Long Slow Burn. Isabel Sharpe

her sexuality and her self-esteem, and see if there’s a pattern she can identify that could be informing how she feels about herself now.”

      “… feels … about herself … now.” He put in the period with a flourish. “And?”

      “Undoubtedly the message that she isn’t worthy is coming from some judge figure in her life, probably a parent. She needs to tell that judge that she’ll be deciding her own feelings from now on.”

      “… from now … on.”

      “And then she should dress to kill, look in a mirror and promise to give herself positive feedback every day on how she looks and who she is and what she deserves.”

      “… what … she deserves. That it?”

      “She should probably go to therapy and talk the whole thing out, but this will help if she’s honest with herself, yes.”

      “Excellent.” He selected a recipient and punched the send button. “She’ll be very surprised to hear from me.”

      “And pleased, I hope?”

      “Me, too.” He shrugged, putting the BlackBerry back in his pocket. “Want to order dinner?”

      “I do.” She tossed back the rest of her drink and picked up a menu, hunger signals finally able to be heard through the decreasing clamor of her emotions. Helping people feel better about themselves always made her feel better about herself, too.

      She and Quinn chatted easily for the rest of the evening, all the bizarre tension completely dissipated. As usual after their Friday night meeting, she felt refreshed and revitalized on her walk home to her beloved Victorian in the same quirky Brewer’s Hill neighborhood as the restaurant.

      Inside her front door, she flicked on the light and said hello to her gray tabby, Jezebel, who’d come to greet her by weaving around her legs, making walking as difficult as possible. On the way up to her bedroom on the second floor, Marie sorted through the day’s mail, ditched most in the recycling box near her desk, and powered up her laptop. After changing into her beloved sloppy, nonbinding and infinitely comfortable sweats, she sat at her desk and waited for Jezebel’s predictable jump into her lap for the evening’s kitty-worship.

      She opened her email program while she scratched soft ears and brought Jezebel’s rumbling purr to life. New emails: five. One from a college roommate, one from Mom and Dad …

      Marie’s eyes jumped down the list. One from Quinn? How did he get home so much faster than she had?

      Her phone rang and she did a comical back and forth, phone to email to phone, before grabbing the receiver and checking caller ID. Candy. She’d take it.

      “Hey, woman, what’s up?”

      “Ugh.” Candy’s melodramatic exasperation made Marie smile. “I just came back from the cocktail party from hell. The caterer was late, someone stole half the booze, one guest drank the other half and threw up, you name it.”

      “That does not sound fun.” She touched her mouse, staring at Quinn’s email, then snatched her hand back.

      “Anyway, I’m looking ahead and life is going to be a little calmer for a week or two, so we should get serious about planning Kim’s party.”

      “Right. We should.” She swiveled her chair away from the monitor so Quinn’s note wouldn’t tempt her while talking to her friend, but it was as if it was sending out rays that burned her back. “I’ve already enlisted her brother, Kent, and that Nathan guy to help.”

      “Perfect. We’ll need pictures of her at various ages, maybe a few personal items, like, I don’t know, some favorite stuffed animal or toy, old favorite outfits, diplomas, awards, anything like that. Her mom might have some stuff to contribute. We should also find out her favorite foods, beverages, all that, too. And figure out where we want to have it.”

      “We can do it at my office or we can—”

      “Ooh, I forgot to ask, how did her meeting with you go? Did she like Troy?”

      Marie tsk-tsked. “Client confidentiality, Candy. You can ask her.”

      “Aw c’mon. You can’t even—” A deep voice sounded in the background, then Candy sighed. “Justin says I shouldn’t snoop.”

      “You shouldn’t.”

      “I hope she finds someone. She’s so sweet.”

      Marie scratched under Jezebel’s chin. “Ah, but I’m betting there’s a vixen in there somewhere.”

      “A vixen!“ Candy whistled. “Has anyone used that term in the past twenty years?”

      “So I’m old.” She rolled her eyes. “Go jump on Justin and leave me alone.”

      “Mmm, good idea.” Candy sighed blissfully. “So I’ll plan and you set our spies in motion. Oh, and I had a great idea for an early birthday present from the three of us, you, me and Darcy. Next Saturday I want to try out a salon where I might get my wedding hair done. I think we should make it a spa day, invite everyone and then pay for Kim.”

      “I love it! I was thinking along the lines of sexy underwear to inspire her on the dating quest.”

      “Ha!” Candy giggled. “That is too perfect. Let’s do both.”

      “Done.” Marie gave in, twisted around and peeked. She hadn’t dreamed it; the email was still there.

      Candy chatted a minute more, then Marie made her escape and shamelessly spun the chair back to her computer, Jezebel giving a brief mrrf of protest. Marie clicked open the email from Quinn, scanned the words, caught her breath and read them again, her brain whirling in confusion.

      Go back though your life looking for messages you received about your sexuality …

      Why had he sent the email to her? A blind copy? A carbon? A mistake? She peered at the header. He’d sent it to her directly. And she’d been sitting right there at Roots; he hadn’t sent it twice. What the hell?

      That reminds me of someone I know. He’d been talking about another woman who didn’t realize how sexy she was.

      He couldn’t be talking about Marie.

      She hit Reply, typed quickly.

      Did you send this to me by mistake? Or is this a blind copy?

      Then she hit Send and got up from the desk, pushing a very annoyed Jezebel off her lap because there was no way she’d survive sitting there waiting for him to respond. She’d go completely mental.

      Her email chimed. She whirled around in the middle of the room. Already?

      Of course, it could be from anyone.

      She rushed to peer at the screen. It was from Quinn. A simple response, straight to the point.

      Answering both questions: Absolutely not.