Chapter 12
The New (Virtual) Normal
Over the week, they settled into a routine that smoothed out like a freshly Zambonied sheet of ice.
Quinn’s mom—whose blue-tipped hair he’d finally adjusted to—continued to improve while her stress level decreased.
Begrudgingly, he admitted to himself that Sarah exercised far more patience than he’d thought her capable of—and far more than he could have mustered himself.
Archer was included in their workout games.
The dog not only motivated his mom to go for short walks with Sarah, but he seemed to soothe her at the same time.
For some freaking reason, the dog even knew her meds schedule and went off like a whining timer if Mom wasn’t getting to it fast enough. Un-effing-believable!
She was hunched over a table, chin in her palm, frowning at a partial foundation. Intrigued, Quinn casually drifted in and peered over her shoulder. “Where’d you get the puzzle?”
She didn’t look up. “. Where else?”
“What is it?”
“It’s supposed to be the Taj Mahal,” she huffed.
He grabbed a chair and slid it perpendicular to hers. “Want some help?”
“You don’t have anything better to do?”
His eyes darted between the picture and what she’d assembled. “Not really. I’ve already worked out twice”—and I’m in the best damn shape of my life—“and Mom’s got the TV tuned to Covid Network News again. I’m so over it.”
“Mmph.” Sarah picked up a piece and eyeballed it.
He pointed. “I think that goes—”
Her eyebrow dipped in a spectacular stink-eye. “Really?”
He grinned. “I’m helping!”
“Okay, smartass. Help.” She handed him the piece, and to his delight, he snapped it in place after only a few tries.
“Piece of cake,” he chortled. “I think we’re going to need glue, though.”
“I was thinking the same thing, but we don’t have any.”
They worked quietly for a half hour. Unlike the rest of his existence, hanging with Sarah wasn’t dull. Grating, annoying, irritating, yes. She was sharp as razor wire, with wit to match. Girl was ruthless and competitive. But like this? Surprisingly, it wasn’t so bad.
He stole a glance at her. Something glimmered on her cheek, and he reached out to brush it off. Her head snapped back, and she looked at his finger cross-eyed. He pulled the finger back, but not before he registered the unexpected softness of her skin. “Sorry … just some … You’ve got … glitter.”
“That’s my nose stud.”
He shook his head.
She peeped at him through long, dark lashes, surprising him when she placed her fingertip on his jaw and smirked. “So do you.”
Her light touch shot a bolt through him, and he barked, “I do? Where the hell did it come from?”
She glanced at the bag that held puzzle pieces. “From the Taj, I think.”
Heat percolating in his veins, he ran a hand through his hair. “And speaking of the Taj, I think I’ll go get us some glue.” He shoved himself up from the table. “Need anything?”
Hopeful hazel eyes tracked him. “Flour? And TP? I can’t find them anywhere, and I’m worried we’ll run out.”
“How much TP do we have?”
“Not enough. According to the Internet quiz I took, we have another ten days’ worth. I should’ve waded into the TP wars when Lily and I went to Costco.”
He shrugged. “We’ll be fine. And if we do run out, I read about some substitutes.”
“Such as?”
“Rocks—that’s a favorite among backpackers, apparently—and leaves.”
Her mouth swung open. “Are you serious?”
“Absolutely. Oh, and my personal all-time favorite: pine cones. Never used them myself, but we have an endless supply in the backyard.”
She gave him a horrified look. “Pine cones?”
“That’s what the article said. Highly effective, but you only use them going in one direction.” He bit back his laughter and patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ll find us some TP.” How hard could it be?
An hour later, waiting with other TP seekers in a line that snaked through the store, Quinn wasn’t laughing.
Shoppers jockeyed their carts to get in better position.
Had he wound up at a car race? Adding insult to injury, just as he turned the corner into the paper goods aisle, a clerk announced they were sold out for the day.
With his glue and a few meager groceries, he popped into the liquor store next door and loaded up his cart. The place was packed. Evidently, everyone was on the same wavelength.
As he waited his turn to pay, a customer at the front of the line laid a case of Rolling Rock on the counter. “Yeah, drinking the cheap stuff for now. What I was pouring at the arena is better than this, but when you got no money coming in, what else can you do?” he joked.
Quinn peered over the heads in front of him to look the guy over, not that he’d recognize him.
The sight brought him full circle to his comment at the press conference.
The arena hired a fuck ton of concessionaires.
If this guy was out of work, how many more were?
He looked at the people behind him in line and what they held in their hands, then glanced down at his cart brimming with expensive craft beer, high-end rum, and several cases of wine.
