“O-o-o-kay.” Steven placed a scone on his plate and cut it open before applying liberal amounts of clotted cream. “Your point is?”

“My relationship with Quinn is the virus.”

Steven frowned at his scone then at me. “That sounds unhealthy.”

“Yes, in some ways it most likely is. And, for some relationships, it most definitely is. But it’s not for us, not really. Every relationship is like a virus—where two people negotiate and change, stretch and grow, recruit and assimilate until you’re two things, but also one thing, one entity, working together.”

“So, are you the virus or the host cell?”

“The relationship is the virus, and both Quinn and I, separately, are the host cells. The key is to find a relationship, a virus, that encourages you to be stronger, a better person, but also be able to show weakness without fear of exploitation—a relationship that challenges you, but also makes you happy and lifts you up.”

Steven’s expression hovered between incredulous and amused. “Don’t some viruses cause cancer?”

“Yes.” I nodded, ceding the point, and began thinking through the ramifications of the expanded analogy out loud. “And some viruses irrevocably change your DNA. But that’s like a relationship too, isn’t it? Some relationships can change how we see ourselves for better or for worse—as you say, in chronically unhealthy ways, like a cancer. And some do the opposite. They make us realize our potential.”

“Huh,” came his thoughtful response. He studied me for a protracted moment before saying, “I love you, Janie. Only you can compare a relationship to a disease and make it sound both romantic and terminal.”

CHAPTER 6

For the first time in my life, I was wearing a ball gown.

It itched.

However, it had also elicited a prolonged, heated stare from my fiancé—likely because it was strapless and necessitated a likewise strapless bustier with a pushup bra. My br**sts were distracting even to me, especially when I drew in a deep breath. They kept popping up in my peripheral vision, and I caught myself staring down at my chest wondering who they belonged to.

Given Quinn’s preoccupation with them in general, I imagined that to him, my squeezed-in pushed-up br**sts were like two pale mounds of hypnotizing flesh.

I’d spent most of the day shopping for necessary undergarments for the gown since I had nothing even close to appropriate. Quinn, to my total shock and surprise, cleared his schedule so that he could come with me. While we were out, he’d also made a point to have me try on, model, and purchase a good amount of bridal lingerie.

I was pleased to see he was taking the wedding planning seriously.

The ball gown was a deep burgundy silk and sequined with dark red and black beadwork. It was fitted through the lower waist then flared dramatically to the floor. It also had a quantity of black feathers—a modest gather at one side of the waist that increased in width and spread down the right side of the skirt like a fan.

I didn’t choose the gown. It was sent to Quinn by the foundation hosting the ball after we RSVPed for the event. I didn’t discover until later that, along with the RSVP, his secretary—Betty—had sent in a recent picture of me along with my measurements.

All the women in attendance had been instructed to wear the provided dresses, which would be auctioned for the sake of the charity.

Under any other circumstances, beautiful as it was, I never would have worn it. Cleavage issues aside, I didn’t know where to put my arms. If they hung down loosely at my sides, the beads of the bodice scratched the sensitive underside of my biceps. If I crossed them over my chest, my boobs went from mountainous to volcanic.

I tried putting my hands on my hips, which worked for a short time, but it wasn’t a long-term solution because it made me look like a stern peahen teacher.

I was debating all of this when Dan and Steven arrived. Of course, Steven took one look at me and the awkward no-man’s-land placement of my arms and made an obvious suggestion.

“Why don’t you wear opera gloves?” He said.

A call to the concierge, and fifteen minutes (of me holding my arms away from my body) later, and we were on our way—with opera gloves.

Yet again, Quinn was Sir McCoolpants Von No Touchy in the limo. I surmised that this time it had more to do with the two other people riding with us than preoccupation on his part. In fact, I was quite thankful for Dan and Steven’s presence; limo rides with McHotpants were notorious for throwing carefully applied makeup into a blender of disorder.

One time I walked into a fancy restaurant and my face was clown-town appropriate.

