destination of theirs. Wolf and Jace included him in their jet ski races off Gulf Boulevard. Then there were picnics and beach-combing on Caladesi Island, also with Cassie.
He would miss it all—the weather, the beautiful scenery, his friends, the satisfaction of his job.
Cassie.
If sadness had a color, it would be navy blue, for damned if a severe case of blues wasn’t settling in. He’d have so many memories of Clearwater, Florida, and almost every one would revolve around Cassie Wolford.
“Well, well, well…if it isn’t Mr. Hot Lips Chicken Shit.”
Fuck.
He plopped the boxes at the rear of the U-Haul trailer he’d backed into one of his two assigned parking spaces before unhitching it from his Wrangler. With a push of one hand, he slid open the retractable door. Meanwhile, he braced himself for the five-foot-five, dark-haired tirade barreling down on him, that infernal streak of red hair standing on end as if it were a battle flag flapping in the wind. By the murderous expression on her face, now probably wasn’t the best time to mention the hairdo. What the hell made women do that to their hair anyway?
He lifted each box and swung at the waist, tossing them into the interior. Hopping in, he began arranging the boxes around his Harley he’d tied to the inner sides of the trailer. He wanted to create a second support system for the bike to secure it in place for the trip to wherever he’d end up going. After careful measuring, he knew how much room to leave for his bed, box springs, mattress and sofa. The rest of his furniture he’d donate to Goodwill.
The U-Haul bounced slightly when she scrambled in behind him. “I’m talking to you. Don’t you dare ignore me!”
“I don’t have time for your drama. And shouldn’t you be in bed with a hangover?”
Her open hand fluttered like a crazed butterfly. “Pffft. It would take more than a hangover to keep me in bed. I want to know when you decided to move and why?”
He jumped out of the trailer, trudging for the building. God, he was bone-tired. “Since when do I have to report my comings and goings to you?” She was in a mood. If he invited her up so he could keep an eye on her, she’d no doubt refuse. Better to ignore her, so she’d storm up to the safety of his apartment to continue her rant.
“This discussion is not over.”
“Yes, it is, peanut.” The gauntlet had been thrown. She’d be pounding on his door within the minute.
The sound of a foot stomp behind him made him smile. “Don’t call me peanut!” The woman was damn adorable when she was pissed. “I’m warning you, Quinn Gallagher, you don’t want to make me blow a gasket. It’s not a pretty sight. You have no idea the extents I’ll go to.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m trembling in my shoes, little one. Go home. Leave me the hell alone.” Yanking the door open, he charged inside and jogged up the steps to his second-floor apartment. With any luck he’d outrun her. Looking into her sad emerald eyes was more than he could handle right now. Her voice may have sounded angry, but her pinched expression cried sadness…and it tore at his soul.
He’d already packed up his closet and chest of drawers, stuffing enough clothes to wear his remaining four days in Clearwater into his duffle bag. Furball had quickly hopped into the open piece of luggage as if he wanted to make sure he wasn’t left behind. Or maybe the cat instinctively knew his owner couldn’t beat holes into the canvas. He’d gone into hiding as soon as Quinn took his first hit on the wooden door, raging at the world, and came out when his owner calmed down enough to place his fist into a sink full of ice cubes.
Quinn scratched under the grey feline’s white chin and was rewarded with a loud purr. “Sorry I scared you earlier. We’ve got big changes ahead, buddy.” He rolled over for his owner to rub his white belly. “Cat’s aren’t supposed to like this.” His palm ruffled fur from the animal’s neck to groin. “Besides, I’ve got work to do.”
Furball nipped the edge of Quinn’s hand. “You little grey bastard, and after the way I saved your ass too.” This was an ongoing argument between the two since the night Quinn found him scratching frantically on the outside of his sliding glass doors in the living room, drenched, wild-eyed and scared all to hell and back. A category two hurricane was blowing through and, the best Quinn could decipher, the hundred-mile-per-hour winds had propelled the scrawny kitten onto his second-story balcony. How it had survived had been a miracle. He’d shown signs of malnutrition according to the veterinarian he’d taken him to as soon as the hurricane abated.
That stormy night back in September, when Quinn slid open the door, Furball teetered in on his last leg of energy and collapsed as if he’d finally found home. The man, who’d never been allowed to own a pet as a child, wrapped the sodden animal in a hand towel—hell he’d been too small for a bath towel—and laid him across his lap while he watched a New England Patriots football game. During halftime, he’d fed the weakened kitten by dipping his pinky finger into warmed milk and allowing its roughened tongue to lick it off. A few minutes later, the power went out, and both cat and new owner snoozed on the sofa.
Five months of constant feeding, deworming, flea dips and care had fattened the Furball. Someone had spoiled the feline, too, and Quinn had no clue who that bastard was. Surely not him. The trouble was the kitten’s harrowing experience in the hurricane had left him traumatized. He trembled during storms, seeking refuge in the crook of Quinn’s neck or in a pile of old beach towels he kept under the bed for the tomcat’s sanctuary, along with a stuffed toy or two.
The cat also hated riding in the Jeep. Quinn wasn’t so sure how he’d handle a long trek on some highway confined in his cat carrier. He’d have to call Furball’s vet to see if he could prescribe some tranquilizers. Still, thank God he hadn’t turned into one of those doting cat owners. His concern was merely…responsibility.
Pulling his extra towels and sheets from his linen closet, Quinn carried them into the kitchen to use as packing material. He shoved his toaster and blender into the interior of his microwave, jamming washcloths around them. After taping the bottom of a box, he set the appliance inside and shoved a sheet around it.
Any minute now Cassie would be pounding on his door.
Tape roller in hand, he put together four more boxes. He pulled containers and junk from his cabinets and drawers, packing everything but his coffee pot and one mug. How had he accumulated so much cooking stuff and plates? Reaching up on the wall, he snatched two roadside fruit signs he and Cassie had found at a church bizarre last spring. All of his cabinets were empty, except for one nosy cat who insisted on sniffing every corner. He’d keep the doors open a few inches so Furball could come and go as he pleased. The food in the pantry remained. He’d make more boxes and tackle that job next.
He stopped and frowned.
Still no Cassie.
Had she given up and gone home? He carried the box containing his microwave into the living room and peered out the sliding glass doors overlooking the parking lot.
Holy Mother of God!
How in the fuck had she gotten his Harley untied and out of the trailer? She’d pushed it onto the small patch of yard in front of the apartment building. All of his neckties flapped from the handlebars and what looked to be his jock strap was stretched across the back of its seat. Jammed into the ground at both ends of his bike were his water skis. The rope that had