When he reached the cashier, he mumbled a few instructions. The guy’s eyes went wide. “Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack.”
The clerk glanced at Quinn’s American Express, and a knowing smile spread over his face. “Nice” was all he said before ringing him up.
Quinn hustled out of the store before anyone could slow him down.
Didn’t want or need the attention. Hey, if folks could buy burgers for the people behind them in the MacDonald’s drive-through, why not do the same for people in a liquor store line?
Though it wasn’t a big deal, it buoyed him and got the gears in his head turning.
Before he could call any of his teammates, though, Coach beat him to it.
Bracing himself, Quinn picked up the call. “Coach LeBrun, how are you and your family?”
“We’re good, Hadley. Thanks for asking.” Coach’s voice sounded way different from the last time they’d spoken. Thank fuck. “So the reporter that’s been such a pain in the ass?”
Quinn swallowed hard. “Yeah? Any news on him?”
Coach let out a mirthless chuckle. “You’re gonna love this. He tested negative. But even better, they found COVID-19 antibodies in his blood.”
“What? He’s had it?”
“Yep. Little bastard claims he didn’t know because he had it in late February. Which means he spread it himself to everyone he came in contact with.”
“That’s unreal!” Quinn said. “So management isn’t mad at me anymore?”
“Let’s just say they’re enjoying having a good laugh right now, but I’d keep my head down if I were you.”
“I can do that. But I have this idea I want to talk to you and the team about.”
By the time he parked in the garage, he’d relayed his idea to Coach and some of his teammates about pooling their funds to help out the furloughed arena staff. The players’ pay structure was still on the fuzzy side, but they’d work it out. And in the meantime, he had something productive to do.
He walked into the house with an extra bounce in his step that made him happy to have Archer greet him with a head bump. Sarah Sunshine’s voice drifted from the general direction of the family room in a soft, almost sensual lilt. He stopped dead in his tracks.
“She quivered with anticipation as he laid her pliant body upon rosy satin sheets that matched her taut, throbbing nipples.”
What. The. Fuck?
Frozen in place, he sharpened his hearing.
“He lowered himself between her pillowy thighs, and his throbbing member grazed her wet entrance, making her gasp and faint dead away.”
“Oh, throbbing’s in there twice,” came his mother’s very practical sounding voice.
A shock of electricity raced through him. What the hell is going on?
“Well, hey, when it throbs, it throbs,” Sarah laughed.
Unsure what to do, Quinn stood like a tree that had just drilled roots into the ground.
“Keep going,” his mother urged. “I can’t wait to find out if he’s going to do the dirty while she’s out cold.”
They both giggled before Sarah went on. “‘Millicent, my love. Wake up, darling.’ He was as hard as a hickory log, and the throbbing—”
“That’s three throbbings!” his mother exclaimed. “This author needs to learn her way around a thesaurus.”
“Okay. Here’s the good part. Creamy mounds alert!” Sarah sounded wickedly gleeful.
Quinn burst out of his trance. Oh hell no! He coughed. Loudly. “I’m home.” His voice sailed out of him a few octaves higher than normal.
He rounded the corner, and two pairs of eyes fastened on him.
“Quinnie!” his mother exclaimed—without a trace of guilt.
“What,” he warbled, “what, ah, are you guys doing?”
Mom rubbed her hands together with delight.
“Sarah’s reading me a smutty romance novel about an eighteenth-century duke who’s about to have his way with the chambermaid he’s been lusting after.
” She shrugged. As though this were the most normal pastime in the world for a fifty-something mother of a grown man.
Said grown man nearly choked on his spit.
Meanwhile, his mom’s face brightened. “Come sit down. You can listen in.”
His voice cracked. “No, thanks. I’m good.”
“C’mon, Sparky. You might learn a thing or two.” Sarah’s eyes gleamed with pure evil.
He glared at her, ready to throttle the smirk right off her face. Every last one of his good feels from the liquor store had been utterly pulverized.
His mother stood and fluttered her hand against her chest. “Whew! On second thought, maybe I need a nap after that literary walk on the wild side. I’m going to my room for a rest now.”
Sarah giggled. “We’ll pick up later when Grumpy Butt isn’t around.”
When his mother was out of earshot, Quinn rounded on Sarah. “What the hell was that?”
Sarah flipped the cover closed on her e-reader. “Afraid of a little competition?”
“From an eighteenth-century count who’s not even real?” he snorted. “I doubt there’s anything he can teach me.”