Chapter 12
Quinn
Why the hell is he staying?
And for how long?
I wouldn’t lower myself to ask when he showed up earlier at my counter. I’d been keeping as busy as possible, my commitment to letting him go from the Falls—and my head—stronger than ever.
I won’t dwell on how my stomach dropped, or how I could barely hide the tremble racking through my body at the sight of him. I was shaken. And so happy to see him, and I hate myself for feeling that in that moment. Why can’t he just let me move on with my life?
I couldn’t sleep last night but not because I was upset.
I was more numb than anything, but all I kept thinking about was years down the road when he inevitably showed up again for a wedding or a…
a funeral. Maybe I’d be married. With kids.
Maybe I’d have a home and a whole life with a family of my own, but deep down, I’d know that everything I lived up until then would be in anticipation of what he would think about it when he finally saw it.
Would he like my husband? Would they get along?
Would that tension still stretch between us every time he looked at me?
Or did I just fantasize everything? The jealousy I sensed from him when I worked out with Noah and Farrow at the gym? The protectiveness he doesn’t exhibit with any of the others, only me? The way he kept seeking me out?
The way my body would come alive whenever he touched me?
And even when he’s not.
Last night and my little escapade to his old house drifts through my mind, and I feel fire rising on my face. God, he was still in town while I was…doing what I was doing to myself on his bed. I almost shudder, thinking about how easily I could’ve been caught.
There was nowhere else I could be, though. To smell him there and feel his clothes on me and imagine we were sneaking around, but I didn’t care, because he wanted me. It was such a turn on. I thought if I got it out of my system, it would be closure.
But now…
I shake my head. He needs to leave. I won’t be happy—and maybe not for a while—but I’ll get over it. I need to live for me now.
And I damn-well intend to, despite whatever he’s up to. I’ve got plans of my own.
I drift around the worktable in Frosted’s kitchen, the shop empty and dark as I stare at the blueprints I’d found in the tower last night.
Joy starts to swell in my chest. “It’s mine.”
I survey the layout of the building, which includes my shop and the tower, comparing the square footage to the original deed I’d collected at City Hall this afternoon.
I smile wide. Mine.
I’m not sure if my father paid attention when he bought the place years ago, but Carnival Tower is part of Frosted’s original floor plan, not Rivertown’s. What I could do with that space…
A chair outside tips over in the wind, crashing against the sidewalk, and I rush outside and pick them all up. I must look like an idiot who can’t stop grinning at the butterflies in my stomach as I stack the chairs against the storefront.
My low ponytail whips over my shoulder, and I tilt my head back and close my eyes, feeling the sunshine on my face as the rustle of leaves and the gusts of wind fill my ears.
For someone who hates speed, I do love a breeze, and now that I’m the proud owner of over a thousand extra square feet, the future holds all sorts of promise.
My work, my new place, and maybe some friends and hobbies…
And, in time, I’ll start dreaming of another man.
I head inside and close my shop door, locking it. I’m still in my black pants and chef’s coat, a uniform I wholly embraced earlier today.
I always felt more of a business person instead of a baker because I didn’t attend a culinary academy. I fit in seminars and lessons during the occasional weekend at college, or in Chicago over holiday breaks, but mostly I just got in there and got my hands dirty. Constantly, since I was a kid.
And I watched a little YouTube.
I’m a baker, though, and a practitioner of the culinary arts, and if I want everyone to see me as an adult, I need to stop wearing T-shirts and shorts on the job.
I’m still wearing sneakers, but at least they’re clean white Sambas with black stripes. I match, and matching is mature.
A car cruises by, and I open my eyes to see three kids on skateboards and scooters fly past too. I got everyone out on time today. The customers were done by two, the staff by three, and I’ve been on my own for a few hours.
There was plenty to do with the time. I had three cakes to finish, tarts to prep, ingredients to measure out for the morning, and I needed to update the specials and soup-of-the-day for tomorrow.
Making sure the place is secure, I snatch up the blueprints and glance through the windows to see if anyone’s looking before quickly opening the mirror to Carnival Tower.
Heading inside, I pull the hideout closed and walk down the tunnel, flipping on the lights.
My parents’ story still sits on the counter, unmoved as far as I can tell.
I cut a right down the tunnel and turn on the lamp on Hawke’s desk, although I hate calling it that. It’s more like a command center with two rows of monitors, all fired up with live feeds of the town, and one with some website I don’t recognize.
