All It Takes (Romancing Manhattan 2)

“What just happened here?”

“I just can’t go. I’m sorry to do this to you last minute.” I walk over to the boxes on the table and take the lid off one, just to have something to do with my hands. “I think it’s best if we keep this strictly professional.”

“Too late,” he says simply. I turn in surprise. He’s taken his jacket off, and he’s rolling his sleeves up his forearms. “And I’ve had a shit day, I didn’t get to spend time with you last night, and now you’re saying that you don’t want to go to London’s show with me. So I’m going to need an explanation.”

“I’m sorry, Quinn, I just . . . You know—” I bite my lip and silently yell at myself to get it together. “It’s the normal things. I probably need to wash my hair, and I’ve felt a headache coming on for a few days now. Not to mention, I promised my sister I’d bake her a cake this weekend, so I might as well just get started on that.”

Louise has never asked me to bake her a cake in her life, but he doesn’t know that.

“Stop.”

I set the papers that I’d picked up back in the box and turn to face him. He doesn’t look angry, or upset.

He looks confused.

Well, join the club, pal.

“Sienna, this is not you. What’s going on here?”

“I don’t belong here,” I blurt out and then hate myself for it.

He frowns. “Of course you do. I asked you here.”

“No. Yes, you did, but that’s not what I’m talking about.” I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, then square my shoulders. “Okay, I’ll cut to the chase. I don’t intimidate easily. But I’m intimidated. Not professionally, let me just say that right now, although I’m certain that when you designed these offices it was with the intention that it would intimidate anyone who came here for meetings.

“You did a good job of that, by the way.”

“Thanks. Let’s skip to the personal part.”

“You and I, we’re just . . . different.”

“So? If we were exactly the same, it would be boring. And you’re not boring, Sienna.”

How do I tell him that I don’t want to embarrass him? Or myself? That Quinn and his expensive lifestyle are just overwhelming and I don’t think I’m the right person to get mixed up in it?

“You’re overthinking this,” he says and steps to me. Shit, if he touches me, I’ll do pretty much anything he wants me to.

So I back away, and he scowls at that.

“I don’t ever want you to back away from me like that. I would never hurt you.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” I reply. Much. “But if you touch me, I’ll agree to whatever you propose, and I’ve made my decision.”

“Because you think you don’t belong here, whatever that means.”

He rubs his hand over his face in frustration.

“We’re in different leagues,” I reply. “You’re chrome and glass and a Porsche, and I’m old offices and a Ford.”

“Fuck that.” His eyes are angry now, and he steps to me, not touching me, but close enough that I can smell him. “You don’t get to label me based on my office or the car I drive, Sienna, any more than I get to label you for those things. I don’t come from money, and I don’t give a fuck about what your office looks like. I enjoy you. I want to spend an evening with you, and my family. It’s that basic. If you don’t want to go, just say so, but don’t make up some chickenshit excuse about cakes and headaches, and don’t ever throw my money in my face. I work damn hard for what I have, just like you do.”

Well, shit.

Now I feel embarrassed and ashamed.

I should.

Quinn stalks away from me and stares out of his office window to the city. The sun is setting, and the buildings are lit up.

“I refuse to apologize for my success,” he mutters.

I press my fingers into my eyes, and then I take a deep breath and prepare myself for the apology that he deserves.

“I fucked up.”

“Big-time,” he agrees.

I cross to him, and stand next to him, crossing my arms over my chest and staring out the window.

“I bought a dress yesterday,” I begin.

“For a date that you don’t want to go on?”

I blow out a breath and shake my head. “No, for a date I do want to go on. But it’s not an expensive dress, Quinn. Because I’m just a simple girl. It’s pretty, though.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass how much your dress cost,” he says softly. “You’d be beautiful in a burlap sack.”

“It takes a special kind of girl to pull off burlap,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. I glance up to find his lips twitching. “I’m sorry for being dumb.”