“I gotta go help with dinner.” Kitty hopped to her feet. “Good luck tonight.”
“I don’t need good luck. He’s a friend,” Amy said, and went to her cousin’s room to borrow a jacket.
WHEN HE’D RENTED his apartment, Quent had gotten a kick out of decorating it to suit his own taste and no one else’s. Now he wished he’d given more thought to the future.
The large recliner in one corner was about as far from seductive as furniture could get, and while that clunky lamp provided lots of reading light, it wasn’t likely to inspire Amy to do a striptease. He didn’t even have a couch, just a bunch of plastic chairs clustered around the Ping-Pong table. Well, there was nothing he could do about it now.
Leaving the pizza box and take-out soft drinks next to the net, Quent went into the bathroom to remove his contact lenses. The paint fumes at work made them sting after a while, and it would feel good to put his glasses on.
They didn’t look bad, he thought a minute later, regarding the frames in the mirror. In fact, they added a touch of class.
When he was younger, he’d figured most women would find him more attractive with contacts, but he doubted Amy cared. What a relief not to worry about something so superficial, he thought, and went to the kitchen to get paper plates.
THE GLASSES gave Quent a sexy, mature look, Amy thought when he opened the door. The contemporary shape of the rims emphasized the blue of his eyes and the strong contours of his cheekbones.
“I like them,” she said after studying him for a moment.
“These?” Absentmindedly, he pushed up the bridge. “They’re comfortable, I’ll say that.”
“You should wear glasses all the time. They’re cute.” She stepped inside and got her first clear look at the apartment.
Amy nearly laughed in relief. While she’d been imagining a den of iniquity, all she saw were the Ping-Pong table, a recliner, a few resin chairs and, in one corner, a tier of audiovisual equipment.
“The kitchen table is tiny,” Quent said. “I figured we could eat out here on the Ping-Pong table, if you don’t mind.”
“Sounds like fun,” she said. “We can pretend we’re having afternoon tea at Wimbledon. In miniature, of course.”
“Wimbledon. Isn’t that a race track?” he asked as he opened the pizza box.
“It’s a tennis court in Great Britain.”
“Oh, right.” From a sack, he extracted napkins. “So you’ve been to England?”
“A couple of years ago.” Amy used most of her vacation weeks for travel.
“Where else have you gone?”
“One year I did a whirlwind tour of Europe,” she said. “Another trip, I went to Washington, D.C., and New York City. I love historic sites.”
“I knew you were a woman of the world, but I didn’t realize the extent of it,” Quent teased. “Let’s see…I went to Tijuana a few times.” The Mexican border town lay a few miles south of San Diego.
“It’s a start,” Amy said. “Did you enjoy it?”
“Mostly I shopped. The last time, I bought a poncho and some toys for my niece and nephew,” he said. “And practiced my high-school Spanish on the natives. They were very patient.”
“Do you plan to travel more?”
“I guess so.”
They seemed to have run out of things to say. Always before, they’d chattered away about sports, favorite shows on television—they both enjoyed science fiction—or whatever was in the news.
Tonight, Amy felt stiff and self-conscious. She decided it must be due to hunger. Once they started eating, they’d bounce back to normal.
When she pulled up a chair, the Ping-Pong table proved an awkward height, but she supposed there were advantages to having her food closer to her mouth. Less likelihood of spilling it on herself, for instance. “Oh, good, you got pepperoni.”
“Everybody likes pepperoni.” Quent distributed slices onto paper plates.
“Not vegetarians,” she said.
“Everybody except vegetarians.” When he sat down and stretched his long legs, they brushed hers. A shiver ran through Amy. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.” She tried not to think about how much she’d enjoyed that brief contact. Then she remembered the purpose of their meeting, and seized on it gladly. “I brought a list of topics for us to discuss.” Amy nodded toward a file folder she’d set next to the pizza box.
Quent swallowed a bite of pizza. “Just because I’m not bubbling with conversation doesn’t mean I need prompting.”
“About child discipline,” she said.
“Oh, right.” It was hard to read his expression behind the glasses. “Do you subscribe to any particular theory?”
“Love and communication.” To Amy, those were the keys to any relationship.
“How about safety?” Quent said.
“That’s important,” she agreed. “But I don’t see what that has to do with discipline.”
“What if love and communication don’t stop a child from trying to knock over the baby’s crib?”
“I’ll have to think about that one,” Amy admitted.
Quent downed what must be his third or fourth slice. “Want more?”
“No, thanks.” She’d had three pieces, which was her limit.
“Great!” He gave an apologetic shake of the head. “That didn’t come out right. I meant, if you’re sure you’ve had enough, I’ll save the rest for breakfast.”
“I used to love pizza for breakfast when I was a teenager,” Amy said.
“Wow.” Quent stood and closed the box. “I’ve never met a woman who understood about eating pizza for breakfast. Most of them think it’s gross.”
“It comes from growing up in a house full of guys,” she said. “Ready for Ping-Pong?”
“You bet,” he said.
“We can go over ideas for the presentations while we play.” Amy, like Quent, was kinesthetic, which meant she learned and thought best while in motion.
After he put the pizza away, they tossed the paper plates in a wastebasket. Soon they were slamming the ball back and forth almost as fast as they volleyed remarks about how to discipline children.
The problem was that they didn’t see eye-to-eye. Amy believed explanations and careful listening were vital to teaching children the rules. Quent stressed timeouts and suspension of privileges for disobedience.
He served the ball without losing the flow of their conversation. “Personally, I think there are kids who benefit from the occasional mild spanking. Since these young mothers may not understand the difference between appropriate punishment and hitting a child in anger, though, I’ll leave that out.”
“You believe in spanking?” Amy was so shocked, she barely managed to return his shot. “I would never spank a child!”
“What if he kept running into traffic?” Quent slammed a ball right by her. “My point.”
“I thought we weren’t keeping score.” They’d agreed that conducting a formal game would interfere with their work.
“Doesn’t matter. I still like knowing I won the point.”