I pick up the blueprints and spread them open, seeing a date scratched with faded pencil in the corner.
December 1, ’19.
December first nineteen-nineteen? Has to be. The pages have a yellowed hue and the paper smells musty, like old wood. Dust and grime cover it too.
Inspecting the layout, images float through my head.
Expansion. More seating, a bigger kitchen, more ovens, a shipping department for online orders, maybe a whole sister store for candy and ice cream, a private party room… The possibilities are endless.
I grip the sides of the papers, my stomach fluttering with joy. “God…”
If I thought I was busy now… I laugh out loud.
But then, my phone rings. I startle. Setting the blueprints on the table, I pull out my cell. Checking the screen, I brace myself to see Lucas’s name, frustrated that he pops into my head again, but…it’s an unknown number. Just a local area code. It could be a customer.
“Hello?” I say, holding the phone to my ear.
But the other end is silent.
I wait until finally… I hear a breath in my ear.
I stand up straight. “Who is this?”
It’s a moment, then two, and I hear them breathe again before I’m about ready to hang up.
But then he speaks. “You locked the tower,” a man with a smooth voice I don’t recognize tells me. “Didn’t you?”
Every muscle in my body tenses, and I walk out of the surveillance room, keeping my eyes peeled. “Who is this?”
I try to harden my voice, but it comes out with a shake.
“I’m the one who left it open for you.”
The smirk in his tone crawls up my spine.
Drifting into the great room, I spin slowly, scanning every corner. “Why?” I ask.
“I wanted to see what you would do.”
So he was in here. In my shop too. Is he the one who left the phone that night?
“What will you do?” he inquires.
“Are you Deacon?” I press instead. “Or Manas?”
His low, deep laugh curls into my ear, making me uneasy. “You caught up quickly.”
“How do you know I haven’t been piecing it together with my family since the beginning?”
“Because I hear their conversations too,” he retorts before adding. “Quinn.”
My skin crawls. He knows my name.
Maybe it wouldn’t be hard to figure out. All anyone has to do is look at my website.
But I stifle a shiver anyway. He’s watched me from behind the mirror. At night. In the early morning when I was alone.
I swallow to wet my dry throat. “Where are you?”
“On the roof.”
I shoot my eyes up to the hatch, seeing my bike chain still wrapped around the handle.
“Don’t bother texting for help,” he tells me. “I’m better at this than you are.”
I back away, ascending the two steps up to the kitchen where I can keep an eye on the tunnel toward my shop and still watch the roof hatch.
“Where is Manas?”
“Still in New Orleans, I’d imagine. But he’ll be here soon.” Deacon’s voice is casual. “It won’t be hard for him to figure out where I went.”
I wasn’t sure which one he was. I simply guessed based off the impression I got from the others at the party last night. Deacon seemed like the one they worried about more.
I can almost feel his breath in my ear. “Open the door,” he whispers.
I watch the roof, my heart pounding painfully. “No.”
“He watches you, you know?” Without missing a beat. “All the time.”
“Who?”
“You know who.”
Lucas?
“He might never act on it,” Deacon explains. “He’s very conflicted, that one. He knows what’s going to happen, but he still fights it.”
Oh my God.
He’s watching him too.
“But deep down inside,” he goes on, “he would give you anything you wanted and do anything you asked.”
The hair on my arms rises. I’m scared, but I want to know. “How do you know that?” I murmur.
“When he’s close to you, nothing moves.” Deacon’s voice is breathy, soft. “Just his chest. It means his heart is beating faster, and he’s trying to hide it.”
I close my eyes, sparklers firing everywhere under my skin.
“He’s afraid of a lot,” Deacon adds.
Is he?
How is he noticing this? No one else does. Or they don’t talk to me about it anyway. Not Madoc or Fallon. Not Dylan. No one else seems to notice what I do.
Until now.
I knew Lucas paid me a lot of attention these past few days. He was invasive, protective, almost possessive. Constantly there.
Did he stay because of me?
“What do you want?” I ask.
“I want to watch you.”
Watch me do what?
“Were you following me the other night?” I question instead. “In the green car?”
“The what?”
“The old black Dodge.”
He doesn’t reply for a moment, as if he’s surprised.
“That wasn’t me,” he finally says. “Interesting.”
Why’s it interesting? He didn’t ask what the car did or why I was worried about it. Does that mean he knows it?
“You sound like a popular girl,” he offers.
Enough. “What do you want?”
“I want to watch you.”
“Watch me do what?”