27. Quinn
27
QUINN
“ W e’ve got customers waiting outside,” Kinsey says the following morning, clapping her hands as she comes back to the kitchen, where I’m busy icing cupcakes on the counter where Smoke spanked my ass.
It’s been well and truly cleaned since then, with bleach, as part of the post-fire kitchen cleanup.
But every time I lean against it, I remember what it felt like when Smoke’s palm made contact with the bare cheeks of my butt.
I smile at Kinsey, and I’m sure she thinks it’s about the fact we have customers, when she jumps up and down.
“They’re back,” she says.
“We were only closed for four days,” I say.
I mean, I share Kinsey’s excitement that we have customers, but it wasn’t as if we were closed for six months like Whiskey Fever might be.
“Thanks to Smoke’s heroics. Do you think he got his name because he’s a firefighter?”
I shake my head.
“I’ve never asked.”
“Well, you should, but not before you go open the door.”
I point the nozzle of my icing bag in Kinsey’s direction.
“I think you’re more than capable of turning the key.”
She smiles.
“Yes, but I think you’ll want to greet your first guest.”
I place the piping bag down on the counter and wipe my hands on my apron.
A part of me is half expecting it to be Smoke, but I’m not disappointed when I see Sam, Dawn, Raven, and Ember.
Of course, book club girls turn up for one another.
“We have champagne,” Ember says, holding up two bottles as I open the door.
“And plastic glasses,” Sam adds.
“We thought we should celebrate your reopening,” Raven says.
“You guys are as bad as Kinsey. We were literally closed for less than a week.”
Dawn looks adoringly at the cake cases.
“Yes, but a day without one of your apple turnovers is like a day without air.”
We all burst out laughing at that.
“Come in,” I say.
I suppose this is the joy of a small town.
My regulars return, excited to see me.
Mrs. Mayberry tells me how worried she was for me.
Josh and Stephen, who live above the quirky arts and crafts store, tell me how they tried to get a cup of coffee farther up Main Street that was so ghastly, Stephen poured his down a storm drain.
Catfish’s sister, who is the principal at the local school, tells me how grateful she is that I’m open today so she can grab a dozen cookies as a thank you for some staff who were staying late that evening.
There’s a steady heartbeat of customers that underscores the rhythm of a small town.
I know them; they know me.
Some of them knew my mom.
Some I went to school with.
Bizarrely, even Silas messages me.
Turns out, he stayed in touch with an old friend who told him there was a fire.
When I go into the back to pull more pain au chocolates out of the oven, I take a second to read it again.
Silas: Heard about the fire.
Glad you’re safe. But maybe it’s time you let the thing burn.
You’re free to go wherever you want, Quinn.
So make a life you want.
Make a life I want.
I wouldn’t even know where to?—
Yes, I would.
It would start with me, Smoke, and Bones.
The day passes in a whirlwind.
The local press wants to run a small story about the bakery, which is great because it will appear on the website.
I don’t care if nosey people come, wanting to take a peek at the drama in town, as long as they pick up a baguette and some cakes for dinner.
Business is good.
And when I lock the back door at the end of the day, I feel a little bolder.
A little more confident that I’m okay here.
Because I have people around me who really care.
They’re my support system, scaffolding me so I can get through whatever life throws at me.
I think back to Silas’s question.
If I really could go anywhere I wanted to in the world, would I?
Because it feels a little like what I need is right here.
I put Bones on his lead, and we do a little shopping before I head home.
A thank-you dinner is in order for Smoke.
Not just for racing here that night and putting out the fire for me, but for everything else he’s done since.
He’s shown up for me.
He found assistance to help clean up the kitchen.
He made me breakfast this morning.
Poorly sliced toast, which I found endearing, and a wildflower he picked from the yard.
And he’s shown me how my body has always been available for my pleasure in a way I wasn’t sure I’d ever find.
I stop to grab the mail from the mailbox before I go inside, but don’t look at the pile in my hand until I drop it on the counter for Smoke to open when he gets home.
