4. Quinn
CHAPTER FOUR
quinn
“ Ow , fuck a duck!”
Jumping up and down, I clutch my foot in both hands, cursing at random birds with each hop.
When the throbbing in my big toe fades, I point a finger at the shitty generator in front of me. “ I really need you to not break right now. I’m PMS -ing and would like to boil water for my water bottle. Please .” I give it another kick with my other foot and then the sound of some gear, battery, or whatever a generator is made of, coming back to life blesses my ears. “ Oh my god! Thank you, thank you. You really are the little engine that could.”
I walk down the length of my van and skip up the steps, scrambling toward my kettle and flipping the switch. This time it doesn’t trip the small generator that powers my tiny orange home, and I can finally soothe the cramps that have been pulling at my lower belly all day.
This tin can has been my home for the last six years and has carried me across twelve different states. After I left San Diego , the money I had only got me a bus as far as Salem , Oregon , so that’s where I set up camp for three years. I scraped and saved every penny I made, taking odd jobs in restaurants and cafés. To celebrate my twenty-first birthday—a gift from me to me— I bought Nelly , my VW van. She’s been my confidant across every state border, and though she’s a little rough around the edges, for the first time in my life, I had something to call my own.
The dark orange van is about thirty years old. She really struggled to make the trip from Colorado to Maine , but she’s my home. The guy I bought her off just wanted rid of it, and sold it to me for a steal, leaving me with some spare money to renovate it a little. Over the years, I’ve refurbished the small dining table and bench and bought myself a new gas-top stove. It’s not big enough for a bathroom, which is why I’m grateful Mr . Willis allows me to park on his land and gives me full, undisturbed access to the little guesthouse at the side of his farmhouse.
Sadly , the tiny kitchenette isn’t great for baking, but I was fortunate enough to work with some generous people over the years who allowed me after-hours access to state-of-the-art kitchens and appliances. I’d sell whatever baked goods I made at local farmers’ markets or made bespoke cakes for friends of friends, though for a long time, it remained a hobby until I saved up the money to start my own business. It was hard work, and it wasn’t uncommon for me to put in over sixty hours a week. But it got me where I am today.
I can’t help but shimmy my shoulders whenever I remind myself of that. I did it . No handouts, no loans, no shortcuts.
As I carefully pour the steaming liquid into my fuzzy water bottle, my triumphant mood fizzles out. I may own my van, but the bakery isn’t 100 percent mine. Realizing my finances aren’t as organized as I’d hoped felt like owning it officially was a pipedream. Whenever I think about asking for help, those intrusive and spiteful voices whisper words of disappointment and resentment down my ear.
I have to do this on my own.
Quinn Jackson , get your lazy, fat ass in that kitchen and start our supper.
It’s funny how words left more of a sting than the slap across my face that usually followed that demand.
I will not allow myself to be dragged down misery lane!
Settling on the small bed tucked at the rear of the van, I swaddle myself in blankets, and groan when the heat soothes my cramps. The lumpy mattress needs replacing, but money isn’t a blessing right now.
Fucking ovaries.
It’s been a few days since Jo came into the bakery and I chickened out. She sensed my hesitation from miles away, and I hated that I made her think she was overstepping. It should have been simple for me to explain that now isn’t the right time for us to work together. Instead , I allowed old insecurities to take the wheel.
If and when I get my books in order, then I can think about collaborating with the restaurant. After that, I pray I can convince a bank to lend me the money to buy the bakery. Mr . Willis , the elderly gentleman I rent the space from, has mentioned on a number of occasions he wants to move away from commercial properties, and when that time comes, I want to be the person he sells to.
If only I knew an accountant.
Maybe Graham has forgotten about my tipsy introduction.
“ Stop being ridiculous,” I scold myself when I switch on my laptop and pull up accounting articles, hoping they can educate me. “ The guy probably doesn’t even remember my name, let alone who I am.”
“ There you go, Mr . Willis . One blueberry scone and cappuccino.” I place the coffee and plate in front of my stoic landlord, who sits at a table by the window, where the late afternoon sun pours into the bakery like a blanket of sunshine.
“ Thanks , Quinn . Looks good. Please call me Martin , though.”
He’s a nice man, hard to read, and has been nothing but helpful since I started renting from him earlier in the year. At first I thought he was one of those nosy landlords, but I’ve come to learn he has a huge sweet tooth and enjoys the company, quickly becoming one of my regulars and one of the reasons I keep the blueberry scones well stocked. He’s always alone, and from what I gather, he’s a little bit of a recluse.
“ Sure thing, Mr . Willis .” I earn myself an eye roll as I walk to the table opposite him to clear it after the last customer. I’m giving it a final wipe over when a shadow appears from through the window, passing over me from the outside. Looking up, I find the man who’s been occupying my mind a lot the last few days.
Graham .
Every day he walks past the bakery around this time with his dog, but whenever I wave, he’s gone in a flash. If he were a cartoon character, a trail of smoke would follow his swift departure.
