Chapter 20
Quinn
I ’m decorating a forest-themed kid’s birthday cake in Harlan’s kitchen, while watching a movie starring Geneviève Blaise. It’s playing on my iPad, on a stand next to the cake.
It is extremely difficult trying to mix all the different colors of buttercream that are required when I’m barely looking at what I’m doing.
She is terrifically, uncomfortably beautiful. And a good actress, too.
I’m almost convinced that she’s actually fucking that guy on-screen. But it’s a pretty big-budget Hollywood movie, not a porn, so I’m guessing not.
She’s playing the seductive mistress who lures a wealthy married man into a steamy affair, and then very bad things happen. It’s a thriller. There are many murders.
And many, many sex scenes.
In which she wears very little clothing.
I’d probably stop watching, to protect my mental health, if she weren’t so mesmerizing. It’s both fascinating and maddening picturing her with Harlan. Which is remarkably easy, since I’ve now seen them both undressed.
I make excuses to myself about why I’m doing this. The movie is new on Netflix, so why not? I need the movie to keep me company; I’m not used to working completely alone. Usually when I’m baking, there are other employees coming in and out, or I’m with Mom.
I could put music on, which is what I usually do.
But instead, this.
When it ends, I put on another movie starring Harlan’s gorgeous ex-lover. Now she’s playing a hot college professor who seduces her hot jock student. Then bad things happen.
I’m noticing a pattern here. They definitely typecast this woman, but when you look that good in garters and stilettos, I guess it’s an occupational hazard.
I can’t believe Harlan fucked her.
I can’t believe he hasn’t fucked me in almost two weeks.
That’s how long it’s been since the night he drove me to the hospital, after we messed up his kitchen. When I was finally able to get back here five days later, it was pristine.
The staff cleaned up our mess.
Well, mostly my mess. I started that cupcake fight.
Though Harlan really finished it…
I wonder if he was more bothered by the mess than he let on. But I really don’t know for sure why he’s been so withdrawn.
When he stepped up to drive me immediately to the emergency room—with buttercream down his pants, no less—it made me want to draw closer to him. But it seems to have had the opposite affect on him.
The man’s mood swings are dizzying.
I’ve been trying to decode his mystifying behavior, but he really hasn’t given me a whole lot to go on. It’s like every time I lean in, he tells me I shouldn’t, but then he leans in, too, and harder. Then he pulls back.
And now he’s pulled way, way back.
When I haven’t been at home helping Mom, I’ve been working at Champagne a lot, and the few times since that night that I’ve come over to work in his kitchen, he’s been at work. And I’ve barely heard from him.
I’ve texted him almost daily, subtly flirting, making little jokes. He responds, but not quickly, and not with more than a word or two.
I’ve even tried looking for him online, desperate for a little hit, but on the internet it’s like the man barely exists.
I’m so fucking confused.
I’ve been trying to distract myself from my obsessive worries that maybe he’s over me and our sexy little fling, already, by busying myself with work. It’s easy, when there’s always so much work to do.
But I still can’t stop thinking about him.
Missing him.
And now here I am, scrutinizing his former lover, as if that will help me understand him better.
The lover he’s trying to protect by not even telling his family he was seeing her.
I just don’t get it.
He says he didn’t love her, but maybe that’s not true? Because he’s gone to some pretty extreme lengths to protect her privacy.
I check the clock. It’s four-thirty, and I wonder if I’m going to see him today. Or if he won’t even come home until after I’m gone. Which seems to be his thing now.
Finally, I decide to text him.
Me: I’m baking at your place today. What time do you think you’ll be home? I can make dinner.
Ugh. When I read it back—after sending—it sounds like something a clingy, wannabe girlfriend would say.
At least I don’t have to sweat it very long. By the time the hot jock finds the sexy professor he’s banging in bed with his father, and a naked fist fight ensues, Harlan texts me back.
Harlan: Not sure. I have a meeting.
I decide to believe him.
