Chapter 16
Quinn
W hen I arrive home, through the back door, Mom is still in bed, so I go about packing up a couple of bins and a cooler in the kitchen as quietly as I can.
Her voice floats in from the hallway. “Quinn?”
“I’m here.”
She shuffles up the hall and into the kitchen wearing the giant South Park T-shirt she’s been sleeping in. I think some thirty-something guy she had sex with recently left it behind.
Lorraine Monroe looks a lot like an older version of me. People used to think we were sisters, sometimes. But that was before she got sick the first time. She’s aged a lot in recent years.
She takes a seat at the breakfast bar, blinking at me sleepily. “I slept in.”
“I noticed. It’s like I’m living with a koala.” Right on cue, she fires up a joint. “Do you really have to smoke in the kitchen?”
“What? You’re not baking right now.”
“I’m breathing.”
She smiles. “Doctor’s orders. Cancer has to have some perks.”
I shake my head at her, like I’m the parent and she’s the unruly child. I have nothing against pot. I just don’t believe in smoking it with my mom.
Maybe because it makes me emotional, and I don’t like getting gushy with her. I’m too fragile around her for that these days, and I don’t like her to see it.
She offers me the joint. “It’ll enhance your creativity.”
“I’m creative as hell, Lorraine. You should see how creatively I keep our bills paid,” I quip.
She frowns a little, and I deflect. “How are you? There’s lasagna in the fridge for lunch.”
“I’m just fine. And thank you.” She turns on some music from her phone, because my mom and silence aren’t friends. Bowie’s “Let’s Dance” blares through the house, and she turns down the volume. She probably had it cranked while I was out last night. “Why are you packing?”
“Because I met Prince Charming and he’s whisking me away from all this,” I say cheerily. I’m halfway serious, but she doesn’t know it.
“About time.”
“Unfortunately, his castle kitchen doesn’t stock enough butter.” I pluck several blocks of it from the freezer and pop them into the cooler. “I’ll be out of your way when you make your cupcake order this afternoon.” It’s a not-subtle reminder that she has an order to fill. I point at the overstuffed cork board where we keep track of orders. “The client is coming by to pick it up when she gets off work, but you need to text or call her to confirm the time.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And don’t forget, your dirty book club is coming over tonight.”
Mom is in about eight different clubs, and they all have something dirty about them.
“It’s called erotica, Quinn. Don’t be such a pearl clutcher.”
I clutch my imaginary pearls. “It’s not the books that disturb me. It’s the women who read them.”
“Women over fifty enjoy sex,” she says dryly.
“As you remind me daily.” She’s actually become a raging cougar since her cancer diagnosis, like she’s afraid her time will run out before she gets to shag all the young hotties in the neighborhood. I guess I can’t blame her.
“Speaking of which,” she says. “Did you see that delivery guy the other day? In his little uniform, with the shorts? Those legs.”
“Wow. The electrician’s coming to look at that wonky outlet this afternoon,” I remind her, neatly avoiding chatting about men’s body parts. It’s another thing I don’t do with my mom.
“I have a calendar app, Quinn.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I tease. “I didn’t realize women over fifty knew how to use such things.”
“Brat. Are you working today?”
“I’m not at Champagne again until tomorrow. But I did go pick up one of my turntables from Crave this morning. I just realized I’d left it there.”
“And how did that go? Was Justin there?”
“He was. He’s still running the place, apparently. And it was uncomfortable. But we didn’t really talk.”
“Do you need to talk?”
“No. I already said everything I needed to say to him. He wasn’t exactly heartbroken when I ended it. He only mildly freaked out when I quit the bakery because it means he has to find another cake decorator willing to work for him around the clock.” I hesitate, but decide to tell her, since it’s over now. “I guess when he decided to sleep with someone else, it killed the romance for me anyway.”
“Oh, Quinnie. Shit. I didn’t know.”
“It’s fine,” I tell her.
But she finishes her joint and gets up, comes over and gives me a Mom hug. The best kind.
“I’m all good,” I assure her.
She scoops my face in her hands and tells me, “You deserve better.”
“I know.” I return to packing. “The romance was dead already. I mean, maybe that’s why he slept with someone else,” I joke. Before Mom can worry that this is false bravado, I add, “I’m moving on. I already found a new place to bake my cakes.”
“Really?” She starts filling our ancient kettle with water for tea. “I thought you were kidding.”
“Nope.”