Straightening my back, I raise my hand, wiggling my fingers with a big smile, ready for him to dart out of sight. His posture goes rigid, but rather than tug on the leash and walk away, he surprises me by picking up the dog, tucking the cute little thing under his arm, and heading toward the front door .
The second the bell chimes, the pup goes berserk, yapping at every customer.
“ Curly , not now. Please , not now.” Graham looks at me sheepishly and mouths, Sorry . I’d normally smile, but I’m shocked to see him, almost like I manifested him with my thoughts.
“ Did you want a table?” I ask, just as one of the plates starts to slip through my fingers.
“ Let me help.” Eyes downcast, he easily takes hold of two plates in his large hands while balancing the pup.
“ Thank you.” Brushing my free hand on my apron, I nod toward the dog. “ What’s your wiener called?”
Our eyes widen at the same time, because I absolutely hear how that sounds.
“ What’s your sausage called? Oh my god, that’s worse. Your dog .” I quickly turn away to set the dishes down next to the sink, and Graham hands over his stack too.
I’m too busy trying not to die from embarrassment when Graham murmurs, “ Curly . He …he usually hates people.”
“ Curly ? Well that’s adorable.” I reach over to tickle the dog’s pink belly. He’s got a shiny chocolate coat, with a tanned snout and paws. “ You don’t hate humans, you love belly rubs, don’t you? He’s not curly though, what made you pick that name?”
“ It’s dumb.” He scratches the scruff along his jaw, which does a terrible job of hiding his crimson cheeks, and a curious part of me wants to reach out and see how warm his skin is. “ It’s ironic. He’s not Curly . See ? Dumb .”
“ It’s definitely not.” I chuckle. Standing this close, I smell his spicy aftershave. Was he always this tall? He must have at least a foot on me. “ You boys having a nice walk?”
“ Yeah , it’s a good one. Are you, um, having a good day?”he asks as he puts the wriggling, whining dog down on the floor.
“ A super day. It would be even better if you came in for a coffee and maybe a pup cup for the furball. I’ve been waiting for you to show your face here.”
His dark brows shoot to his hairline. “ Me ?”
“ Yep .” I’m already pulling out a chair for him and heading back toward the cash register. “ C’mon , I’m not taking no for an answer.”
The scuffing of boots and the clicking of claws on the tiled floor sounds behind me. I’m not going to question what has him coming in after months of me waving at him through the window. There’s something about his mysterious disposition that has me wanting to peel him back, layer by layer. Like a handsome onion.
After a deep breath, Graham settles into the chair, with Curly sitting patiently at his feet. He looks out of place, sitting there awkwardly, pulling at the sleeves of his cable-knit sweater, but he also doesn’t.
He really is unfairly handsome, and I’m certain he doesn’t even know it.
Who knew glasses and wool were so sexy?
As if I said that out loud, Graham’s gaze catches mine before it darts away, and he nervously fiddles with the laminated menu on the table. He offers a curt nod to Mr . Willis who is watching the whole interaction closely.
“ What’s your poison? You look like an Americano kinda guy.”
“ I actually don’t drink caffeine, sorry…” He looks at the ground like he just broke the most devastating news in the world.
“ You don’t need to apologize for that. I cater to everyone’s needs.” I throw my hands up, gesturing toward the small space before moving behind the counter. “ I’ve got decaf, herbal tea, fruit smoothies, soda, and water. Dealer’s choice.”
He peers over the rims of his glasses and scans the small chalkboard to my left. “ Sparkling water would be good. And a, what did you call it, pup cup? One of those for Curly , please.”
“ Do you want a blueberry scone? Mr . Willis here loves them.” I nod to the older gentleman, who holds up his half-eaten scone in confirmation.
“ Umm , no, I’m good. Thanks , though. I wa?—”
“ A lemon bar? Or pastry?” Jeez , I don’t know why I’m being so pushy, but I have this sudden urge for Graham to eat something of mine. Something that I baked!
“ I don’t really like…” He looks around the room before leaning in close. “ I don’t like sweet things.”
I blanch dramatically, hand clutching at my metaphorical pearls. “ Graham ! Get out of this establishment immediately!”
His shocked expression quickly morphs into amusement when he catches on to my sarcasm, eliciting the teeniest chuckle, but no smile.
Throwing him a wink, I turn toward the small fridge and start on his order. “ Make yourself comfortable,” I call over my shoulder. “ I’ll bring Curly some water too.”
A couple of minutes later, Curly is lapping from the bowl I set down in front of him and I slide the paper cup of whipped cream and bottle of sparkling water across the table to Graham , who nods his thanks.
With the small lavender latte I made for myself, I sit in the chair opposite him. He studies me for a beat, with a look I can’t decipher, before his gaze drops again.
“ You’re sitting with me?” His voice is tight as his hands flex on top of the table.
“ I hope that’s okay. I’ve been on my feet all day and it’s that time of the month. TMI , but I think it’s important for men to understand female challenges. I’m cramping big time.”
