“¡Miércoles!” Quinn pushed Spencer off him. He gritted his teeth and held onto his leg until the intense pain jolting through the right side of his body had downgraded to a dull throbbing. His face felt hot, his muscles tense as he breathed in deeply through his nose. Once the stars had disappeared from in front of his eyes, he glared up at Spencer nervously fluttering around him like a hummingbird on Red Bull.
“I’m so sorry. I really am. I am
so
sorry.” Spencer took a step toward him. “Let me—”
“
No
.” Quinn threw a hand out to stop him. “You stay right there. Don’t move.”
“But—”
“Don’t. Move. I can get up on my own,” he growled.
With a nod, Spencer stayed where he was, worrying his lip with his teeth and his brows drawn together. He kept moving, and Quinn wanted to yell at him to stay still. Instead he rolled onto his good leg, brought it under him, and pushed himself to his foot without popping his spleen or making an ass out of himself. He grinned smugly at Spencer. Then he remembered his crutch.
Mierda
. With a heavy sigh, he leaned against the counter, his head tilted toward the heavens as he prayed for patience. Was it not enough he was injured and in pain? Now he had to deal with this… this… apron-wearing, brownie-baking menace.
“Should I…?”
Quinn turned his attention back to Spencer, who was pointing down to his crutch.
“If you can manage it without impaling me or bringing me any further physical agony, I would appreciate it.”
Spencer’s face went red before he carefully bent down and picked up the crutch. He gingerly held it out to Quinn, who took it, then slipped it under his arm. Without another word, he swiped his prescription off the counter before heading for the door. As he left the kitchen, he could hear his mother’s voice in his head telling him how rude he was being. Spencer surely hadn’t meant to bump into him. It had been an accident. What was more, the guy had done him a favor. He turned, and a crackling sound met his ear at the same moment his chest was soaked in icy water. A shiver went through him at the abrupt chill, and he dropped his eyes to Spencer and the now half-empty bottle of water crushed between them. The water traveled down Quinn’s shirt to his cargo shorts and down his left leg. At least it hadn’t gone down the right.
Spencer closed his eyes. “I’m not a lunatic. I swear. I was just going to offer you some water.”
Squaring his shoulders, Quinn took a deep breath through his nose, turned, and left the apartment before anything else could happen. He needed to be far away from Spencer Morgan. Far, far away. One thing was for certain: he was going to kick his brother-in-law’s ass.
“HEY, HOW
did it go? I thought if I gave him your key instead of being a third wheel, you guys would get a little alone time.”
Spencer cringed at the painful memory. He was so glad Danny hadn’t left for work yet. Spencer had called him the second he heard Quinn’s apartment door slam. “Remember when we went to the supermarket and I accidently ran into that pyramid of canned Goya beans? Then one rolled under a guy’s foot, he tripped, ran into a shopping cart that hit the watermelon display, and the ones that didn’t split open rolled everywhere?”
“Uh, yeah?”
“This was worse than that.”
“Jesus, Spence, what did you do?”
Spencer groaned and covered his face with his hand. “I knocked him over and fell on his leg.” He shook his head and closed his eyes. “The leg he was shot in.”
“Damn.”
“There’s more.”
“Of course there is.”
Spencer sighed and returned the mop to its bucket in the small hall closet. “I spilled icy water all over him. Like, half a bottle.”
“Dude, you need to walk around with a hazard sign on you.”
“I know. Please come over before I stick my head in the oven.”
Moments later, there was a knock on the door, and Spencer went over to open it. He dropped his head onto Danny’s shoulder with a groan.
“Dude, where are your clothes?”
“Right.” Spencer pulled back. “There’s that too.”
He turned, ignoring his friend’s bark of laughter, and headed to his bedroom to get dressed. As soon as he’d pulled on a T-shirt, jeans, and some socks, he returned. Danny was still laughing his ass off. With a miserable pout, Spencer dropped himself into one of the chairs at the counter.
“I’m glad you find that amusing. The guy thinks I’m a nutcase.”
Danny joined him, a wide grin on his face. “To be fair, you kind of are.”
“Thanks.”
“But in a sweet way.”
“Yeah, that doesn’t really help my situation any.” He folded his arms on the counter and let his head fall against them. “My one chance and I didn’t just blow it, I wrecked it. No, I annihilated it with C-4 and chilled spring water.”
