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With fall coming on, more people came out to enjoy a hot beverage and a warm pastry. Their happy conversations underplayed the coffee shop’s soft music, blending nicely with the perky comfort of coffee and cinnamon. Being with Nick, Quinn was glad for the crowd. An oddity, since she’d usually avoided them.
She strode past clusters of round tables, still clutching her purse and sweater like life preservers, Nick a step behind her on the way to the counter. He’d rushed past her to open the red-trimmed glass door. Impressive, not that she cared. This was not a date. His words rang in her ears—No obligations, just coffee. Her mother’s words followed—You need to get out more.
Then there was Claire. With so many words, Quinn couldn’t think of them.
Thank God for their words. If it weren’t for them, she’d do nothing.
Cradling her chai latte—and quickly stirring in the heart-shaped cinnamon with her finger—she led Nick to a table in the middle of the room. Not too close to the back where she’d feel trapped, but not too close to the door where she could make a quick exit.
She settled her cup on the small black table, her purse in her lap, her shoulders back. “So, I hope I’m not being rude, but tell me what you’re hoping to gain from this. Why did you invite me here?”
He took a sip of his café Americano and set his cup on the table. “Actually, you invited me.”
She pursed her lips, stifling a grin. “Turning the tables is not fair play.”
His jaw flexed with his grin, spreading out his carefully trimmed beard. He was enjoying this too much. “I’ll go first.” But he wagged a warning finger, the grin spreading wider. “Then it’s your turn.”
“And you’re going to make me talk.”
He threw that hand up, palm forward. “You only have to say what you want.”
“All right. You first.”
He ducked his head and stared into his dark brew, his slight smile fading and blue eyes dimming. He spoke so freely in group. He couldn’t be afraid of opening up now.
A deep breath raised his chest. Words came with the following exhale. “When we first spoke, you had the weariness in your eyes I had when I lost Lauren. I saw a reflection of myself.”
He’d lost his wife. Her sorrow for him grew heavy. How, in three sessions, did she not figure that out? Selfish, callous, head in the clouds. How many more words could describe her right now?
“Sometimes I think I’ve come a long way in overcoming my grief. Then something like our third anniversary comes up, and my life shatters all over again.” He closed his grip around his cup. “I thought it would be nice to be able to tell you things, and you’d get it. And not think I was unstable.”
He raised his cup and eyed her over the brim as he took a sip. “Your turn.”
Right. She’d have to give account. But what to say after that? She’d accused him of coming on to her when all he wanted was an ear. Way to go, Quinn.
Her lower lip found its way between her teeth as she stared into her latte. She didn’t have a good answer. Why was she here? “Claire said I looked like I needed a cup of coffee.”
His grin returned. “Maybe we both did.”
A genuine smile. How did he do that?
Silence came between them. She sipped and watched the folks around them. Some laughed loud. Some whispered in the corner. The barista was busy concocting her magic brews behind the counter. With their reasons out, what more could they say?
Resting his arms on the table, he laced his fingers in front of his cup. “So where do you work?”
“A little office downtown.” She wasn’t about to tell him where. Wasn’t that like telling the wolf where Grandma lives?
“What do you do?”
“Head peon.”
As Nick chuckled, she offered a small smile and tried to relax. “Just office work. Small office, not many people. I go in at eight, get off at five. Nobody bothers me. I get my work done, and I go home. It’s perfect.”
Two young girls walked by them, giggling on their way out. Her jealousy spiked at their carefree spirit.
“Sounds lonely.”
“Suits me.” She took a sip of her latte. Alone was how she wanted to be. The folk music playing in the background, melodies with no lyrics, suited her too. “What do you do?”
“I’m an architect.”
“An architect?” A light ignited in her heart, then snuffed out. The familiar became uneasy. “Like house plans?”
“Commercial buildings mostly, but my firm works with a lot of different companies.”
“Your firm?”
“I’m partners with my father.”
“Wait. Nick James. James and James Architects.”
“You’ve heard of us.”
“I’ve heard of you.” Her finger made its way around the circumference of her cup. “So what buildings in town have you designed?”
“Do you know the Griffin Building on Cameron in the Arts District?”
“Very well.” Old memories stirred. “You designed the remodel?”
