WITHOUT YOU (STRIPPED) (9 page)

August 2nd

“Don’t get sand in my Jeep,” Joel says as he lugs his tent and gear into the back compartment. I shake out the legs of my shorts. Two days camping out on the shoreline to get a shot of the sea turtles and I think I have half the beach in my pockets.

“It’s a rental,” I say anyway because I really just want a shower.

“A rental you’re going to have to vacuum if you get sand in it, Intern,” he retorts with a smile, slamming shut the window hatch. I give my shorts one last jiggle then hop in.

“And here I thought we were past the hazing phase. Whatever, All Mighty Master of the Lens.”

The drive back to the house is quiet, the both of us exhausted from spending the night wide awake to watch for the turtles on shore. We got the shots, but not until close to dawn.

As Joel pulls into the gravel driveway, he points to a small blue car parked on the side of the road with what looks to be a woman inside. “Looks like a tourist has been misplaced. I’m cooking tonight so have fun testing out your direction-giving skills. Hopefully after a month and a half you won’t get her more lost.”

I jump out. “You call mac-n-cheese cooking?” I head toward the blue car, Joel muttering something about sliced hot dog mixed in behind me when the driver’s side door swings open. A tiny-framed girl emerges and, for a second, my heart thumps as if it’s Quinn. It definitely looks like her from the back with the long hair and narrow shoulders.

I shake my head. The distance from her must be giving me hallucinations. I could be looking at an old black man with a grass skirt on his head and think it was her.

Then she turns.

And smiles.

“Quinn?”

“Torrin!”

I cross the pot-holed road and, when I reach her, she throws her arms around my neck, pressing her body tight into mine.

“Oh my God, I can’t believe I’m finally seeing you.”

I surround her with my arms, pull her in even tighter, and plant kisses over her entire face, tasting every drop of salty sweat coating her travel-worn skin. She tastes like heaven, like the freshest drop of water in a desolate desert. My hands float down her back and, unsatisfied with the thin T-shirt in the way, slip beneath the hem.

Gripping my shoulders, tiny crinkles forming between her brows, she leans back. “Say something. I need to hear your voice. Out loud. In person. And not through scratchy reception.”

“Goddamn I’ve missed you.”

Her eyes, like puddles of warm butterscotch, glint with her uneven grin and it’s enough to wipe away any restraint or common sense or thought for that matter. All I want is her lips on mine. 

I take her face in my hands and lean in, but stop just inches from her mouth, head tilted. “Wait. I thought you weren’t visiting until next week.”

She licks her lips. “Change of plans.”

“Does that mean you’re staying for two weeks instead of one? Please,
please
tell me I get to keep you here for longer.”

“Actually…” She rests her forehead to mine, pinching her lips as if she’s trying to hold back another smile. “Hunter wanted to know why I’ve been moping around the classroom for the last month. When I eventually told him about your internship and the list of possible jobs you found for me, he fired me.” A soft chuckle escapes as she knots her fingers into my hair at the back of my neck. God her touch feels so good. “Temporarily, of course. But he said not to show my face around the art department until November.”

I trace the outline of her face, from her forehead down to her chin, with the tip of my finger. “And school?”

Finally, she lets her smile grow wide and it’s more beautiful than the Costa Rican sunsets I’ve watched every night since being here. “Taking first quarter off.”

A laugh, so deep and raw bursts, out of me as I lift her off the ground and spin her around. “That is the best news I’ve ever heard.”

She lets out a squeal, and I pin her against the car. Her mouth meets mine halfway, lips parting in a way that makes me come undone—her touch, smell, taste…it’s like the sweater of tight, uncomfortable pressure I’ve been wearing for the past month unravels completely with one slow, picture-perfect kiss.

She is my drug, and I want to be addicted to her for a lifetime.

After a few seconds—minutes?—she untangles her lips from mine and inclines back.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she says, her eyes darting to the small yellow house to our left. “I sort of planned on staying with you instead of getting my own place.”

