The Romance Report Page 2

  “I’m a spoiled brat?” Tad hooted. “Really? I took you out as a favor to your parents. It’s not like I make a habit of dating flaky chicks in dead-end jobs. You’re lucky I even bothered to show up. I turned down a date with a gorgeous accountant to go out with you, a loser who writes a blog about food.” He threw a hundred dollar bill on the table and stood up to leave.

  Quinn felt the blood rushing to her face. A hot anger roiled up from her stomach. “What the hell kind of name is Tad? It’s a frog, for Pete’s sake, not a name for a grown-ass man. And it’s an online magazine, not a blog!” Quinn yelled. She picked up one of her shoes and threw it at Tad. Time slowed as it sailed through the air, toe over heel. It sailed right past Tad and hit smack dab into the head of the gentleman sitting behind him.

  CHAPTER TWO

  To: Randall Kent

  From: Quinn Daniels

  Subject: Change in Restaurant Review

  Randall,

  Due to unforeseen circumstances, I was unable to review Marlowe’s Restaurant. I apologize for the delay. I plan to review Gryphon’s this evening and I will have the review in your inbox for approval by 8 a.m. Friday morning. Again, I apologize for the delay.

  Quinn

  To: Quinn Daniels

  From: Randall Kent

  Subject: Re: Change in Restaurant Review

  Quinn,

  Let’s talk about this. Come see me in my office today at 2 p.m.

  Randall

  Quinn strolled through the glass door announcing in discreet black letters Kent Publications, Inc. at a few minutes before 2 p.m. Ginger, the chic brunette who manned the front desk and guarded Randall Kent’s office like Quinn’s cat guarded her toy mouse, was talking on the phone. Ginger wiggled her French-tipped fingers to Quinn and mouthed, “Go on in.”

  Quinn stuck her head into Randall’s office. Randall sat frowning at his laptop. He looked up, scowled and motioned for her to have a seat.

  “So, Randall, I’m sorry about dropping the ball on the Marlowe’s review. Something came up and honestly, is Italian-Caribbean fusion a trend we want to promote? It might appear like we’re jumping on whatever food trend is hot for the moment, but if it lasts less than six months, it lessens our credibility. A review of Gryphon’s would be a better tie-in to the entertainment piece that Brian’s writing about the remodeled theater on the same block,” Quinn said hurriedly. “I promise you I can review Gryphon’s and have the article to you by tomorrow morning.”

  “Something came up? Would you care to elaborate on what that might have been? Say perhaps an arrest for disturbing the peace, simple assault, destruction of property…this is according to my contacts in the police department. Shall I continue?” Randall asked in a tight voice. He leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms and fixed Quinn with a glare.

  Quinn gulped. She wouldn’t finagle herself out of this one. She came clean. “My mother insisted I go on a date with the son of a family friend. He was a complete ass and threw pasta all over me. I lost my temper. I didn’t mean to bean the guy in the head with my shoe. It was an accident.”

  “An accident is spilling a glass of wine. An accident is hitting the rear end of the car in front of you. An accident is not picking up a shoe and assaulting someone in the middle of a crowded restaurant and having a video of it blasted across social media!” Randall’s rose in volume until the glass shook in the window behind him.

  “Wait,” Quinn said, “there’s a video?”

  “Yes!” Randall snarled and spun his laptop around for her. “A couple was celebrating their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary last night. Their kids were shooting video with their phones of their dad giving his wife an anniversary band. Imagine how thrilled they were to capture you screaming like a banshee with a shrimp hanging off your ear in the background.” He punched a key with his finger and the video played.

  Quinn felt her stomach sink into her ankles. She should have stood up to her mother and said no to the date with Tad. She watched in horror as the events of the previous evening played on the screen. The budding filmmakers had even gone so far as to add special effects to the final scene. Quinn’s Prada heel bounced repeatedly off the bald head of the man with the comic book style “Kapow!” emblazoned on the screen with each ricochet.

  “Crap,” Quinn said in a small voice. She sank down in her chair.