He gave her a sheepish half grin.
“Wow, I’m impressed. The design is beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
She twisted her cup on the table, swirling the creamy liquid. Their conversation was turning into a normalcy she hadn’t felt in a long time. Still, how much did she want him to know? But he’d stepped out, so maybe she should step out too. “I guess then you’ve been inside the building.”
“Of course.” Both hands around his cup, he leaned his elbows on the table.
She pushed her hair behind her ear and took the leap. “Do you know the painting inside the entry?”
“Do I know it? I took my inspiration from it. I designed the windows to be its frame. It’s an amazing piece.”
Her words caught in her throat. What did one say to that? “Thank you. It’s mine.”
As realization crossed his face, his eyes grew big. “Of course. It’s signed QA—Quinn Alexander.” One fine brow rising, he sat back with his arms crossed. “I can’t believe I’m sitting across from the great Madam Q herself.”
“Madam Q?” She giggled despite herself. “Is that what people call me?”
“Well, it’s what I call you. I’m just glad you’re a woman. Mister Q doesn’t have quite the same ring. You’re a talented artist.”
Her smile faded. Her world had been robbed of its color. “Was an artist.”
“You don’t paint anymore?”
Something inside her itched to do so, but the emptiness was an aching void that wouldn’t allow it. She shook her head, her vision blurring past her cup as she picked at her purse straps. “I still have the studio, but it’s locked up tight. I never go there.”
He dipped his chin in silent acknowledgment. “Life has a way of stealing your inspiration, doesn’t it?”
“I haven’t picked up a brush since Brendan died.”
He laid his crossed arms on the table, braced on them, lowered his head, and caught her eye. “Maybe someday.”
She shrugged, wanted to look away, but couldn’t. Relief spread through her when he spoke.
“When Lauren died, it took a while to design again. A lot of projects went to junior architects. Dad tried to pick up the slack. I had to make a decision. While I’m at work, I have to think about work, and when work’s over, it’s Lauren’s turn.” He glanced sidelong at a couple seated at the next table as they gathered their trash. “That worked pretty well for all of about two days.”
Quinn gaped at him over her half-finished latte. “Two days?”
“I didn’t say it was a perfect plan. Then Dad played the mom card and insisted I get help, told me not to come back to work until I did.” He sniffed. “Somehow putting whiskey in my coffee didn’t sit well with him.”
He’d drank. She’d wished herself dead. “I guess not.”
“So I started going to grief therapy. Met Mrs. LaRue.”
“Ha! Mrs. LaRue.”
“She is quite the character.”
Anger, although not as fierce, resurfaced. She tipped her cup in Nick’s direction. “That’s putting it mildly.”
“She’s just lonely. She doesn’t need grief counseling; she needs company. But people come and go there, and most of them are older. So when you walked in, I thought... I thought coffee.”
She leveled her gaze. “So you did invite me.”
A grin twitched at his mouth. Pink stained his cheeks when he drained his Americano and set the cup aside.
Maybe coffee was a nice thought. It wasn’t perfect. She had a strong desire to go home. But it was tolerable. And it was misting outside.
And talking to Nick wasn’t so bad.
Great. Claire was going to love this.
Heat tingled on Nick’s face. He took a drink to cover his embarrassment, draining his cup and setting it to the side. I thought coffee? What an ignorant thing to say.
She had taken a rain check and cashed it in, but what was he supposed to tell her? “My wife said get to know someone, be a friend, love again? I’ve accomplished one and two. Let’s get on to three?” It was a little too soon for that.
But she was here. And trying to have a normal conversation, for the most part, wasn’t hard. Even with those stiff shoulders and that standoffish attitude he recognized so well, she was easy to get along with.
Maybe being friends wouldn’t be so difficult. Awkward maybe. A man and a woman both having suffered loss becoming friends—could be a lot awkward.
“It seems coffee was a nice thought.” She raised her chin and relaxed those shoulders, shaking her wavy brown hair over them and sounding glad she came.
He shrugged. “Well, I figured if I asked you to have dinner you’d duck and run.”
“Uh, possibly.”