“Only if you can suck it up and stay here for free. I will refuse any kind of payment from you.”

“Any kind?” Inch by inch her fingers crawl down my back and slip into the waistband of my shorts. Not far. But enough to send a zing of shivers southbound. I capture her wrists in my hands.

“Okay, maybe there’s one.” I press her palms flat against my stomach. “Feed a man? We’ve been living off mac-n-cheese and canned soup for the last month.”

One eyebrow raises as she eases a sliver of a step back. “Food over me?”

As fast as she puts space between us, I close it, taking her face in my hands. I kiss her chin, her jaw, up and down her neck. “Oh, I’m going to have you anyway. Every night.” Then I skim my lips to her ear and, ever so slightly, feel her quiver. “More. Than. Once. What kind of businessman would I be…?” I let the rest of the question trail off. She knows how it ends.

August 4th

“Umm…mushroom soup burritos?” I scoot the package of tortillas and cans of olives and soup to the center of the counter. “You must’ve acquired some
staggering
cooking skills at your mom’s if you can swing that. Do we eat them with a spoon or our hands?”

Quinn pops her head out of the fridge, a carton of raw chicken in her grasp. My eyes dip to the hem of her shorts, the way it inches back down as she lowers from her tiptoes. “You’re such a bachelor. Ever heard of enchiladas?” A teasing smirk lifts her lips as she plops the chicken into my hand, kisses the underside of my jaw, and scrapes her lips toward my ear. “And if you’re going to stare at my ass, you may want to be less conspicuous about it. Your mentor is watching.”

I purse my lips, restraining a smile, and avoid a glance to where Joel’s sitting on the living room couch with a glass of wine perched on the edge. “It’s a nice ass,” I say lowly. “I’m sure he’d agree.”

Slightly, she leans back. Eyes in front of mine. Assessing my comeback with a lifted eyebrow. Then she throws back her shoulders and straightens. “Why don’t you ask him then?”

In a silent pause, I let her words sit between us. This game—it might be one of my favorites. Like playing chicken with words.

“Hey, Joel,” I say, and Quinn’s eyes widen. A moment passes. Then her lips start to part, ready for the you-can’t-beat-the-master smile. She thinks I’m bluffing.
No chance there, beautiful
. My mouth opens. And I blurt out over my shoulder, “I was wondering if you thought Quinn’s a—”

Her fingers slap over my lips, eyes bugging out of her face, and she finishes quickly, “If you liked enchiladas!” Her cheeks burn carnation pink, her voice echoing throughout the tiny house. I laugh. “They’re, um, white, and we’re going to have plenty.”

Pulling her into me, I press my lips to the side of her head. “You’re out of practice, babe. It’s a rare occasion I can get you so easily.”

She wiggles, and I hold tighter. “Payback’s a bitch, you know.”

“Oh, I know. And I’m looking forward to it.”

Joel clears his throat. He’s standing near the front door, rocking back and forth on his heels, looking more out of place than a scrawny freshman on his first day of practice. “I love them,” he says to her. His eyes trace the line of my arm, wrapped around Quinn’s waist, and it’s just the right amount of awkward that Quinn steps back as I let go.

He retrieves his cigarette pack from the small table beside the door then his eyes meet mine, glazed from the alcohol but also something else. A far away thought. “I’m going for a walk. I’ll be back in a bit.”

“They’ll be ready in thirty minutes,” Quinn announces as he opens the door. He nods, and she waits until the door clicks shut then turns to me, pointing to the space. “Is he always like that? Or was that because of me?”

I shake my head. “He gets like that sometimes. I think there might be more to his ‘I don’t have anyone back home’ story. Don’t take it personally.” I tap the can of mushroom soup. “Open?”

With a nod, she kneels to the lower cabinet. From it she pulls out a deep frying pan. “Maybe he lost someone.” She finds some oil in the pantry then lights the stove. “Like…”

“Death,” I finish, lifting the can opener from the jar in the middle of the counter. “I know what you meant. And, yeah, it’d make sense.” The way he, at times, shrinks into himself.