His frown makes it look like he’s personally annoyed at my womb. “ I could head to the drug store and get you some aspirin if you want? Or a heating pad? ”
A laugh of disbelief bursts from me and a warm, fuzzy sensation blooms in my chest. “ I’m fine, honestly. Thank you, though.”
Maybe he doesn’t dislike me after all, and I read him wrong. He takes a slow sip of his water as he takes in his surroundings. The bakery’s decor is such a contrast to his beige sweater and dark brown corduroy pants. None of the furniture in the bakery matches, each item having been thrifted and given a face-lift. I bet he despises the pink wallpaper with rows of lemons and raspberries, and I’d put money down that he thinks the handmade pom-poms hanging from the ceiling are childish. But I like it. If people didn’t know who owned the bakery, my flamboyant style would confirm it.
Now would be the perfect opportunity to talk to him, only unease swirls in my stomach over how he’ll respond. My fingertips trace along the grain of the table until they go numb. I’m a new business, with not even a year under my belt, and no business plan or strategy. No credit to my name. I’m a laughingstock to the banks. This is a terri?—
“ Hey , Quinn ?” Graham’s deep voice interrupts my spiraling thoughts. He bends his head so there’s no avoiding his piercing green eyes.
Looking up at him, I chew on my bottom lip. “ Mm -hmm.”
“ You make really good sparkling water.” His face is so serious when he talks, and my head whips up and down between the glass of bottled water and him.
“ Graham , it’s water, you don’t hav?—”
“ Best I’ve ever had.”
A loud, obnoxious laugh escapes my lips, and before I can slap a hand over my mouth, a snort rips free. I don’t know how he did it, picking up on my nervousness and making me feel a little more at ease with his joke, but it worked. “ You’re teasing me, but I’ll let it slide. ”
He sits back, shoulders more relaxed now. “ I’ve been meaning to speak to you.”
“ You have?”
He nods. “ That night at the bar. You mentioned about working with the restaurant. Is that still something you want to do?”
Oh no. He didn’t forget about that shameful interaction.
“ No , that doesn’t sound like me. You must have had one of those weird shots Lenny was serving that night. Went straight to your head.”
“ I don’t drink.”
“ Well , shoot.” I laugh nervously and then sigh. “ It doesn’t matter, honestly. It was stupid of me to even bring it up.”
He doesn’t speak for a minute, his face blank as he picks at the label on his bottle. There’s something calming about his presence and because of that, I can’t lie to him.
My shoulders drop and I bite the bullet. “ I did— do want to work with the restaurant, but my bookkeeping is a shit show. With the new owner and everything else going on, I don’t want to waste anyone’s time. Maybe next year.” I shrug, pretending that confession hasn’t chipped away at my already low hopes.
“ I could look over your books. It is my job.”
After Jo and I talked the other day, I looked up the firm Graham works for. He has a stellar portfolio, with shining recommendations from a plethora of clients. I rang them, hoping for an estimate, and ended the call almost in tears over the cost of hiring an accountant of his caliber.
The bakery does well enough, but any penny I make is either invested or saved for a potential down payment on a mortgage.
This conversation is going downhill fast. “ I appreciate that, but I wouldn’t be able to afford it.”
“ Oh , I wouldn’t expect you to pay me,” he offers, sitting up straighter.
That twinge of discomfort pulls deep in my chest. Accepting help isn’t a bad thing, yet the sound of her raspy voice in my head tells me otherwise. “ I can’t let you do that.”
His passive expression slips into something like surprise, but his furrowed brows are gone before I can blink. He pulls his wallet out and passes me a business card. Fancy . “ Why don’t you sleep on it? I think teaming up would be a great idea. I can help with the finances and when you’re ready, we can talk about you working with the restaurant.”
The rectangular card is balanced on my fingertips, and I spot his contact details on there. “ You could call me, you have my number, right?” I’m not sure why the idea of him finally using my number excites me.
He opens his mouth and then clamps it shut, his eyes bouncing around in front of him as he looks for his response. “ No . I , um, my sweater rubbed some of the numbers off after you left. If you text the one on the card, I’ll save it in my phone.”
“ Oh . Okay , yeah, of course.” It stings more knowing he didn’t even save it in his phone. My chair scrapes across the floor as I stand abruptly. This embarrassing conversation needs to end. Graham rises with me and looks as uncomfortable as I feel, but I’m the only one to blame for this discomfort.
I’m a people pleaser down to my core and I desperately want everyone to like me. It’s clear that Graham doesn’t. He’s only being polite.
“ Thanks for the offer,” I rush out just as Mrs . Stewart , one of the town’s council members, walks in with her son. She’s quite literally the worst customer to come in and will be complaining about something in approximately five minutes, but her arrival is my escape. I make a dash for her table, avoiding eye contact with Graham .
As he turns to leave, shoulders low, head down, I finally take a breath .
I curse the people in my past life who have left me incapable of accepting help and filling me with this obsessive need to prove my worth. He was nothing but nice and any chance I had of convincing him I’m not an impulsive, immature woman starting their own business on a whim has been blown out of the water.
As the door shuts behind him and he walks down the street, it feels like my dream of owning this place is a million steps away.