We arrived at the venue, and I quickly I decided that the charity event, which I hadn’t actually given much thought to until two hours before it was time to leave, was really just an excuse for rich people to get dressed up.

I came to this conclusion after asking Quinn, Dan, Steven, three random ladies, and two older gentlemen what the name of the charity was—and no one knew. Furthermore, no one knew what the charity supported, even in general terms.

Once we were inside the event space, I modified my theory. Rich people go to charity events to get dressed up, glare at people they don’t know, and pretend to have a good time.

The space was magnificent—a gigantic ballroom with a wide, domed stage; a mixture of art deco and neo classical architectural elements; cream colored walls, marble columns, and gold leaf accents. Tables were arranged around a dance floor, and huge, ostentatious centerpieces of flowers, gold and white beaded stars, and ribbon jutted three feet upward in a topiary style.

Tangentially, I wondered how much the event cost to host and, given the grandeur, how it could possibly break even.

The stage was occupied by a small orchestra, and I recognized the piece being played as Mozart. I craned my neck to obtain a better look and spotted several brass instruments—trombones, trumpets, and even a tuba—lined off to one side.

During my neck craning I accidentally bumped into a stout gentleman and watched with mortification as a few drops of his drink spilled to the floor. I withdrew my fingers from Quinn’s and reflexively placed my gloved hand on his back.

“Oh, I am so sorry. Please accept my apology, sir.”

The man glanced over his shoulder, and I immediately recognized his jowls. It was Mr. Carter, our primary corporate security liaison with Grinsham Banking and Credit Systems.

When he saw me, his eyes widened and he turned completely around, offering his hand. “Not at all, not at all—why….” he paused, white bushy eyebrows lowered over his brown eyes as they ping-ponged over my form. They halted on my hair, which I’d worn down around my back and shoulders instead of up in a bun. I was also currently wearing contacts, whereas yesterday during our meeting I’d been wearing my glasses. “Miss Morris, is that you?”

I took his hand in mine, gave it a firm shake, and released it. “Yes, Mr. Carter. It is I, Janie Morris. I’m terribly sorry about your drink, but I was trying to see the stage. Did you notice that there are several brass instruments not in use?”

He blinked at me, and I wasn’t entirely certain he’d heard my question.

Quinn stepped closer to my side. “Mr. Carter,” he said, drawing the older man’s attention.

“Oh, Mr. Sullivan…of course.” Mr. Carter seemed to give himself a little shake before he continued. “Greatly pleased to see you in attendance. These functions are a tax on one’s time, but they do allow for additional discourse outside of the office, you know. Your Miss Morris is quite lovely.”

Quinn nodded, but said nothing, because Mr. Carter was once again eying the length of me.

Yesterday afternoon, during the meeting with Mr. Carter and his team, Quinn had introduced me as Ms. Morris, Director of Corporate Accounts, and my fiancée. At the time, the label had been unexpected and felt a little out of place.

Now, however, I felt grateful that the nature of our relationship had been established, because Mr. Carter’s gaze hadn’t moved from my bodice for the last four seconds.

I glanced down at the dress, my distracting cle**age, and my hands went to my hips.

“You can buy it,” I said.

Mr. Carter’s gaze jumped to mine. “I…what…pardon?”

“The dress,” I clarified, meeting his gaze and giving him a warm smile. “The dress is for sale, to benefit…the charity.” I hoped he wouldn’t ask me which charity, because then I would have to admit that I had no idea.

Quinn cleared his throat. I felt his arm wrap around my waist, and he brought me against his side. “We’re going to find our table.”

Again, Mr. Carter seemed to shake himself before turning his attention to Quinn and responding. “Oh, yes. I believe we’re all seated together, table seven. Nice spot. Near the bar. Very convenient arrangement as I should like to discuss with you options for private security for some of our board members and their families.”

Quinn’s body stiffened next to mine, and I only noticed because we were pressed together. Outwardly, his expression was calm and unchanged.

“I’d be happy to make some recommendations,” he said, his voice tempered, measured. “But my firm is in the process of moving out of the private security business.”