Chapter 34
THIRTY-FOUR
AUGUST
“You’re being too tender with it. Did moving south turn you soft?”
I stifle a grin, attempting to look chastised.
“Don’t you smirk at me. You think I can’t see you?”
“Of course, Mama. I’m terribly sorry.”
Only I’m not really.
Well, I’m sorry that my mother is in pain and that the hurting is making her snippier than she would normally be. But I’m not sorry to be on the receiving end of her scolding. Because as I deal with her continuous corrections, I can’t help but be grateful that she’s still around to give them.
Not everyone walks away from a fifteen-foot fall. When I got my dad’s call and heard the fear in his voice, I was terrified that my hurried trip back north would be some sort of goodbye.
But she’s going to be okay.
“Sure you are,” my mother grumbles from her wheelchair, hovering behind me. “You’ve got three times the muscle as your lady, but I bet she could knead that dough better than you if I called her in here.”
Now I can’t hide my smile. It’s too good to hear my mom praise Quinn in the subtle way she does.
In the back kitchen of my parents’ bakery, I’m surrounded by the smells of yeast and herbs. Leaning to the side slightly, I can peer through a small window to the front of the shop, where a few square tables are arranged. Seated at one is my girlfriend.
Quinn has her crimson hair piled on top of her head and that adorable set of red-framed glasses perched on her nose. She’s completely focused on the laptop in front of her, typing away, taking only short breaks to glance at printouts scattered across the table beside her.
How she’s able to dive into someone else’s finances at four in the morning is beyond me. I was barely able to roll myself out of bed when the alarm went off, and I’m relatively used to bakery hours. I told her she could sleep in.
Instead, she joined me in the shower, waking me up by kneeling down and wrapping her hot mouth around me.
I tuck the memory away as the telltale pinpricks of frost begin scattering over my skin.
If I freeze this dough, my mother will give me hell.
“All right. That’s good enough. Put it aside to rise and go give Quinn one of the cinnamon buns. Your father should be done frosting them by now.”
While I use a wet cloth to wipe flour off my hands, I stare down at my mother. “I would bet a good deal of money that this is not what the doctor meant when he told you to rest this next month.”
One day out of the hospital, and Samantha Nord demanded we reopen the bakery and that she be taken in to supervise, even if her two sprained wrists meant she could do nothing other than talk to us.
Or at us, more like.
“And haven’t I always warned you against gambling? Now take me to your father and feed your woman before she finds some other handsome man who will. You know they’re practically roaming the streets up here.”
Chuckles sneak from my chest as I grip the handles of her wheelchair, carefully guiding her farther into the kitchen. “You’re having trouble with packs of single men nowadays? Are they getting into your garbage cans like the bears?”
She glares over her shoulder at me, but I spot the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Mama is normally more prone to smiling, but the problem is, she hates nothing more than feeling useless. Having to wait weeks to heal is going to destroy her nerves.
“Not that bad. But I had a young lady working the register, and you would’ve thought I’d started including free nude magazines with my pastries the way this place started filling with the single men. They only calmed down after she got a ring on her finger.”
“You think she got engaged for some peace at work?”
Mama shakes her head. “Oh, no. She’s still unattached. She bought the ring for herself. I was going to introduce the two of you next time you visited. But I like your Quinn.”
“You do?” I steer her around the bread slicer and come upon my dad decorating a cake.
He’s not great at the actual baking aspect of this job, but offer him a piping bag, and his huge hands will sculpt the most delicate of designs.
“Do what?” Dad asks, straightening and pushing a set of reading glasses up to his forehead.
“I was just telling August, I’ve rethought my matchmaking scheme because I like his fire starter better.”
“Mama,” I chide, glancing over my shoulder to make sure Quinn hasn’t wandered back here and overheard the descriptor.
“What? I wasn’t insulting her.”
“Still. She’s working on her control. It’s kind of a sensitive topic.”
“Fine, fine. But I still like her.”
“Me too.” My dad gives me a huge grin, and my lips curve in response.
“Glad we all agree.” I scratch the back of my neck, suddenly overwhelmed with a sense of self-consciousness. It’s not that I doubted that my parents would like Quinn. She’s sweet and spicy, and she makes me happy.
But seeing how easily they fall for the Pyro is more proof that she’s my dream woman and that losing her would be the biggest blunder in my life to date.
