Just Desserts by Tricia Quinnies Read Free Book Online Page A

an arrogant son of a bitch, just like Sadie had said. He’d considered his catch and release valve a golden gauge, a source of pride--a lever that only he could control. No woman had ever been so spectacular that he wanted to share that infinite part of himself with her.
    Up until now he’d managed to thrill and spill, nothing left under the…fuck…the hood. But Sadie? He’d gone in again. Quinn had wanted more and lost himself inside her.
    What the hell happened?
    He couldn’t face her and risk it, so he had bolted out of the Maxon home and fled. Quinn stared at his blood shot eyes in the visor mirror. “You’re a jackass, Laughton.”
    Quinn slapped the visor shut and nearly missed Sadie when she sped by on her bike. He hopped out of the Jeep and ran around the corner to the diner. Jogging into the park across the street, he waited for Sadie to open the diner. He paced in front of a wrought iron bench, repeatedly glancing to see if the neon open sign had flickered on.
    If Sadie would allow him, he’d dive back in and get lost inside her, all of her. He’d make love to her. Fuck the diner.
    After ten minutes he strode over to the diner and knocked hard on the old wood door. A chip of faded red paint fell to the ground. He cupped his eyes and squinted to try and get a view beyond the thick beveled glass transom, but it was still dark inside. “I know you’re here, Sadie. What’s going on? Your sign’s not lit and it’s nearly seven.”
    His heart pounded.
    “Sadie, come on.”
    She opened the door and fell into his arms. “Bastard.”
    He got a lucky break.
    “Prick.” She mumbled into his chest.
    Really lucky.
    He held her tight so that she wouldn’t fall and skin her knees. Scanning the place, only lit by the shadows of the breaking sun, the place looked desperately empty. He caught a faint whiff of sour mash. Had someone been pounding whiskey shots before dawn?
    He spied a lumpy form under a checkered tablecloth in the corner booth. A large meaty hand hung off and beyond the edge of the table. Quinn spotted a splay of red hair poking out from under the vinyl cloth. It was Paul.
    “What the hell’s going on?” He dragged Sadie to the closest chair and set her in it. Like a life-size rag doll, she flopped over and lay her head on the rickety parlor table. The wonky metal shifted and sent out a nerve-jarring screech.
    “My dad’s passed out cold. It’s the worst I’ve seen him. I can’t wake him and I…I can’t do it by myself.” A drape of her red hair fell off the table.
    Quinn marched into the kitchen and found that a fresh pot of coffee had finished brewing. The smell alone, wickedly strong, might be enough to bring Paul back from his liquor-induced coma. He poured a couple of mugs full, turned on the fluorescent overhead lights, and strode out the kitchen.
    He set a cup down on the table, near Sadie’s tangled mass of hair. He kissed her cheek. “Drink some coffee. I’ll take care of everything.”
    Quinn pulled off the tablecloth and calculated Paul’s unusual angle in the booth. He clutched Paul’s shoulder and thick muscular arm and wrenched him up and off the bench.
    Paul moaned. “Shite.”
    “Come along, Mr. Maxon.” Quinn sidled Paul next to him and draped the dead weight of the man’s arm across his shoulders. Quinn steadied himself after teetering back and almost losing his footing. Then, like a couple of drunken sailors, he half-dragged and half-carried Paul through the diner.
    “I’ll be back.” Quinn said to Sadie.
    She lifted her head off the table and glared at him. He thought he caught a glimpse of relief swimming in her venomous green eyes.
    With all of Paul’s weight on his back, Quinn wondered if Sadie’s dad was truly Irish. The guy was a mass of muscle.
    As though attached at the hips, they stumbled down the quiet early morning street toward Quinn’s Jeep.
    Paul snorted and then slurred. “I miss my Kate.”
    “I know.” Quinn eased Paul into the rear