“Prince Charming?”
“That part was the joke.”
“So where’s the kitchen?”
Here goes. “Well, it’s the luckiest thing. Nicole’s friend Megan has this brother-in-law with a great, incredible kitchen he’s not even using. Isn’t that amazing?!”
I know I’m overselling it with brightness, but I’ve gotta try.
Mom arches an eyebrow at me, clearly not buying. “Megan… the one who’s marrying the billionaire?”
“Yup! That Megan.”
“So this brother-in-law… Would he be one of the Vances?” Lorraine Monroe is no dummy.
“He might be.”
“I see.”
As with most everything that I’m afraid might make her worry about me, I breeze past it. “I’ve only met him a few times. It’s no big deal.” I decide against showing her the antique key on the diamond keychain, which might suggest otherwise.
She settles onto her barstool again. “Really? I’d say any man who gives you a kitchen either understands you very well or likes you very much. And very possibly both.”
“He didn’t give it to me. It’s just a loaner,” I say lightly, which is true. Harlan made it clear that the kitchen is only temporary.
And that our relationship is only temporary, and sexual.
Which means I won’t be telling Mom anytime soon that I’m screwing him.
While she might be into casual sex for herself these days, I’m not sure she’d be thrilled about any man wanting to fuck me while constantly telling me we’re never going to see each other again.
She never believed Justin was the one for me, and I know she worried that I was giving way more than I got in that relationship.
Of course, she was right.
But I don’t want her to disapprove of Harlan.
As much as it annoys me, I always want her approval. She’s my role model.
She had a beautiful relationship with my dad. She’s the queen of cupcakes, and taught me almost everything I know in the kitchen. And maybe it took me until I was an adult to really appreciate it, but she worked hard as a single mom to make my life as worry-free as possible after Dad died.
I want nothing more than to do that for her now. The last thing I want her to waste her precious energy on is worrying about me.
“Don’t worry,” I tell her, snapping the lids on my tote bins shut. “The kitchen is amazing and there are no strings attached.” I think. “I’ll send you photos of it.”
“I’d love to see it,” she says cheekily, and I know she wants to see him . She probably thinks I like him. “And does this mysterious kitchen benefactor have a first name?”
“It’s Harlan,” I admit. Then I add hastily, “Please don’t look him up.” Nicole didn’t find much, but you never know.
The man doesn’t exactly give “someone you want your daughter to date” vibes in spades.
“I make no promises,” she says.
“Have a lovely day, Mom. Eat that lasagna.” I give her a kiss on the forehead, then scoop up a bin and head for the back door.
“And where are you off to?”
“I’m setting up my new kitchen!” I can’t hide my joy. “I have two client cakes to make this week. And I have to get settled and figure out my new ovens. They’re Miele!” I practically skip just saying it.
“Uh-huh. And does your new kitchen come with a bed?”
I pause in the doorway, doing my damnedest not to blush. I balance the tote on my knee, blinking innocently at my mother and feeling sixteen. “Why would you say that?”
“I just noticed that your bed went mysteriously unused last night. And the night before.”
“I’m thirty-one, Mom. And you’re sounding very judgmental for a woman who has Eat Me tattooed on her thigh.”
She does. It’s one of those details about my mother that I could’ve died happily never knowing.
She blinks back at me innocently.
She’s happy, and it makes me crack a smile. Damn it.
“Just don’t ask, Lorraine!” I hurry out the door.
“Oh, I will!” she calls after me. “And you better send me those pictures!”
“Please do let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you while you get settled,” the butler says formally.
“I will. Thank you so much.”
I’m standing in the middle of the gorgeous family kitchen that’s flooded with light at the back of Harlan’s otherwise gloomy mansion, and I’m still having trouble believing this is real. And that I have a butler at my disposal, so to speak.
His name is Carlisle. He’s standing just inside the doorway that leads into the grand hallway in the middle of the house, having just walked me in. I have the key and security code, but I still rang the buzzer at the gate when I arrived.
It felt weird not to.
Carlisle formally introduced himself as he escorted me in here, helping carry my bins and cooler. He’s so nice. I guess he’s paid to be nice, but still.
I wonder if he knows I blew his employer in here this morning.
If he does, I can already tell he’s way too proper to let it show.
I also wonder what kind of gossip he has on Harlan. Though I guess there’s a zero-percent chance he’d breathe a word of it to me.