For a few minutes I watch as Quinn slices the chicken into strips, fries them in hot oil then works with a fork in each hand to shred it. She instructs me to grate a hunk of jack cheese, dump half of it along with the soup and olives into a bowl and stir. Her hands move quick as she adds the chicken to my mixture then layers all of the ingredients into a glass dish.

Once the last bit of cheese is on top, she covers the dish with foil, slides it into the oven then glances up at me with a cheek-to-cheek smile. “Ta-da.”

The look of gratification on her face is enough to scoop her into my arms and kiss her. She loves cooking. And I love that she loves cooking.

“I want to show you something while they bake,” she says and drags me to my room. We settle on my bed, her travel backpack between us. A stack of papers emerge then she plops the backpack on the floor and scoots closer, her legs and hips and shoulders all pressing into my side. “Applications for the culinary schools I’m thinking of applying to.”

I take them, shuffling through the pile, skimming the names: Santa Barbara City College, San Diego Culinary Institute, Le Cordon Bleu in Pasadena…

“Babe, these are all in California. Like an hour from our schools. I thought you were going to look all over the country.”

She shrugs. “You’ve switched universities twice already—”

“And I’d switch again if it meant being close to you. When I said ‘figure us out’ that’s what I meant. I’d go where you go.”

“But I don’t even care where I go. So why make you move if the location doesn’t matter to me?”

“Because that’s what college students do. They move around, explore new places, try to figure out where they want to end up.”

She takes my hand, pushes it to her chest just above her heart. “I
am
exploring. And I
am
trying to figure out where I want to end up. Not physically. But in here.” Smiling, she takes the papers from me, tosses them aside and climbs on top of me. “So sue me if I don’t want to be without you.”

*
LIMITED EDITION* Bonus interview between Torrin and the author!

Brooklyn:
So, Torrin, our time together is over. Does that make you sad?

Torrin (grinning):
You left me for eternity with Quinn straddling my lap. Who would be sad about that?

Brooklyn (with a laugh):
Yeah, I figured I tortured you two enough over the last few months it’s the least I could do.

Torrin:
What about you? Does it make you sad?

Brooklyn:
A little. Things like this, you asking about someone else…especially
me
, makes it impossible to not want to be around you. And maybe a tad swoony, too—I’m such a sucker for the good guys. Plus, you and Quinn being the perfect couple and all…it’s going to be hard not spending my mornings with you.

Torrin (nodding):
Do you think you’ll ever come back to us?

Brooklyn:
I’m pretty sure you’ll be making a cameo once Nikki’s story gets told. She’s next on my list.

Torrin:
I’m glad you’re writing about Quinn’s roommate. She deserves a happy ending, too.

Brooklyn:
There you go again, being ridiculously sweet.

Torrin:
Can’t help it.

Brooklyn:
I know you can’t. Bye, Torrin.

Torrin:
Bye, Brooklyn.

Acknowledgments

First off, I would like to thank all of the readers who helped STRIPPED become such a huge success (#1 best-selling sports romance, #8 best-selling coming of age, and #9 best-selling New Adult WOOT!), especially those who tweeted, emailed, and messaged me about writing an epilogue. It’s because of you Torrin got his spotlight.

I’d also like to thank my husband, Ryan, for putting up with my craziness while writing. He seriously deserves a Best Husband award.

To my adorable kids, Brooklyn and Ryder. Thank you for making me laugh.

My twin sister, Lisa, for an amazing cover and being an even more amazing person.

My parents for believing in me.

My editor, Taryn Albright, for recognizing the true story I was trying to tell (and guiding me there). You seriously rock.

Early readers: Meagan Rivers, Bethany Lopez, and Trisha Leaver who didn’t beat me for putting them on such a time crunch. I heart you all!

And my agent, Bree Ogden. Thank you for supporting (putting up with?) me.