And try to lure him with sex, because I’m getting that desperate.
Me: Too bad. Sounds boring. And here I am all alone in your kitchen wearing an apron and not much else.
His reply is immediate this time.
Harlan: Shut… your… mouth.
Excitement tingles through me.
Me: Come home and shut it yourself.
He doesn’t answer.
Since that night at the hospital, I’m really not sure how to interpret these silences of his.
He didn’t actually come in and meet Mom, but when he dropped me off at emergency, he told me to call him if I needed anything.
I didn’t, because I didn’t need anything from him.
Mom is fine, thankfully, except for a broken ankle. She tripped on our rickety front steps, which I suppose anyone could’ve done, while carrying a box of cupcakes out to a client’s car. But she should’ve been more careful. She never asks for help when she needs it, and she’s weaker than she used to be. She’s tired more. She gets lightheaded, even dizzy.
And I should’ve been there to help her, to make sure that didn’t happen. I felt so horribly selfish about it, I didn’t leave her side for days.
Harlan sent us food, takeout from some amazing restaurants, for the whole week afterward. So neither of us had to do much cooking.
But when I asked him to come over for dinner as a thank you, and meet Mom, he made an excuse not to come. Something about a business dinner he couldn’t get out of.
I mean, it could’ve been legit. I have no way of knowing.
I tell myself I should just give him whatever space he needs, but maybe I’m trying to protect myself. I know my mom’s illness is a tall order for anyone to handle.
I try to stop checking my phone, hoping for a reply, and focus on my work. While torturing myself with the rest of this steamy, twisted movie.
It seems to be reaching the climax when Harlan suddenly walks into the kitchen.
Geneviève Blaise is on-screen, making out with yet another male actor. I think he’s the hot jock’s coach. I’ve lost the plot.
Harlan totally sees it.
“Uh, hi.” I quickly close the cover on my iPad. Where the sex sounds continue to play. “ Jesus. ” I flip it back open and jab at it. “Doesn’t this automatically… pause…?”
I set the now-silent iPad aside, and pretend that never happened.
“Welcome home. Hungry?”
“What’re you watching there, Quinn?” he inquires.
“Porn.”
He gives me a wicked look. “Liar.” Then his gaze moves over me hotly. “How disappointing. There are a lot more clothes than I expected under that apron.”
I try to act cool. “Yeah. I got cold, so I had to put some on. Sorry you missed it.”
He tsk s at me. “More lies.”
“What can I say? You’re a bad influence.”
Heat rushes through me when he looks at me like that. Like he’s thinking very carefully about how he’s going to punish me for that sass.
I guess it’s time for another mood swing? Distant Harlan is now horny Harlan again?
But he seems to be in no hurry to pull me over his knee as he strolls over to the counter, where he places the bottle of wine he’s carrying. Then he proceeds to pull out two glasses.
“Wine?” he asks me, starting to pour.
“I would love some. But not yet. I don’t like to drink while I’m doing client work. There’s a lot of precision going on in this forest. No one wants Happy Birthday Henry misspelled.”
“Especially not Henry.”
“Well, in this case, Henry is three. He might not notice.”
He smiles, just a little.
Interesting.
I’m not sure I know what Harlan in a good mood is like, but I think I might be meeting him for the first time.
Post-sex Harlan? That’s maybe the nicest mood I’ve seen.
He picks up his wine and takes a sip, leaning a hip against the counter.
Relaxed Harlan?
I don’t really know this guy, either.
“How’s Lorraine doing?” he asks.
I like that he calls Mom by her first name, even though he hasn’t met her.
“She’s doing fine,” I tell him. “Hobbling about on her cast. We argue daily when I catch her doing things she’s not supposed to, like getting out of bed when she needs rest. But she’ll recover. It’s her dignity that took the biggest hit. She says falling down stairs and breaking an ankle is ‘old lady shit.’ She keeps bitching that next time it’ll be a hip, and I’ll have to put her out to pasture.”