“Have you eaten lunch, Miss Monroe?” he asks me politely.
“I haven’t.” I glance at my phone and realize it’s past noon.
“I’d be happy to have Mr. Vance’s chef prepare a lunch for you. Would that suit?”
“Oh. That would suit just fine. Thank you. Maybe just something snacky?” I’m not all that hungry. The truth is, I’m too excited to eat.
But who says no to an offer like that?
“How about a charcuterie board?” he suggests.
“That’s literally my favorite, Carlisle.”
The man beams.
“I’d like a little time to get some cakes into the oven first, though.” I hesitate to ask, but Harlan told me to treat the kitchen like I’m literally running my own business here, and if— when — I open my own bakery, you better believe my girls will be there to check it out. “And also… I was thinking of having a girlfriend over to see the kitchen, and taste some of my test cakes. Would that be okay?”
“Of course!” He straightens, like he’s just been awarded a delightful task. “And will she be joining you for lunch?”
“She will if I tell her Mr. Vance’s chef is making it for us.”
“Wonderful. Shall we say two-thirty?”
“Two-thirty is great.”
“And would you like coffee, tea or wine with your lunch? Cocktails, perhaps?”
“Uh, yeah. Cocktails would be grand.”
“Margaritas? Mojitos? Mimosas?”
“You read my mind, Carlisle. I love all the M ones. Surprise us?”
“Very well. And would you like to entertain in the dining room? Or would you prefer a more casual setting, out by the pool, perhaps?”
This just gets better and better.
“Pool, please?”
“Of course.”
I add, with hesitation, “You’re welcome to taste my cakes, too. I mean, if you want to. I’d love to have your opinion.”
“It would be my absolute pleasure.”
He says it with such dignity, I believe him.
He leaves me to get settled, and I take a moment to look around the room in awe.
I take a couple of photos, making sure to include the ovens and the lush green view out the back windows. I send them to Mom.
I send them to Dani, too, along with Harlan’s address.
Me: Cocktails and charcuterie at 2:30! Bring a bikini!!
She’s been on standby for more details ever since I called her this morning on my way home; I told her I’d have her over to see the kitchen as soon as possible.
On second thought, I send another text.
Me: Bring a swimsuit for me too?!
I didn’t exactly think to pack one with my kitchen stuff.
Then I compose a text to Harlan. It’s my first time messaging him since we started screwing, and I feel weirdly nervous. Considering that thing I did to him right here, like a total lady boss, in broad daylight, just hours ago, you’d think I’d be over it. Cool as a cucumber.
I can practically still taste him.
But just thinking of him gives me an almost sickening thrill.
Me: This kitchen is beautiful. You don’t know how happy I am right now.
I get myself unpacked, move food from my cooler into the fridge and freezer, and lay out everything I need to make a couple of standard cakes. Vanilla and red velvet. I brought my own mixer, which Carlisle carried in from my Uber, and I want to run a couple of cakes through my new oven to get the baking times just right.
I’m just putting the vanilla cake in the oven when Harlan replies. When I see his name pop up on my phone, I get a sweet thrill in my chest.
Harlan: I hope it satisfies.
Oh, wow.
Is he flirting?
I decide not to text him back. I don’t need to be that eager.
I poke my head into the hallway. I hear faint noise that I think is coming from the direction of the chef’s kitchen, on the far side of the dining room, but it’s otherwise quiet. I move along the hallway toward the foyer, just wondering if maybe I should take a look around.
In the foyer, I don’t see or hear anyone, so I creep up the curving staircase to the second floor. Why not? Harlan’s already taken me up to his bedroom. Twice. If anyone sees me, I can just pretend I’m looking for a lost earring.
Harlan didn’t expressly say that it was okay for me to roam around when he wasn’t here, but when he gave me a key to his kitchen, he had to assume that I might poke around the house, right?
And he never told me not to.
It’s not like I’m going to dig through his office or anything.
All I really want is a closer look at his bedroom.
The door is shut when I reach it, and I open it quietly, slipping inside and closing it behind myself. My heart is pounding. Because this feels naughty, but in the good way.
If Harlan found me in here without an invitation, he’d probably just spank me.
I’m very okay with that.
I take in the king-size bed in the middle of the room, the sumptuous, dark bedding and the heavy drapes drawn over the windows. Other than the matching nightstands, which have nothing on them but a lamp, there’s no other furniture in the room. No art on the walls.
