Epilogue
QUINN
Iwatch Miller whisk up a pot of mashed potatoes.
We’re at my house, practicing the dish for our Health and Nutrition class.
We have to present a three course meal to judges, Master Chef style.
Miss Deeley is one judge, the others Mr. Lennox, my Chemistry teacher, and Mrs. Wilson from the Rise’n’Shine cafe.
Miller has peeled, chopped and boiled the Russets, and he’s added warmed milk and butter, and now he’s expertly mashing them.
“You’re not what I expected,” I say, smiling at the way he presses the masher down.
“Neither are you.”
“I can’t believe you’re just doing it, without a recipe or anything.”
“And I can’t believe you’ve never mashed potatoes before,” Miller says, dipping in and licking a dollop of creamy potato off his finger. He sprinkles a little more salt. “And to think you’ve been conning all those people at the farmers market who think you’re a potato expert.”
“I haven’t conned anyone,” I protest in an uppity voice. “I’ve never said I know how to cook potatoes.”
“I’m kidding,” Miller says, handing me the masher. “Finish them off.”
“I thought you wanted me to put it in the dishwasher,” I say, adjusting my grip on the utensil that I didn’t even know existed before today. “Is this right?” Miller covers my hand and we mash together.
When Miller, Ash and I were planning our menu, I was all in.
My suggestion of avocado crostinis was met with impressed looks—until I told them it was a fancy name for avocado toast bites, and I thought herb crusted chicken and mashed potato was more adventurous than Ash’s idea of fried chicken and wedges.
It was unanimous that apple crisp and whipped cream complete our meal.
Yeah, that was the easy part. Allocating the cooking, not so much.
Forced to confess I had no culinary skills at all, that I failed at frozen waffles, prompted Miller to give me private lessons, starting with mashed potato.
“Okay, what’s your verdict?” He gives me a taste on a teaspoon.
“It’s delicious,” I say dreamily, swirling the fluffy potato around my mouth. “You know, I’m sad the market is closed for the winter.”
Across the room, I hear my phone ping, but with Miller’s hand on mine, I don’t want to move away.
“Me too. But, hey, maybe you could start a potato consultancy business? Advising people on their perfect potato match,” Miller jokes.
“Hmmm,” I muse. “In that case, I’d recommend the Yukon Gold for you.”
“Because I’m like gold? You know, a national treasure?” He flashes me a grin that goes beyond cheesy, but it’s a smile I totally love. Silly, goofy, warm, adoring, Miller is precious.
“No...more like mushy on the inside.” I let go of the masher when he flicks a blob of mashed potato at me. I squeal and duck, the potato hitting the kitchen floor.
He wraps his arms around me, restraining me. “Did you call me mushy?”
“Mushy is good!” I say, half-heartedly fighting to free myself, but I like being held by him. “You’re mushy and squishy...”
“What? Like a Squishmallow?”
“Yes, I love squishing you. And you’re smooth and buttery...”
“Buttery? What the heck does that mean?” He mocks me with a scowl.
I laugh because I don’t know what it means, only that Yukon Golds are rich and buttery. “And...and...you’re,” I’m struggling to improvise, “you’re...versatile...”
“What? You’re mashing me, roasting me...?”
“And you’re sweet, so, so sweet,” I say, out of breath from giddiness and laughter, “and you make everything better.”
At that, he loosens his grip and turns me to face him and whispers, “I make everything better?”
I nod, my eyes piercing his, his gaze warm and tender and devoted. And that’s how Miller has made me feel ever since he asked me on a date. We’ve become inseparable, our lives entwined on a daily basis. We hang out all the time, me, him, Hamish, Mason.
I’ve decluttered the Trask’s garage while he and his Dad have worked on the Mustang, and Mr. Trask repaired the Ambrose Manor archway when a gust of wind nearly brought down the top of it.
Mom was literally speechless when he did that and didn’t know how to repay him.
Mr. Trask didn’t want any payment but Miller had suggested she offer him a free shampoo and haircut from her salon—a joke that had Mr. Trask chuckling and rubbing his bald head.
But Mom had been inspired and ordered him a beard grooming kit from one of her suppliers.