On top is an official-looking letter from the fire department.
A small part of me wants to open it, just so I can prepare myself to support him properly when he reads it the first time.
I want to be able to forewarn him of its contents.
To encourage him to brace himself if it’s bad, or reassure him he has nothing to fear because it’s good.
Thoughts of making a start on dinner flutter out of my head as I hear the sound of tires on the driveway.
It’s a small act of progress that I don’t jump.
Bones follows me to the door.
I open it wide just as Smoke steps up onto the porch.
“Aren’t you two a sight for sore eyes,” he says, bending down to scratch Bones behind his ears.
He puts his arm around my waist and kisses me softly.
“Hey, sugar. Been thinking about you all day.”
“Is that a good thing?” I ask, as we linger on the porch, wrapped in each other.
He looks tired, like he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.
I find myself wanting to keep him out here, just a little while longer, so he can find a moment’s peace before opening the envelope.
“Depends how you view it.”
“When you put it like that, it sounds ominous.”
He kisses my mouth again.
“Well, Wraith was talking about how him and Raven and Fen are going on a trip to Mexico, and I was thinking how nice it would be to go on a vacation together away from here. Somewhere you sunbathe naked.”
“That feels like a recipe for sunburn in places God didn’t intend for you to get sunburned.”
Smoke laughs.
“I’d make sure you were thoroughly lotioned up before we went anywhere.”
“What else were you thinking about?”
He looks up in thought.
“How I’d like to tie you up to the winch hook in the garage while you’re naked and tease you and edge you for a good long while.”
“I like that one better,” I admit.
He puts his hand on my throat and squeezes it tenderly.
“That’s my girl.”
“Anything else?” I ask.
Smoke shrugs. “Those were the best thoughts. Apart from thoughts of possibly sleeping in over the weekend, eating those lemon and blueberry scones you make, and being lazy with you.”
I stand up on my toes.
“Maybe that sounds best of all.”
He releases me and takes my hand.
“What’s for dinner?”
“I got some pork chops. Was going to grill them and serve them with charred apple slices and sweet potato wedges. But you have some mail you might want to open, first.”
Bones trots behind us.
I lead Smoke to the kitchen and show him the envelope.
Smoke looks at it like it’s poison.
Like, if he so much as touches it, it’s the end of the world.
So, instead of opening it, he walks straight towards the liquor on the small bar and pours himself a large glass of something whiskey looking.
Maybe bourbon.
Then, he places his palms onto the edge of the counter, glass still in one hand, and drops his head.
I walk over to him and place my hand between his shoulder blades, rubbing small circles.
“You okay?”
He shakes his head.
“Not sure I can bring myself to read it.”
I glance back at the envelope.
“You want me to read it?”
He shakes his head again.
“Just want to burn the whole thing. They’ve found me guilty, and if I hadn’t resigned four days ago, they would have fired me.”
“I wished you’d talked to me about resigning, but I understand why you maybe didn’t feel ready.” His knuckles are white where he’s clutching the counter, but I release his fingers and slip my own between them.
“We’ll read it together.”
I pick up the envelope, and we walk to the dark green sofa, where Smoke sits and tugs me down onto his lap.
The envelope is snatched from my hands, and then Smoke turns to me.
He opens the top four buttons of my dress, separating the two sides so that he can slip his hand beneath my bra.
When his cold fingers brush my nipple, I shiver.
A ripple of goose bumps forms across my skin.
And as much as I want what he’s offering, I know exactly why he’s offering it.
“You’re stalling.”
Smoke looks at me with a soft smile.
“Just need some Dutch courage and a grope of you.” He slides his hand around my neck and brings my lips to his.
Whiskey.
That’s what he drank earlier.
Not bourbon. The peaty yet sweet taste lingers on his tongue.
And just when I think he’s going to throw the envelope to the wind, he releases me and reaches for it.
With one arm over my shoulder and the other in front of me, he opens it so we can both see it.