I give him a look that I hope conveys how much shit that woman puts me through.
“Sounds reasonable. And like she hates being treated like a sick person.”
“Hey. Don’t you take her side.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says indulgently, in that silken-chocolate voice that makes me melt. “But maybe sometimes what she needs from you is space more than smothering.”
I gape at him. That might not’ve hit so hard if I didn’t get the feeling he wanted the same thing from me.
I compose myself. “Am I being smothering? I just offered to make dinner…”
His eyebrows pinch together. “What? No. I’m just saying… your mom may be battling an illness, but she’s a grown woman. And so are you. You can’t be there all the time. She probably doesn’t want you to be missing out on anything because of her, right? And you shouldn’t feel guilty for having a life, especially when you’re working so hard to try to support you both.”
“Hmm. How did you know I feel guilty?”
“It’s written all over you, Quinn.”
Great.
“Have you ever thought about getting in-home care? Someone to be there, cook for her, just make sure she has what she needs when you’re not there?”
“Of course. But I can’t afford that.” I don’t really know how to explain this to someone who’s never had to worry about money. “She took care of me for a long time, by herself. After my dad died. And now that I’m the one who’s the caretaker, I know that wasn’t easy. We never had a fancy life or a big house, but she worked hard. She sacrificed. All that. The least I can do is the same for her.”
He considers that.
“You don’t like asking for help,” he says, “because you’re a lot like her, right? You feel like you need to do it all yourself. And you want her to be proud of you for it.”
I study him. His perceptiveness is unexpected. “Since when are you so knowledgable on interpersonal relationships? I thought you were, like, a hermit.”
He scoffs. “Even hermits have parents.”
“So you’re saying you work your ass off to try to impress your mom, too?”
Whatever trace of a smile I just glimpsed on his face is now gone. “If I did… it would be a waste of energy.”
I stare at him. “You’re hard to figure out, Harlan Vance.”
“Am I?”
“Yes. I really thought you were a run-of-the-mill tyrant. Don’t go getting complex on me now.”
“Tyrant or hermit, which is it?”
“Can’t it be both?”
“No. Tyrants rule over people. Hermits lock themselves away from people.”
“Okay. Then I choose tyrant. Because you might seem to hate people, but you love bossing them around.” His eyes narrow at me, and I wonder if I’m just earning myself a longer spanking. “And you are a frightening boss. I mean, I truly thought I was about to lose my job when I brought you that cake.”
“Which one? There have been so many cakes…”
“The first one. The one I brought to your office when I begged you not to fire me.”
“I don’t believe there was actual begging involved.” His eyes darken. “I would remember that.” He wanders closer to me. “And if I was going to have a waitress fired, it would be the one who tried to serve me a drink… like this.” He demonstrates by picking up his wine glass with just his fingertips clasping the rim, right where his mouth would touch it, then setting it down on the counter in front of me.
“Urgh. Nasty.”
“I know. Where have those fingers been, and why would I want them in my mouth?”
“I don’t know,” I say, disturbed. “I’m not a clean freak, but that is definitely a fireable offense.”
He looks forlornly at his wine glass. “Honestly, I can’t even drink out of that now.”
I laugh. “Then why did you do it?”
“To paint you a picture of what a bad waitress actually looks like.”
“Wait.” I blink at him. “Are you implying… that I’m a good waitress?”
His eyelids lower seductively as his gaze roams down my body. “The only thing you did wrong that night was leave my sight.”
My jaw drops. “You gave me such a hard time! I thought you hated me. And I wanted that job. You wouldn’t believe how much I made in tips on my first four shifts. It blew to think I might lose it. I was sweating .”
“Sure,” he says, eyes meeting mine again. “That’s why you were sweating.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “I should’ve just licked your glass right in front of you. You fired me anyway.”
“I did not fire you.”
I make exaggerated air quotes as I speak. “Forced me to quit.” I frown. “Wait again. You said you didn’t even fire the waitress who put her dirty little fingers on the rim of your glass?”
