Chapter 2 #2
Then the lock clicks and the door swings wide. Quinn stands there, holding the door handle. “Sorry,” she says, sounding out of breath as she slips a hand towel into her back pocket. “I was…yeah.”
She shakes it off, peering up at me from under the bill of my cap.
My smile falters, lost for a moment in the lamplight reflecting on her lips.
I should’ve recognized her last night. She has the same brown eyes.
Everyone always grouped her in with her mom and Jared, and liked to describe the shade as chocolate, but Quinn’s were different.
They held a hint of gold, like chestnuts.
And she seemed to have the same inability to hold people’s gazes for longer than three seconds. Or maybe it is just mine.
She takes in my clothes. “Exercising again?”
“Jet lag.” I walk in as she holds the door open for me. “Saw your lights on and thought I’d check out your place.”
I stop just inside the door, facing her as she locks it again.
“Before you leave, you mean?” she asks as if finishing my sentence.
Something about her tone is curt. I look down, watching her lick her lips as she pulls the door a few more times just to make sure it’s secure.
“Are you mad at me?” I ask.
I grin a little, teasing, but her wide eyes just gaze up. Not really hurt or challenging, but…she doesn’t answer me, either.
She wears jean shorts and a pink and white Raglan T-shirt with an apron around her waist. A braid hangs over the front of her right shoulder, my old cap on top of her head. Again.
Does she wear it every day? I gave it to her the last time we saw each other.
We were at the Loop. Madoc and Jared were supposed to race, but her dad showed up and took her home.
She was thirteen, and I gave her the hat to ease the guilt, but then she traded me her gold compass to make sure I’d return someday.
The weight of it sits against my thigh inside my pocket.
She moves past me, gesturing around her shop. “Last time you were home, this was empty, huh?”
Home…
I gaze around at the old building. After all the years I passed by it when I lived here, it doesn’t look as old inside as I thought it would.
She leads me through the kitchen and into the shop. “I bought it right after I graduated high school.”
“How’d you afford that?”
She pushes past the counters, turning to face me among the tables.
I breathe out a nervous laugh, realizing. “Sorry, rude question.”
How quickly I sink back into the role of someone close enough to her to pry.
She shrugs. “I got an investment from my mom. And my dad owned the building, so I got a deal.”
She presses her lips together, though, and avoids my gaze as if there’s more to the story.
The display cases are empty, trays not yet put out for the morning rush, while baskets hang from hoops, covering an entire wall that probably offers an assortment of breads and rolls, loaves and buns.
The front of the shop is almost entirely covered by windows, and I can see the sidewalk across the street where I stood a few minutes ago.
Several tables sit around me, and there’s more on the sidewalk outside, and I know she didn’t do all of this alone.
I can picture her family—minus me—spending a whole day together, painting, wiring, and moving in furniture and sacks of flour.
Three Days Grace or Five Finger Death Punch blasting over a speaker.
Jax probably brought pizza. Madoc, the beer.
“It was strictly a summer business while I was in college,” she tells me, letting her eyes float around the room, “but now that I’m done…”
She runs a hand down the counter, and I notice a lock of hair spilling out of the cap and down her cheek.
She goes on. “I can do more seasonal confections—apple cider donuts, pumpkin hand pies, peppermint fudge for Christmas. Soon, I’ll be adding some light lunch fare…”
“Pizza?”
She smiles. “Yes.”
But the way she says it, almost an intimate whisper but filled with joy, like a…like a kiss.
I don’t know what happens, but it hurts to breathe, and I’d love to hear her say it again like that.
I blink, swallowing and turning, looking for anything to distract myself. I gesture to the sidewalk out the window. “Picnic tables in the summer?”
She nods, and I can see the delight in her eyes. She loves what she does.
“Would love to rent the place out for kids’ baking birthday parties,” she explains. “Book club meetings…”
“You’ll need a liquor license for that one.”
She laughs, and I look anywhere but at her. The floor-length mirror on the wall catches my attention, my reflection staring back at me. It’s the size of a door, the ornate gilded frame chipped and worn. But stunning.
And confusing. This building is wider from the outside. I’d love to see the blueprints. This room seems like it should be bigger.
“How’s Dubai?” I hear her ask.
I blink. “Humid.” I sigh. “But…it’s good. People are a little nicer there.”