Danny gave him a reassuring pat on the back. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think. Why don’t you just go over there and apologize. Bring him some of your famous caramel brownies or something as a peace offering. It’s almost lunchtime, and from the number of times I’ve seen delivery guys, I’m guessing he’s not cooking much these days. Your cooking is ten times better than any takeout. You know the saying. ‘The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.’”
Spencer sat up thoughtfully. “So you’re proposing I use food as a way to get close to him?”
Interesting
.
“Look at the guy. He’s huge. I bet he loves good food. Besides, he’s all about tactics and strategies, right? Well, maybe you need to approach this the way he would a hostile situation. Adopt some of your own tactics and strategies, but with food.”
“That’s a great idea.” Spencer jumped out of his chair and ran to the door to pull on his red Chucks. He grabbed his keys and his wallet. There was a great little Cuban café on the corner that made the most amazing sandwiches. “Your key’s on the counter. Lock up behind you!” He ran out the door to Danny’s “Good luck.” In a matter of minutes, he was in the café ordering Quinn a tasty
croqueta preparada
. He’d learned to make his own croquette-stuffed Cuban sandwich, but he didn’t really have the time. If Quinn was going to order takeout, he’d probably be doing so soon, and Spencer had tasted these before. They were damn good. Once he had his order, he ran back, cursing the humidity all the way. By the time he reached their gated community, his T-shirt was sticking to his back and sweat was dripping down the side of his face. It was like living in a sauna. At least here the old guys were wearing clothes. Most of the time.
Once inside, the sweet, sweet air conditioning quickly cooled his skin. Taking a deep breath, Spencer knocked on Quinn’s door. He couldn’t believe he was doing this. But if he really wanted a shot at this—whatever
this
was—he needed to put on his big-boy pants and get in there any way he could.
The door opened, and Quinn scowled at him. “What do you want?”
Spencer smiled cheerfully. “I wanted to apologize for earlier and bring you a peace offering. Can I come in?”
If they’d been outdoors, pigeons would have mistaken him for a statue with how still the man was. There might be a chance Quinn was going to slam the door in his face. To Spencer’s relief Quinn carefully took a step back and motioned inside. While Quinn locked up, Spencer took a quick peek at the living room. It was… light in the furniture department and everything else. There was a huge comfy-looking black couch, a black iron glass-topped coffee table, an accent rug underneath, and a huge flat-screen TV on the wall. A few framed family photos littered the room. That was pretty much it. The walls were bare. No other furniture, no personal trinkets or anything to give even a hint of the kind of guy that lived there. Wait—there was a small bookshelf under the TV with some DVDs.
“I’m not home much. Well, I wasn’t before this,” Quinn grunted.
Shit, Quinn had caught him gawking. “It’s a nice couch.”
It was a sorry save. Quinn carefully took a seat on the couch, his crutch thumping against the rug.
“Have you eaten?”
Quinn let out a snort. “Of course I have. I can tie my own shoes too.”
Spencer’s gaze went to the coffee table and the empty box lying on its side in a mound of torn foil wrappers. “Besides Pop-Tarts?” He picked up a piece of discarded tart. “Oh my God, have you been eating these raw?”
“They’re Pop-Tarts, not pork chops. If you’re done touching my leftovers, I’d appreciate it if you got to the point of whatever you came over here for.”
Wow. Mr. Social Grace he was not. Spencer shrugged. “Okay, so I guess you don’t want this croquette sandwich with fries.”
Quinn eyed him warily before dropping his gaze to Spencer’s other hand. “What’s in the Styrofoam cup?”
“Tropical sorbet frosty from La Palmita, down the street.”
“Do I have to thank you or show some kind of appreciation?”
Spencer held back a smile. “Nope. I’ll just leave it here, shall I?” He moved the foil wrappers out of the way to put down his gift.
Quinn let out a grunt which somewhat resembled “Thanks.”
With no invitation to stay forthcoming, Spencer motioned to the door. “Guess I’ll get going. If you need anything, just give me a ring. I promise I’ll pick up this time.”
“Sure.”
A man of few words. Got it.
With a smile and a wave, Spencer left, closing the apartment door behind him. Well, that had gone well. Sort of. As he walked down the hall, he called Danny.
“How’d it go?”
