Tara Taylor Quinn - Her Secret Life

“Did you talk to Bo about it?” Michael’s frown eased the tension she’d been feeling. He was taking her seriously.

As she’d known he would.

“I started to in the car on the way home,” she said. “But he interrupted and told me not to take offense at his father. Said he’s always been a big flirt but that it meant nothing. He said his dad flirts with old ladies and little girls equally. It’s just his way.”

“Where are they from?”

“Indiana.”

“And they’re leaving today?”

She loved that he remembered that she’d told him they were only in town the one night.

“Yes.”

“Then I guess you don’t have much to worry about,” he said.

He was right. Bo wasn’t his father. And it wasn’t like Indiana was just around the corner.

Nodding, she stood. When she noticed a tiredness about him, in his eyes, she sat back down. If she didn’t get her hair done, the evening would go on.

People would be bound to notice—those in her circle always did, since looks were an important part of television work—but...the party would still happen.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’d tell you if I found something.”

“I’m not talking about me. Something’s bothering you.” She might barrel through life in such a way that she didn’t always notice the little things, but Michael was...Michael. She was different around him.

In a good way.

The way she was with Lacey.

Yeah. The thought slid into place. Michael was like Lacey. He saw the real her. Treated her like the person she was inside.

And he could calm the whirlwind that was her life.

His shrug hurt her feelings.

“Michael.” She set her bag down on the floor and crossed her arms.

Her stance didn’t seem to affect him, so she waited, watching him.

Nothing.

Fine. She pulled her phone out of her purse. Pushed the speed dial for the salon and canceled her appointment.

She’d missed the cancellation window and would have to pay for the appointment but didn’t give a whit.

“You said you have time.”

His chin bent slowly and came back up. An acknowledgment if not really a nod of agreement.

“A friendship works both ways or it’s not a friendship,” she said. Now that she understood why he meant so much to her, she knew her role. It was the same with Lacey. Sometimes you had to push those used to caring for others to accept caring for themselves. You had to be diligent.

To show them that they came first, too.

She’d learned the lesson the hard way—had almost lost her other half because of it—and was never going to forget it.

“I agree,” he said.

She remembered something else.

“You told me the other day that when we had time you’d tell me how I’m good for you.”

Let him think it was still about her. That he was needed.

She’d get him to see that if she confided in him, he needed to confide, too, or they weren’t really friends. That if he didn’t lean on her, she couldn’t lean on him anymore, either.

She had this one.

She also really wanted to hear what he thought he was getting out of their relationship. As far as she could see, it was pretty much nothing so far.

Just like her sister had given and given and given and received so little in return all those years they’d been figuratively joined at the hip.

Then Kacey had helped Lacey get the only thing she’d ever wanted. A life partner with whom she’d come first. And last, too.

If not for Kacey’s pushiness, the pretty much outrageous way she’d maneuvered Lacey into getting Jem to add the room she wanted on to her home, Lacey would probably still be living in that house all alone.

Albeit with a lot more visits from Kacey...

Michael was staring at her.

“You just said you’ve got a second,” she reminded again. “So what is it I do for you in this relationship?”

“The truth is going to make me sound like someone I’m not,” he said, as though he’d revised his earlier assertion that he’d tell her.

And while she wanted to know, getting him to confess was more a means to an end—the end being making him tell her what was bothering him.

But then she thought about what he’d just said. What if the truth was that he only spent time with her because of her looks? What if he was attracted to her?

She felt the blood draining from her face and then returning in such a rush she was hot all over. This felt like the scene with Simon, Doria’s on-screen best friend telling her he was falling for her. Was that what Michael was going to say? So like her...barreling right on ahead without taking the time to think everything through.

Her first instinct was to tell him she had to leave. And yet if she and Michael really were friends, if she was going to be the type of friend—the type of woman—she wanted to be, she had to be willing to sit with him no matter what he had to tell her.

To listen.

And to work through whatever issue he had. Or they had. Anything else was not enough.

“The point of friendship, Michael, is to trust. I trust you with my failings. I trust you not to judge me as a spoiled and selfish bitch who’s so desperate for attention she falls for gorgeous men who fawn all over her.”

He cocked his head and his eyes sharpened. “You are not—”

She held up her hand. “This isn’t about me, Michael. Now, please, tell me...and trust me to know what kind of person you are.”

“I don’t want pity.”

“You think I don’t know that? And here’s a news flash. The only thing pitiful about you is your fixation with being pitied.”

He pulled back, but in the next instant grinned. “And that is what you do for me, my friend. From the first day we met, I saw a different side of myself in your eyes and I like that guy. That’s what you do for me.”

Shaking her head, Kacey frowned. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said. “I just...”

“You treat me like a man who has no reason to be pitied.”

“You are a man who has no reason to be pitied.”

“I know that,” he told her. “I truly do know that. But even the people I know, and those who meet me for the first time...they take one look at this—” he flipped a thumb toward his lower left jaw and the obvious evidence of plastic surgery, “and suddenly they’re talking to me like I’m a rescue dog.”

This was news to her. She’d only seen him at the Stand—where he was clearly hero material. And with the owner of the little diner they attended. Or alone.

She had no idea what to say.

“From day one, you’ve stood up to me, put me in my place. And treated me with respect all at the same time.”

Wow. She hadn’t planned it that way or done it on purpose. He was giving her more credit than was her due. “I was just being myself.”

“And it’s that self that I chose to take as a friend,” he returned.

“You have a successful business,” she said, needing the truth to be different and trying to convince him that it was. “You have governmental and police clearances, and obviously your clients respect you...”

“Of course they do. They respect what I can do. And it’s not as bad as it was just a few years ago,” he told her. “But there are still times when I go for a first face-to-face meet that I see the quick look away and hear that tone of instant compassion rather than the more restrained and distant tone of strangers.”

“People care that you suffered. That’s a good thing.”

Fingers crossed on top of his desk, he stared at her for a long moment.

She stood her ground, metaphorically speaking.

And he smiled. “You’re right. And this is what I’m talking about. Everyone else in my life—including my family—is afraid to talk to me about my deformity. You just barrel right in.”