“No. I complained to management. They fired her.”
I laugh. “Ah. There it is.”
“Her days were numbered anyway. Anyone who works for Vance Hospitality should know far better. However, my brother Damian tends to get distracted by… other talents.”
I gasp dramatically. “You’re saying Daddy Damian screws his employees? I thought that was a no-no.”
Harlan’s eyes flash to mine. A muscle along his jaw spasms. “What did you just say to me?”
“Um…”
“Daddy what-the-fuck?”
I clear my throat. “Daddy… Damian? That’s what the waitresses call him,” I quickly explain. “Not me.”
“You just did,” he growls.
“Aaand I’ll never do it again?”
His eyes linger on my lips for a moment, then meet mine. “Good girl,” he murmurs, and my ovaries fucking shiver. Heat and lust course through me.
What did he tell me the other day? Good girls get to come… so hard.
I think there’s a buttercream leaf getting smushed into oblivion in my hand right now.
“As I was saying,” he goes on. “He gets distracted. But I’m not saying he screws employees. I’m saying he hires pretty girls because they look good in whatever skimpy uniform he’s devised for them to wear.” He looks at my nipple area like he can see right through my clothes. “Then, if needed, he has them trained. The training doesn’t always take.”
He brushes my hair away from my throat with his fingers, making me shiver, and says in my ear, “Some people just aren’t as malleable as one might hope.”
“Well then, won’t you be disappointed when you discover that I’m not malleable at all,” I say breathlessly. “I’m very, very stubborn.”
“Hmm. That really hasn’t been my experience.”
“Okay, but… only when I’m naked…”
“Then we should get you naked.” He draws back. “After I have a shower.”
“Seriously?”
He heads for the door. “I always have a shower when I come home.”
“Come on.”
“The world’s a dirty place, Quinn Monroe.”
I don’t know how he made that sound so sexy. Maybe because he’s starting to unbutton his shirt.
“I’ll have Edward make us dinner tonight,” he says, “so you can relax. You can’t be working all the time.” Then he heads out of the kitchen to take his shower.
I wash the buttercream from my hand with a stupid smile on my face. I can’t help it.
Whatever this mood of his is, I like it. Because it seems to be telling me that he likes me . Enough to hang out a bit, and not just when we’re having sex.
Maybe I don’t understand him, and maybe he’s moody, but the one thing I know for sure is that he’s nothing like Justin—who couldn’t be bothered with paying attention to the things that matter to me, yet pretended to want a relationship.
At least Harlan isn’t lying to me about what he wants from me.
Or… maybe he is?
My smile is gone as I think it over. He’s told me, many times, that our relationship is only sexual.
Is it? Or is it not?
I don’t even know, yet here I am, offering to make him dinner again. And trying to bring him home to Mom.
Dani was right. It’s my nature to nurture.
I finish decorating the birthday cake and store it carefully in the fridge. That cake took way too long, thanks to Harlan’s unfairly sexy ex-bedmate. I still have a batch of cupcakes to bake for tomorrow. So I whip up Mom’s recipe for cookies and cream cupcake batter, pour it into my cupcake trays, and get them in the oven.
As I’m cleaning up a bit, I open my iPad, and swipe away Geneviève’s movie with a pang of embarrassment. I’m about to update my grocery list when I notice a couple of alerts from my calendar.
Alerts I somehow missed.
No…
I read them carefully, even though it’s crystal clear what they’re telling me. And what they’re telling me is that I’ve missed something important.
Crucial.
I check my calendar, scrolling back a few weeks.
I tell myself not to freak out—as I start freaking out.
I go peek into the hallway to make sure no one is around as I call Dani.
As soon as she answers, I tell her, “Help me, I’m freaking out!”
“Whoa, babe. What’s wrong? Where are you?”
“I’m at Harlan’s. I have cupcakes in the oven, so I can’t leave.” It’s beyond surreal when I hear myself say the words. “Is there any way you can come over with a pregnancy test?”