  “Crap is right. A heap of crap is what you’ve tossed my good name in with your behavior. Not only did I get an angry phone call from Todd Marlowe demanding Under the Radar write a public apology and a glowing review, but the man you hit with the shoe is none other than the brother of the mayor. Fortunately for you, he decided not to press charges. I also managed to convince the police to drop the matter. Unfortunately for you, you’re out of a job and a career because I’ll be damned if I give you a reference. I don’t care if your uncle is the chef to the president himself, you’re finished. I’m not going to have my magazine’s reputation smeared by the juvenile antics of a self-indulged spoiled brat throwing a temper tantrum. Now get out of my office!”

  “But…” Quinn started to protest that it wasn’t her fault, but the fury she saw on Randall’s face stopped her cold. She slunk quietly out of his office and slipped past Ginger without a glance. It wasn’t until she made her way out of the building did she allow the tears to fall. She leaned back against the cool granite and gulped in fresh air in an attempt to calm herself. Wiping her eyes, Quinn took another shuddering breath and slipped sunglasses out of her bag and put them on to hide behind the dark lenses.

  “Quinnie, crying isn’t going to turn that spilt milk into butter, so put your big girl panties on and get over it,” Quinn said in her best imitation of her Grandma Rose’s Irish brogue.

  She straightened up and whistled at a passing taxi. She asked the driver to take her to her brownstone on Franklin. As the cab pulled away from the curb and whipped into the heavy traffic of Broad Street, Quinn realized this might be the last taxi she could afford in the foreseeable future. She imagined the small sum in her savings account dwindling to zero without the steady paycheck Kent Publications provided. Her small dating disaster of the night before mushroomed into a hurricane of destruction with each passing block. Rent. Utilities. Cat food for her cat, Fat Panther. People food. She needed a job and she needed one quick.

  “You know what? Just drop me off here. I’ll walk the rest of the way,” Quinn instructed the driver. She handed him the fare and felt like a loser giving him a fifty cent tip. “Sorry about the tip. I got fired a little while ago. I can’t find a decent guy and I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up and…” She stifled a sob.

  The driver handed her back her fare. “This rides on me, honey. I’ve been in some tight spots myself.”

  Quinn felt a fresh set of tears form at the sight of the man’s friendly smile. “Thank you. I promise I’ll find you once I get a job and give you the biggest tip ever.”

  “I’m sure you will. The name’s Saul. You get in a bind, you call dispatch and ask for me. I’ve got a daughter about your age. I’d like to believe someone is looking out for her as she makes her way out into the world. Now get back in and let me take you the rest of the way home.”

  Chapter Three

  “The tragedy in this whole situation is a perfectly good dinner was sacrificed. Darling, if it’d been me, I’d have pulled that shrimp right out of my bustier and nibbled on it just to spite his pompous ass,” Sean said. He took another sip of his cocktail. “Mmm…what did you call this thing again? It is absolutely delish.”

  “A Smoky Mary. It’s a Bloody Mary made with smoked salt, jalapenos, and fresh tomatoes. It’s my very own creation. Since I crashed and burned at my journalism gig, a smoky drink was fitting,” Quinn said glumly. “I get a dream job writing about food and I blow it. I’ll have to go back to working in the advertising department at the Times, if they’ll even take me back. No job. No money. No man. That’s it. I’m done with romance. I’m giving up on men for good. I
’ll become the crazy cat lady who lives in a shopping cart and eats cat chow along with her twenty feline friends. Somebody get me a crocheted beret and unmatched socks!”

  “Aren’t you overreacting just a little? I mean, it was a guy your mother set you up on a date with for Pete’s sake. It was bound to go sour. No offense, but your mom cares about facts, political connections and appearances. Romance is not her strong point,” Indie pointed out to Quinn. She ran her small fingers through her bright blue hair causing it to spike even more. She looked like a punked-out cartoon hedgehog with glasses.

  “I couldn’t give up men,” Sean declared as he licked the salt from the rim of his glass. He fluttered his lashes at Quinn. “This boy needs love like a flower needs sunshine. The difference between you and me is I prefer my men driving a shiny sports car with a fat …”

  “Sean!” Quinn and Indie squealed in unison.