“It’s a good thing years of dealing with social media has taught me patience, because he could send a sloth running.” Spencer let himself into his apartment feeling he was a step closer to cracking Quinn. He should probably find out what Quinn’s last name was. He dropped down onto his couch with a smile.
“A sloth?”
“Yeah, you know, ’cause they barely move.”
“I know what a sloth is, jackass. I’ve just never heard anyone use one in an analogy before.”
“How long have you known me?”
“Too long,” Danny muttered. “Too long.”
“Anyway, your idea worked. If I bring him food, he’s less likely to Taser me.”
“Sounds like a plan. Let me know how it goes. I’m about to piss away the next hour of my life explaining to Mr. My-rims-cost-more-than-my-car why we can’t install an Xbox system in his dashboard.”
“Again?” Spencer kicked off his sneakers. He felt for his friend. Spencer had been in retail once. He’d been happy at first but quickly discovered how ill-suited he was for it. After that he did what he had to in order to get out and never looked back. “Didn’t he come in last week about that?”
“No, last week I spent an hour explaining why we couldn’t install hydraulics in his car. I swear every time he walks in, I lose brain cells.”
“Good luck,” Spencer said with a chuckle. He said his good-byes and then went about his day, working on a few projects and convincing one of his clients that having flashing bright neon-colored wallpaper on his website wasn’t the best of ideas. Not unless he planned on giving someone a seizure. Once he was done, he got started on dinner, which made him far too excited for his own good. He spent some time thinking about what Quinn might like, then rounded up his ingredients and got to it. Soon his apartment was filled with the aromatic scents of savory Asian cuisine. With a dopey smile, he pulled out his cell phone and called Quinn, who answered on the second ring.
“Hey, I’m sorry to be bugging you.”
“How’d you get my number?” Quinn asked.
Well, it’s nice to hear from you too.
“It’s on my phone from your missed calls.”
“Right. From this morning. When you knocked me over.”
Spencer cringed. He quickly recovered. “When I accidentally bumped into you.”
“What do you want?”
“I made this big dinner for me and Danny, but it looks like he’s stuck at work. I’d hate for it to go to waste, so I thought if you were hungry, you might like some.”
There was a long pause, and Spencer waited with bated breath.
“You made the food?”
“Yeah.”
“Is it edible?”
“Better than,” Spencer replied proudly. “I’m actually a pretty good cook.”
Another long pause.
“What did you make?”
“Pot stickers, veggie egg rolls, broccoli beef noodle stir-fry, chicken with mushrooms, fried rice, and for dessert, Nutella caramel brownies with nuts.”
Spencer could have sworn he heard Quinn’s stomach growl. It might have just been Quinn.
“Door’s open. Lock it behind you when you come in. I’ll be in the kitchen. Don’t drop anything on me.”
“Got it. See you in a sec.” Spencer hung up. “Yes!” He punched the air a few times before composing himself. “Okay, Spence. Play it cool.” Quickly but carefully, he packed up the piping hot food before placing the containers into a large insulated bag. He left it on the counter and made a dash for the bathroom to look himself over. He checked his breath and his teeth and made sure his fly was zipped. Should he change his Superman T-shirt? Screw it; he loved his comics. He wasn’t about to change that.
“Okay, let’s do this.” He went back to his living room, pulled on his sneakers, and grabbed his keys and their dinner. There was a good chance Quinn would take what he was going to eat and then send him packing, but Spencer hoped not. His neighbor seemed determined to wallow in his misery on his own, but Spencer could see past that tough-guy façade. Quinn was too stubborn to admit he needed someone, but that was fine. Spencer didn’t need him to admit it. He’d prove it.
QUINN HAD
told him he’d be in the kitchen, but just in case, Spencer opened Quinn’s apartment door slowly. When chaos did not ensue, he knew it was safe to go in. He locked the door behind him like Quinn had asked. Spencer found the grumpy officer in the kitchen. Seeing as how Quinn was busy washing something at the sink, Spencer took a moment to appreciate all the hard, tanned muscle straining the formfitting T-shirt. The guy clearly worked out regularly, a prerequisite for the job, though Spencer imagined Quinn was the sort of guy who liked to work out regularly regardless of the job. His jaw was chiseled and covered in dark stubble, his hair slightly tousled like he’d just gotten out of bed.