She shuddered under his touch but didn’t dodge it. Flirting with this intense man was exciting and frightening and something Old Sarah never would have done. The tequila helped, too.
“I really like your hair,” he growled. “Did you know that?”
She shook her head, but not hard enough to shake her hair out of his hand.
“It changes when you move.” He slid his fingers down a blond strand and held it next to her cheek. “You’re a blonde.” He did the same with a brown strand. “You’re a brunette.” She suppressed shivers of anticipation as he touched her scalp one more time and selected a pink strand. “I don’t know what you call this.” He smiled at her. “I ain’t never seen nothing like it.”
“It’s pretty normal in New York,” she assured him.
“Let me clue you in on something,” Owen said. “Pink hair isn’t normal anywhere.”
Erin hit Owen’s chest and said, “Rude,” at the same time Quentin said, “Do you mind, dumbass? I’ve got something going on over here.”
“That’s what worries us,” Martin said.
Ignoring Martin, Quentin stroked Sarah’s hair again. “It’s like that ice cream with all the flavors. Napoleon.”
“Neapolitan,” laughed Erin, Owen, and Martin. Now Quentin was laughing, too, and Sarah laughed along. She wasn’t really Natsuko, and never would be. She had no real designs on Quentin. But wouldn’t Wendy just die if Sarah ended her yearlong celibacy by having a fling with this handsome idiot, bringing the grand total of her sexual partners to two in her lifetime? If only everything were different. If only he wasn’t a coke addict, he wasn’t a stupid hick, she wasn’t trying to keep him together with his band, and she wasn’t contracted to his record company, she would have had the most delightful decision to make: to ho or not to ho.
Martin’s mouth was moving. Quentin switched off the blender so he could hear what Martin was saying.
“—the matter with you?” Martin asked, leaning against the kitchen counter. “Drunk?”
“It’s hard to play dumb this long at a stretch,” Quentin said. “I may go cross-eyed.” Of course, he was also drunk, and he knew it when, pouring margaritas from the blender into the pitcher, he asked Martin casually, “Would you do her?”
“I knew it,” Martin scolded him. “You can’t do her. Rule Three.”
“I’m not going to do her,” Quentin said, putting down the pitcher and holding up his hands. He shouldn’t be pursuing this at all, but he was so full of this girl, this beautiful pink-haired manga she-villain. “I’m just asking, hypothetically, would you?”
“Yeah,” Martin said quickly as Owen stumbled in from the bathroom.
“Yeah, what?” Owen asked.
Quentin turned to Owen. “Would you do her?”
Owen looked shocked. “Who?”
“The Wookiee, dumbass,” Martin said. “Who did you think? Erin?”
“I can’t do Erin,” Owen said self-righteously. “Rule Two.”
“So,” Quentin pressed, “hypothetically, would you do her?”
Owen asked, “Who?”
Quentin and Martin looked at each other.
Owen clarified, “The Wookiee?”
“Yes!” Quentin and Martin said.
“Oh. Yeah, I’d do the Wookiee.” Owen picked up the pitcher and walked toward the door to the patio. “But she’s frightening.”
As Owen passed through the doorway, Erin came in. The two of them rubbed against each other and laughed in a way that made Quentin uncomfortable. If he asked, they would say they were touching because Sarah could see them from the table outside. But Quentin wasn’t so sure. He and Erin had played lovers and yet resisted each other for two years. Surely Erin and Owen had been able to resist each other for a week of pretending? Of course, when Quentin had faked a relationship with Erin, he’d also had the band manager on the side. Owen hadn’t been in a steady relationship in a couple of years.
Erin snapped Quentin out of his thoughts by asking sharply, “What have you boys been talking about in here?” Then, in a complete failure at an imitation of a man’s deep voice, she asked, “Would you do her?”
Martin laughed and went outside, leaving them alone, as Quentin told Erin, “No, that’s not what we were talking about, and I’m offended that you would assume such a thing. We’re not shallow. We were talking about the potential impact of current unemployment figures on US Treasury note prices.”
Erin grinned. “If you’re not interested in Sarah, then you won’t want to hear what she said about you.”
Quentin’s gaze darted outside to Sarah at the table. She and Erin must have had a girl talk. Oh God. “What’d she say?”
“It looks good for you,” Erin teased him. “It’s a shame you’re not allowed to have sex with her.”
“What’d she say?”
“She said you’re cute. You remind her of Ernie from Sesame Street.”
“Ernie,” Quentin said, nodding. “Good guy. Jolly prankster.” He paused. “Not the sexiest fellow.”
Erin smiled smugly. “Better than Bert.”
“Speaking of Bert,” Quentin said, searching her innocent blue eyes, “you’re not breaking Rule Two with Owen, are you?”
She grimaced and stuck her finger in her mouth, as if to say Gag me. Then she asked brightly, “Did we fool you? We’ve been working hard on it.” She tilted her head and considered him. “You’re drunk.”
He gave up. “I guess.”
“Come on.” She took him by the hand and led him back outside to Sarah.
Sarah. Sexy white high-heeled sandals. White pants that flared at the bottom and tapered up to hug her perfect ass. A black blouse that pooled in the front to reveal her cle**age, and in the back—well, there was no back, just some thin strings keeping the front on. He could have reached behind her and bared her with a few tugs. Clearly no bra. Red lips. Crazy hair.
With a twist. She gave the first impression of being tall, unattainable, hardened. But he’d studied her while calling her bluff. She was average height or smaller. The longer he gazed at her, the smaller and softer she got. Her eyes were brown and gentle. And her name: Sarah, like a sigh.
And the way she said his name. Not Quentin, enunciating every consonant. Soft and lazy and half-gone, Que’n. He detected the slightest Southern drag on her voice, from somewhere far south. Maybe Mobile, with old money.