  “Wallet. What? I was going to say wallet. Sheesh. Get your mind out of the gutter.” He winked at them and continued, “Quinn dates poor, starving artists. Boyfriend has got to have a J O B or he is not going to date me. Standards. You’ve got to have standards or you’ll end up homeless in a box with Johnny Nightdriver as he plays guitar for your beanie weenie supper. Now, your mama’s got standards but her taste in men runs towards the kind with a stick up their…”

  “Sean!” Both girls squealed again.

  “Behind. Listen, I’m keeping it G-rated, but if you make me another oh-so-tasty cocktail, I can bump it up to PG-13. Anyhow, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, you’ve got to set standards. For example, Sean Carlos’ Rule Number One is boyfriend has got to have a job. Rule Number Two is he has to be smoking hot and dress to impress. Don’t come pick me up in raggedy old jeans and a broken down t-shirt. You might as well pack yourself right on down the stairs and back to your shack and toothless hound dog.”

  “He needs to be smart,” Indie chimed. “Not so smart that he’s a jerk, but smart enough to be able to know what’s going on in the world and talk about it.”

  “Funny,” Quinn added. “He needs to have a sense of humor, in and out of the bedroom.”

  “He needs to have a big…”

  “Sean!” Indie and Quinn whooped with laughter. Indie laughed so hard that she began to hiccup. Quinn patted her hard on the back in a half-hearted attempt to help. The watered-down remains of Indie’s Smoky Mary spilled on the white couch.

  “Crud. Sorry. Let me go grab a rag and clean it before it sets,” Indie hiccupped as she attempted to stand up and make her way to the kitchen.

  “Girl, that is going to stain. This is why I don’t do white. Hell, this place looks like the inside of a loaf of Wonder Bread,” Sean said, looking around him.

  “My mother decorated. She’s a firm believer that black is slimming and white furniture screams sophistication.” Quinn rolled her eyes as she imagined her mother’s voice in her head giving decorating advice.

  “What it screams is boring. No pizazz. No personality,” Sean replied.

  “That’s your problem,” Indie said. She scrubbed at the offending red spots with a wet dishcloth. “You have no color. Everything is black and white. That works for facts and news, but life’s not like that. Life is messy and colorful and…messy.”

  “Indie’s right. You date the losers you date because you want to add a little excitement and some spark to this oh-so-drab world. You need to find a different coloring box to pick from than the one you’ve been choosing from lately. No more generic crayons made of cheap wax. You need the real deal,” Sean announced. He stood up and strutted into Quinn’s bedroom. Quinn could hear the sounds of drawers opening and shutting and hangers scraping across the metal closet rod. A few minutes later, Sean carried out a mountain of black clothing and dumped it onto the couch. “You missed your calling. You’d have gone far in life as a death metal singer or a gothic heroine in a punk rock video. Even your panties are black.” Sean dangled a black thong off his pinkie finger.

  “It’s all become crystal clear,” Indie piped. She jumped up from her seat on the ground and draped a black dress around her shoulders like a cape. “You are a vampire quietly living amongst us as you wait for your chance to swoop in and suck our blood. Mwahaha.”

  “Ha ha. You two are a riot. Not much I can do to change my wardrobe now. No job means no money for clothes. Remember?” Quinn got up and began to mix another batch of cocktails. She eyed the vodka bottle and added another dash of it to the pitcher in front of her. She sliced a jalapeno and garnished three glasses. “No man is ever going to want to go on a date with me once they see my screaming like a fishwife on YouTube. I might as well take my vow of celibacy now and be done with it.”

  Sean took the glass Quinn presented him and sipped. “Mmm…that’s good. It has enough kick to put my creative juice into overdrive. Shawna, the most sought after queen in the city, is gonna give you a makeover. By the time I’m done with you, no one will recognize you, not even your mama.”

  “I’m not sure about you giving me a makeover, Sean. I don’t do the heavy eyeliner and flashy sequins thing,” Quinn protested. She imagined herself with Tammy Faye eyelashes and platform heels tottering into a five-star restaurant.