I’ve already noticed that while the house is kind of stuffy and formal, a definite neat freak lives here.
I wander across the room, toward the open closet.
When I woke up here this morning and yesterday, I didn’t really have the luxury of snooping around either time. He was home, and I wasn’t going to do it in front of him. Now, I can’t resist wandering into his walk-in closet.
I only glimpsed inside before. But now I see I was right. It’s like a designer boutique in here. Not just the subdued lighting, glass shelves, and display cases, but the clothing, arranged so perfectly, it seems unreal.
There’s a row of identical black suits on hangers that could’ve been lined up with a ruler. There’s a row of identical black dress shirts hung with the same precision, white dress shirts, black T-shirts with both long and short sleeves, and white T-shirts, too. All hung with the same anal-retentive degree of neatness.
And an array of ties in a glass case, all of them black except one that’s gray. I guess that’s his party tie.
I run my fingers over it.
I slide open the drawers in the large island in the middle of the closet. Cufflinks and designer watches. Dozens of them. Leather wallets. Tie clips. Pocket squares.
And his underwear. Obsessively folded rows of boxer briefs, all black.
In the built-in drawers along one wall, I find his workout clothes. Sleeveless T-shirts, shorts, jogging pants, all black. And white athletic socks.
What’s most striking is the absolute meticulousness, the arrangement of every single flawlessly-folded item.
There isn’t a loose thread or a speck of dust anywhere.
I wonder, do his staff arrange it like this for him? Or does he come in here and perfect it himself?
“Miss Monroe?”
I startle when I hear Carlisle call my name.
I hurry to close the drawers and dart out of the bedroom, where I find Harlan’s butler in the hall. Clearly, he knew exactly where I was.
I shut the door to Harlan’s bedroom behind me guiltily, heart thudding. “Um, hi. I lost an earring,” I blurt, before realizing that I’m wearing an earring in every hole in my ears, and my hands are empty. “I mean, I found it. And put it back in.” I’ve barely squeezed out the lie when I cave. “Actually… I was admiring the very nice suits in Harlan’s closet. Mr. Vance, I mean.” I lower my voice to a gentle conspiratorial tone. “We don’t have to mention this to him, though, right?”
“And yet, we probably should,” he says, matching my tone.
“Right. I’ll do that.”
I swear he looks amused. “Your guest has arrived.”
“Oh. Great!” I hurry downstairs to find Dani standing in the foyer, looking pool-ready in a flowy, see-through cover-up and a hot yellow bikini, her butterscotch hair swept up in a ponytail, gazing up at the massive chandelier.
“If that thing fell right now, I’d be so dead,” she muses.
I give her a hug. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“I brought you a bikini.” She pulls a string bikini from her tote bag and hands it to me. “And reinforcements. She’s creaming herself on the front lawn.”
I go to the front door, which stands open, to find Nicole on the driveway, watching some guy with noise-cancelling headphones on and no shirt, mowing the lawn. How many people actually work here?
“Psst! Nikki!” I wave her over, and Nicole hurries past me into the house.
I follow her inside.
“Wow.” Nicole gazes up at the antique chandelier. “Megan will die. She says Harlan is sooooo secretive. I think she literally thinks he lives in a cave in the mountains somewhere. That’s what Jameson keeps telling her.”
“Well, now you can set her straight,” I say lightly. I’ve already gleaned how private Harlan is. But I’d rather my friends didn’t think he was some kind of reclusive freak.
I invited Dani over so she could see for herself that I’m okay here. But now I’m nervous. What if Harlan gets upset that I invited people over when he wasn’t here?
“And why do we need reinforcements?” I inquire as Carlisle closes the front door behind us.
“I’m really not sure yet,” Dani says, looking me over. “An intervention? An extraction? Blink twice if you need us to bust you out of here.”
“I think I’d just let him hold me prisoner.” Nicole runs a hand along the banister and gazes up the stairs. “It’s so big, you could live here and not even see him if you didn’t want to.”
“I’m fine, you guys, really.” I glance at Carlisle, who’s standing by politely, holding the tote bag Dani handed to him like he’s some kind of coat tree while she looks around. “No one’s holding me hostage. And I don’t need an intervention. I promise, this will all make sense when you see the kitchen.”
The truth is, I’m kind of hoping baking in his kitchen will mean that I actually do get to see more of Harlan.
But if I’m barely admitting it to myself, I’m definitely not saying it out loud.