Just Desserts by Tricia Quinnies Page A

“We’re good to go Paul. Just make sure your fire extinguishers are in working order.”
    “Huh?”
    “Never mind. I’ll give Sadie the good news later. Right now, I need to babysit those frat boys over there.” Quinn pointed his beer bottle at the group of brawny young men that had accumulated around the bar and were downing shots of Jagermeister. “This could get out of hand if I don’t keep an eye on them.”
    “Go to Sadie. I’ve had plenty of experience breaking up bar room brawls in Dublin. Those boys don’t have anything on a room full of pissed up Irish footballers.”
    “Thanks.”
    “Don’t forget to grab the sack in the freezer. Give it to Sadie; it’s her favorite!” Paul yelled.
    He hurried off, saying a quick “hey” to his men before leaving. He grabbed the brown paper bag in the freezer and the beers and raced like hell, up the hill, to get back to Sadie. When he barreled in the back kitchen door, except for a sliver of light from his bedroom, the apartment stood darkened.
    Quinn flipped on the overhead light and threw the bag with Sadie’s dessert in the freezer. He dropped her sandals on the table, glad he had remembered to grab them off the pier at the last minute. “Sadie?” he called out as he headed in the direction of the bedroom. “You awake?”
    He stripped off his T-shirt while navigating around the familiar floor plan of the game room in the dark. Avoiding the leather bound poker table and the snooker table; he pulled the chain to illuminate the Tiffany chandelier over the pool table. He made a pit stop in the bathroom to throw his dirty shirt in a laundry basket, splash water on his face and chest, and pull on a clean black tee.
    Quinn couldn’t wait to slide into bed with Sadie. He figured that she had a few good hours of sleep to help her heal and if her skin still hurt, he’d play spa boy again, but this time he’d dive down and play with her deeper and kiss where the sun missed.
    “Sadie, how are you?” He crept around the door into the bedroom. Sheets were strewn on the floor and the bed was empty. “Sadie?” he called louder, stepping back into the game room. “Where are you?” he yelled again.
    There was no response. Hurriedly, he searched every room in the servants’ quarters, ones he didn’t even know existed. He came up with a lot more stuffed wild beasts, but no Sadie.
    Quinn spotted her bra and panties hanging on the towel bar in the bathroom. She couldn’t have gotten too far without them. He reluctantly scratched the image of her skinny-dipping in the lake out of his brain.
    He heard muffled music. U2’s Streets Have No Name ? He rushed downstairs to the media room.
    “Sadie?”
    “Oh, hey. I’m down here. This is amazing. On this huge flat screen I can see spit flying out of Bono’s mouth. I couldn’t sleep so I fiddled around upstairs. Tried to play a game of pool, but then the water buffalo freaked me out. Are those antlers or horns on that creature’s head?”
    “I’m glad you’re feeling better.” Quinn found the remote on the coffee table and turned down the volume. “What are you watching?” He kicked off his Nikes and lounged in one of the velvet theater seats next to her.
    “Not much. VH-1 Classics. It’s a documentary on U2. Bono’s pretty hot. I get why my mom followed the band around the world as a groupie.”
    Sadie wore one of his white T-shirts, and sat with one long leg tucked under her butt and the other stretched out, mesmerized by the television. “You’re too young to get groupies. Holistic health guru, Kate Maxon, followed U2 around? Seriously?”
    “She did. And I’m not too young to understand band fanatics. I followed the Foo Fighters around two summers ago. My mom actually went to Ireland to see U2. That’s how they met, my mom and dad.”
    As she gazed at the screen watching Bono belt out his songs to screaming fans at Dublin Stadium, her eyes welled up with tears. If he shouted loudly, Quinn suspected