He clasped his hands, rubbing his thumbs together. “Seriously though, I do want to apologize for jumping on you so quickly. After what Mrs. LaRue said, I’m sure it wasn’t pleasant for you. I just thought it’d be nice to have a friend I could call up and say ‘hey, I’m having issues’ and that person would understand. Someone who knew they could call me and do the same.”
“Have you been talking to my mother?”
“That depends. Is she the owner of an accounting firm in need of a new building?”
She laughed.
It thrilled his soul.
“No, not Evelyn Hawkins. She hates math.”
“Good to know. Never discuss trig with Evelyn.”
Laughing with her felt good, and she seemed to be enjoying herself. Maybe she’d overlooked the fact that he could be some sick stalker guy preying on the recently widowed.
“Excuse me, sir.” The young barista approached their table and tucked a hunk of pink hair behind her ear. “We’re getting ready to close.”
He twisted his wrist to see his watch. He accounted for every minute of the day to make sure he stayed busy, didn’t go crazy, and yet... “I didn’t realize we’d been here so long.”
“Actually, I didn’t either.”
At some point, they’d turned off the music and cleared out the pastries in the display case. The whir of machines and blenders had fallen silent, and the other tables emptied. “It seems coffee was indeed a nice thought.”
Sliding from her chair, her smile brilliant, Quinn swept her hair back and swung her purse over her shoulder. “Indeed.”
He hurried around her to open the door, then followed her out beneath the shop’s awning. The mist had become a light rain that formed puddles on the dark pavement, the neon sign casting a pinkish glow. “I have an umbrella in the truck.”
“No thank you. It’s fine. I’m just going home.”
Nick dug his keys from his pocket as she dug in her bag for hers. Night after night, he just wanted to end the day so he could go home. Tonight, he would’ve stayed and talked for hours. Whether it was good or not, he enjoyed being with her and didn’t want the evening to end.
The thought of not being able to speak to her for a week was surprisingly unpleasant. With the risk of being assertive—and it was a great risk, but why ruin his streak—he swallowed hard. “Quinn, I...” Great job, buddy. He huffed and closed his mouth. It was a crazy stalker-guy question, and there was no good way to ask it.
Her keys jingled, and a small paint palette key chain gleamed as she retrieved them from the bottom of her bag. “Strange to see you at a loss for words.”
Her amber eyes reflected the parking lot lights. “I hope you won’t take this the wrong way. I blame it on my dad. I’d like to make sure you get home all right. Do you mind if I get your number?” His throat grew tight. “As well as for those moments we might need a...”
“A friend?”
“Yeah. I promise I won’t flood your phone with tears.”
He held his breath waiting for her to run panicking into the street.
“Sure.” She reached toward him. “Let me see your phone. I’ll type it in.”
Shocked, he gaped before sliding his phone from his front pocket and getting through the lock screen. He accessed his contacts, typed in her name, and handed it over.
One glance at his phone had her smiling a quirky grin he found himself wanting to see again. “Madam Q?”
“Hey, you’re famous. What can I say?”
Her laugh full and bright, she typed in her number. Taking his phone back, he typed in the smiley-face emoji and hit send.
“Now you’ll have my number. And, please, whatever you do, don’t blow up my phone.” He winked when she flashed that quirky smile again.
“Somehow, I don’t think I’m the one we have to worry about here.”
“Are you sure? You’re the one who invited me out for coffee.”
She rolled her eyes. “That’s up for debate.”
Depositing his phone back in his pocket, he motioned her out into the rain. “Come on. I’ll see you to your truck.”
Raindrops dotted them as they hurried to her black F250. A short goodbye, and he jogged away, then watched through his rearview mirror until she backed out. Once she was gone, he blew out the breath he’d held all night and sank against his seat. That had gone much better than he’d thought it would.
Surprising it’d gone at all.
Taking out his phone, he unlocked it, and her contact page came to life in the dark cab of his truck. The number looked valid. Why had she been so quick to give it to him? Why had he been so quick to ask for it?
The great Madam Q. He’d admired the Griffin painting for more than two years. A fascinating mixture of dark and light with intriguing detail, it beckoned like a doorway to another world. His windows didn’t do it justice, but everyone driving down Cameron Street was able to see it.
Eventually, people would see new paintings by QA. He’d gone back to work. She would too. These things took time. But for now, coffee was nice.