  “Puhlease!” Sean waved his hand at her. “Like you could carry that style. No. I’ve got a friend whose mother is a buyer for some big department store. She gets tons of clothes and doesn’t even wear half of it. She’s begging me to take it and give it to some of the other girls in the business. Carrie is about your size so most of it should fit. In the meantime, let’s do something about your hair.”

  “What’s wrong with my hair?”

  “It’s black,” Indie said. She had settled her tiny frame cross-legged on top of the pile of black clothes.

  “I am not dyeing my hair blue or purple or green.”

  “What’s your natural hair color?” Indie asked. “I’ve known you for ten years and have no clue.”

  “What makes you think it’s not black?” Indie raised one skeptical eyebrow at Quinn. “Alright. It’s boring brown.”

  “Give me a minute to grab some supplies from downstairs, and I’ll turn you into a goddess of love.”

  Sean went out the door of Quinn’s apartment to the ground floor where he lived with his grandmother. His grandmother, Reyna Garza, owned the building and had lived in the brownstone since she married in the late 1950s. Her husband had passed away fifteen years ago, but until recently, she was able to manage on her own. A fall down the icy front steps last winter had prompted Sean to give up his apartment in the Fan District and move in to care for her while she recovered from a broken ankle. His grandmother didn’t know about Sean’s other persona, Shawna, and he had no intention of telling her. She believed Sean worked as a bouncer in a nightclub. The truth was that Sean aka Shawna headlined at Hello Sailor! Nightclub in downtown Richmond three nights a week. Under the smoky lights of the club, Sean transformed from a handsome young Latino to a raven-haired minx with a sultry voice belting out 1940s wartime ballads.

  “Do not let him turn me into Dolly Parton,” Quinn begged Indie. She took a big gulp of her drink and gasped as the heat of the jalapeno mixed with the vodka washed down her throat. “I still want to be me after he’s done.” A fine sheen of sweat broke out on her brow. She wasn’t sure if it was from the jalapeno or the fear of the pending makeover.

  “Do you even know who the real you is?” Indie asked. “I’m serious. It seems like everything you do is tied to your mother’s approval. Your degree, your décor, even your wardrobe. Your only act of rebellion was quitting your job at the paper and taking off to Europe with your uncle. What happened to that girl?”

  “I don’t know,” Quinn said in a small voice. “Grandma Rose went into the nursing home and living at home with my parents wasn’t an option if I wanted to keep my sanity. I think Mom and Dad were gone for work so much that I want a way to connect with them. Besides, I’m twenty-six years old. Jetting off to Europe was fun, but I
have to have a job and an apartment. I have to be a grown up.”

  “Grown up doesn’t mean giving up who you are, Quinn,” Indie said gently.

  “Ladies, I’ve come armed and dangerous,” Sean burst into the apartment toting to round cases festooned with 1950’s pinups. “Have comb and will travel for any hair emergency!”

  Quinn held her empty glass out to Indie. “Fill her up. I’m going to need it.”

  Quinn leaned her head over her kitchen sink and allowed Sean to rinse the strange goo he’d smeared all over her hair. She was scared to even ask him why it was purple and smelled like hardboiled eggs and ammonia. She said a silent prayer to the god of good hair to please not let her hair fall out and leave her bald as a buzzard egg.

  “Okay. It’s done. Your color looks fabulous if I do say so myself. Why you covered up these gorgeous chestnut locks with shoeshine black is beyond me,” Sean said as he inspected her hair. He guided Quinn to a chair he’d put on the small balcony. “Now for the cut.”

  Quinn clutched the damp towel wrapped around her head. “Cut!” She squawked. “No one said anything about cutting my hair. I don’t like short hair!”

  “Hey!” Indie protested. “I just shake and roll my way out the door. Short hair is great.” She shook her blue spikes at Quinn.

  “Yes, but you are four foot nothing. Short hair makes you look cute. On me, I’d look like a man. Mom says I have strong features. Long hair feminizes my face,” Quinn informed her. She clutched the towel even tighter as Sean attempted to pull it free.

  “Like your mother knows hair. She has the same Hilary bob she got in 1995.” Sean rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to cut it short. Trust me. I have more fashion sense in my little finger than most people have in their entire body.”