies dive-bombing her stomach.
Quinn wasn’t in love with her. He hadn’t said that at all. The man just wanted to draw out his encounter with a kink-obsessed, no-strings-attached lover. What guywouldn’twant that?
When Quinn mentioned breakfast again, Lori jumped on the chance to leave this horrible subject behind.
Everything was going to be just fine. The meaningless, mind-blowing sex would continue, and no one would get hurt.
No harm, no foul.
* * *
LORI PULLED INTOher deserted lot with a sigh of relief. It was only seven in the morning, and she was stuffed full of pancakes, physically exhausted and still reeling from the emotional roller coaster of being Quinn Jennings’s lover. Regardless of those tense minutes in his office, they’d managed to get in a few more orgasms before they’d made it to the kitchen. A much better way to change the subject, and she’d been sure to convey her gratefulness to Quinn.
But all in all, she was glad she’d escaped without more deep talk. She couldn’t handle sincerity right now. She just couldn’t. And she’d cut off any chance of that on her way out of his house by sprinting upstairs to steal the Anton/Bliss file. She couldn’t possibly have deep feelings for a man if she was willing to steal from him, right? And Quinn would never love her if he found out about it. Not only was the file a good clue, it was also an insurance policy against an unwelcome complication.
The stolen item in her hand reminded her of just how screwed up her life was, so Lori gave more than a passing look to the yard of the garage as she headed for her front door. Everything looked fine. No further destruction had befallen the property during her night away.
She unlocked the door and pushed it open, trying to ignore the sadness of the room that greeted her. It was almost noon, but her house was dark and silent. No family or friends inside. No cheerful kitchen or bright garden awaiting her attention. Just her sad, brown couch sitting on her sad, brown carpet. Hell, even her walls were looking slightly muddy.
A redecoration was long overdue. First, she’d waited because it was her father’s home. Regardless of whether he’d be conscious of it or not, it would have been wrong to change his home around him, even if she’d had the time or money to do so.
And now that he was gone, why hadn’t she changed anything?
Lori set down her purse with a sigh. She still didn’t have any money, but that wasn’t truly the reason. She could paint, at least. Put away the bowling trophies and buy a damn slipcover for that horrendous couch. But she didn’t. Because sprucing this place up was a clear admission that she meant to stay. Making her father’s house into her own would be a declaration: this is my place in this world. This town, this house, this work is mine.
And though she was afraid to leave—even though shecouldn’tleave—neither could she take the steps that would mean staying.
Like redecorating. Settling down. Falling in love.
Her life was in permanent limbo.
“God, I am a grade A loser,” Lori muttered, kicking off her heels. But she was a loser who’d had her world rocked the night before, and that was something.
Her cell was almost out of power, so Lori headed straight for the kitchen to plug it in, wrinkling her nose a bit at the heavy tinge of oil in the air. Another strike against her home design skills. Motor oil probably wasn’t nearly as popular a scent as vanilla or lavender. Still, if she bought some nice candles, there was the danger the whole place would blow. Even if the petroleum fumes didn’t catch fire, the ancient layers of dust might.
When she drew a deep breath, meaning to heave a loud, pitiful sigh, fumes stung her nose. “What the…” That was definitelynotnormal. Even she wouldn’t live in a house that smelled like a working refinery. Lori dropped her phone on the counter and yanked open the door to the garage office.
Thick air cascaded over her, making her cough, but the source wasn’t the office. Everything looked in place and normal. She rushed for the next door, her mind perfectly blank. The blankness stayed when she opened the door. Nothing registered. She took one step down and stopped.
Swirls of gold and black twisted across the floor of the garage, deepening to dark brown sludge near the drain. She stared for a long time before she realized that the swirls were actually liquid. Oil. One of her oil barrels had sprung a leak.
“Oh, no,” she moaned. Despair traveled up her chest and spun through her head as she looked over the damage. The horror slowed down the workings of her brain, so it took her a moment to process what her eyes told her. In fact, she was staring at an overturned barrel for quite a long time before her mind signaled alarm.
It wasn’t a leak at all. Her gaze skipped from left to right, feeding her more information. Not just one overturned barrel, but three. Both of the most popular weights of motor oil, plus the barrel that stored the used oil for recycling. All of them had been unplugged and dumped. Her gaze kept moving, touching on various things. The clogged drain, the cover of the work pit, the workings of the air pressure system, now two inches deep in oil. How was she supposed to clean this up? How was she supposed to fix this?
She took another step down, then stopped herself. The phone. Her boots. When she turned, her legs protested the weight, trembling beneath her, but she could hardly feel it. And it didn’t matter. Shaky or not, they worked, and soon enough, she’d pulled on her unlaced boots and grabbed the phone.
“I need to report an act of vandalism,” she said to the dispatcher. She gave the details she thought necessary, then hung up. Her jaw hurt, her throat burned, and further talking was simply out of the question.
She needed to get fresh air in here, and there seemed to be a relatively dry path around the far edge of the room. As her phone rang in her hand, Lori stepped down and picked her way toward the cabinets on the far wall. She was almost there, just passing the damaged air pressure system, when she got careless. She put her foot down too casually, didn’t balance it just right, and began to slide. Suddenly, her legs were in front of her.
Lori reached out, trying to catch herself as she went down, but instead she punched the bolted edge of the air tank. Her hand exploded in pain and she kept falling. A deep, fleshy thunk filled her head just before the world went cool and black and liquid around her.
* * *