“Yeah?”
“Well, the penalty for being rude is heavier,” I point out, remembering that even vulgar language and finger gestures can lead to fines or jail time in Dubai.
“So is the penalty for crime.” I wander a little, taking in the wrought-iron light fixtures and beautiful butcher block counters.
“With the way your brothers still act around you, I’m guessing the penalty for crime is steep here too. ”
Laughing, she slides her hands into the pocket of her apron. “Oh, you caught that last night, huh? When I hung out with you, they’d loosen the leash,” she jokes. “But after you left… Suffice it to say, I didn’t have many dates in high school.”
She stands to my left, that side of my body warming to the point of burning. Good. I mean, not good. She should’ve had a normal high school experience, but how many dates does she need? Maybe prom? That’s about it.
What about college? She had to have boyfriends in college.
I clear my throat. It’s none of my business.
The silence stretches, and I still haven’t looked at her.
“So, you like it?” she finally asks. “The shop?”
I nod. It feels like her. But most importantly, she gets to run the show. The Quinn I used to know would’ve loved the independence this place would’ve given her. Does she still feel that way?
“Let me show you my favorite part,” she says, excited. “It’s still a secret.”
She leads the way back into the kitchen, and I follow her around a large steel rack, down a short dark pathway with boxes stacked on both sides.
I stand behind her as she flips a latch, and all of a sudden, two dark green shutters swing open. The early morning air hits me, and I move around her, my hand grazing her waist. A jolt spreads up my arm, damn near stopping my heart.
I yank my fingers away, trying to steady my breathing.
Looking out onto the sidewalk of the side street, I notice plenty of room for curb parking. First Avenue was never very busy. Foot traffic would be easy too.
Backing up, I spot the cooler behind her and empty shelves behind me. There’s a wide counter at the window for customers to order.
“Ice cream stand?” I guess.
A gleam hits her eyes as she leans out the little doors. “Tables all the way down on this side.” She waves her hand to the right, then to the left. “But not on this one because there will be a line.”
She nods so assuredly and completely confident that I can’t resist teasing. “For sure,” I tell her.
“An awning here for the rain,” she says, looking overhead before spinning around, too excited to stop. “Sprinkles and sauces, and other than cones and cups, I’ll have two signature sundaes which I’m still working on ideas for.”
I don’t know if it’s the way she talks with her hands, showing me where everything will go, or if I’m just remembering how much of a planner she always was.
I have this memory of her sitting by herself on the floor her dad, Madoc, and I had just built that would become her treehouse.
She sat up there for hours with her notebook, drawing up a floor plan, and making a list of items to move in.
I had to go retrieve her when it was time for dinner.
“I love how my shop smells.” Her voice is nearly a whisper. “Every scent is good. But nothing smells like ice cream.”
“What does it smell like?”
She draws in a breath, leaning on the little counter as I gaze down at her.
A ghost of a smile plays on her lips. “Like no school and no homework and no…” She exhales. “…no one telling you what to do. Like summer and a hot day of getting lost on your bicycle.” She meets my eyes. “No matter the flavor, it always smells like freedom. But especially butter pecan.”
I breathe out a laugh. And for just a second, I feel like I’m really home. I remember those summer days. Popsicles, crickets buzzing, and the smell of hot grass and chlorine. I’d always find her in the park or the cemetery, somewhere quiet where she could ride her bike.
Who do her brothers send to keep an eye on her now?
I push the thought away, not liking the irritation climbing the back of my neck. It was always my job.
My eyes drop to her lips, and she parts them, inhaling a quick breath.
“So…” She clears her throat and swallows. “Um, Jax told me last night that you’re back to put your mother’s house on the market,” she adds. “I was sad when she decided to move to Arizona. But I understood.” She looks back out the shutters. “Not much here for her.”
No.
Not much here. No family. No grandkids. After I left eight years ago, I never came back. I bought my mom tickets to come see me, and I met her in various cities I might’ve been working, but…
No sense keeping a house for just one person. She’s happy out West. She has friends, a community, and manageable weather.
A timer goes off, and Quinn spins around, returning to the kitchen.
“With all of our technology,” she calls out behind her as I close the shutters again, “it seems you should’ve been able to handle everything from Dubai.”
I watch her remove a pan of croissants and slide in another, setting the timer again.