Free Men Like This by Roxanne Smith

Quinn’s clumsy and painfully obvious attempt at changing the subject pass for now.
    The two of them were due for a reckoning. Quinn didn’t owe him an apology so much as she owed him the right to defend his honor against her sexist assumption he’d have dumped her the next morning or never called after their night together in Hollywood.
    He was a gentleman. He didn’t take a woman to a place where she’d have the right to expect things he had no desire to give. He’d made his mind up to give them an honest go at the same time she’d made up her mind about his intentions, apparently.
    He put on a playful air of condescension. “At a certain point in one’s acting career, should things go well, it becomes sort of a lifetime gig.” He nodded toward the entrance. “That man there? The one with the unnecessarily large camera as if a mobile phone doesn’t do the job these days? He’ll snap a few photos when I leave. Oh, look. He’s been joined by his mate carrying an equally inconspicuous piece of equipment.” Of course, they probably missed him terribly since he’d been off filming in the Hungarian backcountry. Not much chance of running into these guys in a place like that.
    She turned and swung back to him with surprise blatantly etched onto her features.
    He tried to appear wounded, but his constant grin, which he had zero power over, no doubt gave him away. “You didn’t believe me, did you? I’m offended. I wouldn’t lie about my occupation only to claim something lousy and typical like acting. I’d go for broke, say I was a physicist. Or aide to the prime minister.”
    Hadn’t she Googled him? Even once? He’d Googled Clementine Hazel more times than centipedes had legs.
    He wouldn’t call it stalking, exactly. Maybe more like monitoring. No, that seemed worse.
    Light research. Yes, he’d lightly researched Quinn. She had no online presence, not even a Facebook profile. Light research proved rather difficult when there’s simply no data to collect. She hadn’t been kidding about her quiet life.
    She blinked. “I’m sorry. I assumed you were an actor in the same way my cabbie yesterday was a model.” A cheesy grin exploded on her face.
    Her ability to keep up astounded him. Someone capable of understanding his babbling flow of nonsense constituted an uncommon find. One quick enough to use it against him? Unheard of. “You cheeky girl. For your information, it turned out my grocery bagger was an artist.”
    A withering glance didn’t entirely hide her amusement. She indicated the entrance with a flick of her hand. “Why don’t they follow you in?”
    The photographers. He’d almost forgotten them. “We have an accord. I eat breakfast in peace. They get nice, sellable photographs when I leave. All smiles and waves, no hands over the face or crying about privacy.”
    “That’s quite an arrangement.” She turned to study the men outside. “Doesn’t it drive you crazy?”
    “Totally bonkers. But I have ways of going under the radar. By that, of course, I mean hiding out at my mum’s. Or, as is the case with my recent absence from the headlines, I get an acting gig that takes me somewhere very boring, very remote, or both.” Like the Hungarian backcountry.
    She gazed back at him and cocked her head to one side. “It’s surreal. Being here, seeing you. I can’t get over the odds. I should be at Casey’s.”
    He stuck out his tongue in disgust. “Casey’s? Their coffee is dismal, and the pastries are stale. Besides, the odds are always good if something’s meant to be. It’s a matter of fate. I met you in L.A., so you’d meet me here. Where might we meet next? It’s inevitable we should.”
    “Fate, huh? I guess it works the other way, too. Meant to be, meant not to be.” She glanced at her hands resting on the table. “I wonder if Nicholas would fall for that.”
    Jack bobbed his head absentminded agreement.
    Nicholas.
    It didn’t surprise him. Eight months plus single woman