Miller says that the smell of sandalwood overpowers their house now.
And another thing about Mr. Trask—he’s seeing a woman called Jesse who he works with.
They went on a date just a week after Miller and I went on ours.
Miller said it’s the first time his Dad has dated since their Mom left.
But it’s true that Miller has made everything better. With him, and because of him, I feel appreciated for who I am, just me, Quinn Devereaux, lover of Squishmallows and potatoes, happy in hoodies and jeans and not worrying about makeup or designer clothes.
Even Mom is more mellow, the truth an eye-opener.
Yes, the scandal around the Devereaux downfall was as she feared, and she was dropped like a hot potato by many in her supposed circle of friends.
But she’s happier without those people in her life and she knows the ones who stayed and support her are genuine.
“Hmmm,” Miller murmurs, “you make everything better for me too. Did I ever tell you that because of you I love washing dishes?”
I frown. “Huh?”
“Yeah.” He runs his thumb down my cheekbone, strokes my chin. “I kinda volunteered to do the dishes just so I could stand at the window and hope for a peek of you.” His thumb flutters across my lower lip.
“Oh?” I whisper, a sweet shiver racing down my spine.
“Yeah, I was crushing on you way back when you said you didn’t want to be our delivery girl.”
“I irrefutably deny ever saying such a thing,” I say, pressing my fingertips into his shoulders.
“Ah...you did.” Miller smirks, his lips flirting with mine, just a touch away. In the background, my phone pings again and again. “Someone wants you,” he says.
“And someone wants you,” I say. “Hurry up and kiss me, will you? I can see a potato blob on the floor that isn’t going to wipe itself. ”
His laugh is pure (Yukon) gold and his lips caress mine, a light, feathery kiss that sends tingles to the tips of my toes. Gentle hands weave through my hair, and I lean against him, our lips moving together, soft, sweet, this is all that matters.
Miller is the one who breaks away. “Potatoes first,” he says, reaching for a serving spoon and plates, “gotta eat it while it’s hot.”
“Of course,” I say, grabbing the dishrag to quickly wipe the potato off of the floor.
Miller dishes up the mashed potato into a mound, dropping a pat of butter in the center and seasoning it with salt and pepper. “This is my specialty,” he says as the butter melts over the potato and he takes it to the table.
We sit side by side, our spoons digging into the shared plate, Miller trying to take most of the butter. It really is the best mashed potato I’ve tasted.
“Gee, I should’ve put it on silent,” I say as my phone continues to make noise. I dash across to the counter and check it.
My mouth falls open, my heart pounds and my hands tremble as I carry my phone back to Miller.
“Look. At. This.”
The ten second video I make a day ago of my pancake Squishmallow family doing the dusting has gone viral. My mind is blown as it now has over 15k likes and hundreds of comments.
Miller is grinning but confused. “What’s this?”
“I make Squishmallow cleaning videos,” I say, realizing this is the first time I’ve told anyone about my silly little channel. “Your pancakes are a hit!”
He’s mute, rewatching the video where my pancake family are posed with microfiber cloths dusting the coffee table, the cabinet, the bookshelf, the tv.
“You made this?”
I’m nodding, half delirious, half embarrassed. The number of views is already higher than any video Celeste and Naomi have posted, and it’s climbing.
“Oooh, some messages,” I say with a gasp, “and a cleaning brand is reaching out to me.” I shiver with excitement, in complete disbelief. “This is so crazy!”
“Heyyy,” Miller says, taking the phone from my hand. “I knew you were incredible.”
“I think I just got lucky,” I say, “but I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Well, I think I’m the lucky one, but yeah, I can take credit for it,” he says with a cheeky smile.
And he kisses me again, and this time his lips are soft—and definitely buttery.
THE END
I HOPE YOU HAVE ENJOYED Quinn and Miller’s story. Because my life has been so busy lately, I don’t have so much writing time, but I didn’t want Quinn and Miller’s story to be over. I loved the two of them finding their way to each other.
As always, thank you for taking chance on a Kylie Key book. I love to write about first crushes and sweet romance. I appreciate any reviews or ratings or recommendations to friends and on social media!