Problem is, I have no relationship experience.
I can’t help the onset of anxiety and an evil little voice in my head claiming I’m going to screw this up.
“You’re worrying. What are you worrying over?” My mother taps her cast against my leg to get my attention.
“Nothing,” I mutter.
“It’s not nothing. What has you frowning like that when we’re saying how much we like your Quinn?”
I sigh, knowing my mom won’t let this drop. “We haven’t been together that long.”
“So? She came all this way with you. That clearly means she’s invested.”
“Until I screw it up.”
“Screw it up? How?”
“That’s the thing. I have no practice. I don’t know how to do a relationship the right way.”
“The right way? Bah.” My mom waves her hand in the air as if my words were annoying flies buzzing in her face. “There’s no one right way. And there’s not a perfect way either. You’ll make mistakes. So will she. You know a relationship is working when you move on from those mistakes.”
“Listen to your mama.” My dad adds his input as he returns his glasses to their spot on the tip of his nose. “Also, bring Quinn a cinnamon bun. Sugar lays the best foundation.”
My mother smiles up at me, as if to say, See?
The two of them fit together in a way I hope Quinn and I do. Or will someday.
I’m willing to put in the time and effort to make that happen. I’m also willing to move past any mistakes, especially because I have trouble imagining Quinn doing anything that would upset me.
Without another word, I turn to the counter, where a tray of warm cinnamon rolls awaits.
Carrying a plate with two treats, I head back toward the front of the restaurant, leaving my father to deal with Mama’s loving dictatorship.
Only, when I get to the sitting area of the shop, I pause.
Quinn is so lost in her work that I don’t think she hears me walk into the room.
Her fingers dance rapidly over her keyboard, filling the quiet of the morning with soft tapping.
I hover in the doorway, watching her. The whole scene is soothing, like the smell of hot chocolate.
I want to drink her down in greedy gulps.
After a minute or two passes, I realize she is truly and deeply ingrained in her work.
What would a good boyfriend do?
Probably leave her to it, let her finish, since it’s obviously very important.
But I have cinnamon rolls. A good boyfriend wouldn’t walk away without offering her something to eat. Right?
I waver, finally deciding to approach as quietly as possible, set the pastries down, and then back away slowly in hopes that I go unnoticed.
The maneuver would be easier if I wasn’t so large.
Halfway across the front room, my toe catches on a stool, sending the seat clattering and me wobbling, desperate to hold on to the rolls.
When I regain my balance, I find Quinn staring at me, a smirk on her face.
“I think I understand the layout of Lois even better now. You wanted all that space to accommodate Viking-sized bodies.” She runs her gaze from my toes to my forehead.
Tension eases when I realize she’s not mad about the interruption. I settle in a seat across from her, laying the cinnamon buns I saved on the bit of table not covered in her work.
“You caught me. I’ve tripped over enough furniture in this place to leave me with permanent bruises.”
My Pyro grins, then tilts one eyebrow up in question. “You sharing?”
A red-painted nail taps the edge of the plate, and I eagerly nod.
“For you. Thought you’d be getting hungry.”
“You thought right.” Quinn picks up a pastry, the still-warm icing dripping over her fingers. When she takes a bite, an erotic moan rumbles from her chest. “Did you make these?” She sucks on her sugar-coated thumb, making my dick twitch.
“The base. Yes. My dad did the icing. Group effort.”
Quinn finishes after only two more bites, leaving me impressed and horny. My insides are solid ice.
“You all work well together.”
“Years of practice.” My answer sounds distracted to my own ears as I home in on a smear of frosting on her bottom lip.
“But they do okay without you?”
Since we’re talking about my parents, I shove all sexy thoughts to the back of my mind.
“Normally. When my mom isn’t out of the game. Dad has never really gotten the hang of bread. Pretty sure he still can’t tell the difference between a teaspoon and a tablespoon.”
Quinn nods, tapping a few keys on her laptop in an almost-idle manner. “So, you’re probably sticking around until your mom is back in commission?”
My fingers reach to scratch the back of my neck without conscious thought. “Honestly, I haven’t made any firm plans. But this is their source of income. They lose this, they lose everything. I can’t let that happen.”
“Of course not.” Quinn reaches across the table to clasp my free hand, the warmth of her skin against mine automatically soothing me.
But I can’t help but think that a good boyfriend would’ve said something else.