Chapter 27
TWENTY-SEVEN
ZOEY
When I pull up to Quinn’s house a little after six, I kill the engine and take a deep breath.
Everything tonight needs to be perfect. The expectation of giving someone their first real date is a lot, and I want it to be memorable.
I double-check myself in the vanity mirror and swipe a pinkie underneath my glasses to catch a few rogue mascara flakes.
I grab the flower bouquet resting on the passenger seat, step up the front porch of Quinn’s house, and knock.
When it opens, my breath halts. How is this my girlfriend?
Quinn’s hair is full and bouncing, the fresh coconut conditioner scent reaching my nose.
She’s wearing a long, fitted winter skirt, knee-high boots, and a button-down that is popping her cleavage enough to make my mouth water.
If I could just bury myself into her chest from here until eternity, I’d die a very, very happy woman.
“What? Oh my gosh, look at you. Quinn Lee, I think you might truly be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
” There’s a playfulness to my tone, but I’m dead serious. This woman steals the air from me.
“Did you bring me flowers?” she asks when I hand her the bouquet. She brings the pink and lavender roses to her nose, closes her eyes, and sniffs. “These are beautiful, thank you.”
She presses her lips softly into mine, probably not wanting to smear any of our lipsticks. But right now, I don’t care about messing up hair or makeup. I want to ravish her in the bedroom, cavewoman-style. Dinner can wait.
I follow Quinn to the kitchen where she digs down a vase from a cabinet and fills it with water. “I cannot wait to show you everything I have planned for tonight,” I say.
A grin tugs at her lips as she stuffs the flowers inside the vase. “I am both curious and kind of terrified.”
“Terrified? Why?”
Quinn shrugs. “I’ve never gone on a date like this before. What if I say or do something completely inappropriate?”
“I hope you do,” I say with a grin.
After she adds the flowers, she leans her head on my chest and wraps me in a hug. “Thank you for everything. It’s already a perfect evening.”
I kiss the top of her head. “We haven’t even started, yet.”
“I know.” She pulls back and plants a kiss on my mouth. A little fuller, a little stronger, and grips me tight into her.
Fifteen minutes later as my windshield wipers fight off the snow, I pull the car up to park alongside my bakery.
Quinn dashes a glance between me and my shop. “Did you forget something?”
“No, you’ll see. Come on.” We hop out of the car and dash to the entrance. I jiggle the keys into the door, step inside, and hold the door open for Quinn.
Her eyes grow and she takes a sharp inhale. “Zoey…” A soft grin tugs at her lips as her head moves slowly, her eyes scanning every inch of the space.
This is the exact reaction I’m looking for.
For the past week, I’ve been decorating for the holidays, so I’ve already strung the white lights, and put up the artificial tree in the corner.
But after I closed shop today, Luna and I tore around this place to turn it into a five-star-worthy restaurant.
Dozens of flame-free candles scatter the space.
With the blinds closed, the candles and white Christmas lights cast a beautiful soft glow around the bakery.
In the middle of my shop, I pulled one of my round café tables into the center, covered it with white linen, added a vase of flowers, and a beautiful place setting—crystal wine glasses, white-and-gold plates, water glasses, linen napkins, and silverware.
“Zoey, this is perfect,” Quinn says as I pull out her chair. She smooths her skirt under her bottom and slides in. “It’s absolutely beautiful.”
My grin overtakes my face. “One second, I’ll be right back.” I swing through the kitchen doors, and trot over to Luna, who’s just pulling items out of the oven.
“Hey there,” she says, setting the pans on top of the stove. “Perfect timing.”
“Everything smells amazing.” I check over her shoulder at the bubbling food. “And looks amazing. Wow, you’ve really outdone yourself. Is everything set?”
“Yep. Food is ready, wine is corked, dessert is prepped. You are officially ready to impress the hell out of your lady.” She plates up the food onto a tray, then tugs off the oven mitts and tosses them to the side. “I’m going to sneak out the back and leave you two be.”
Luna is staff, not a friend, and that is the only reason I’m not giving her a big, fat hug right now.
After I came up with the idea to have a private meal here, she offered to cook, saying it was the perfect opportunity for her to get some practice for her dream profession.
Someday, Luna’s going to leave me to open a catering business.
And based on the way everything looks and smells, she’ll do amazing.
“You are the best. I cannot thank you enough for everything.”
Luna nods with a smile, picks up the envelope of cash I paid her to cater tonight, tugs on her coat, and sneaks out the back.
I use my butt to open the swinging door, holding the large tray of food. When I set it in front of Quinn, she dips her head into the savory steam and pulls in a breath. “God, this smells like heaven. Is this chicken Kiev?”
“Yes, and grilled brussels sprouts with prosciutto and balsamic vinegar,” I say and start dishing onto her plate. “And mashed potatoes, because obviously.”
Quinn’s eyes are dancing at the food, and it looks like she is two seconds away from drooling.
Once I’m done filling her plate, I scoop my own, then fill her wine glass.
Quinn’s cheeks are rosy and darn near glowing, with an almost innocent look.
Seeing Quinn have a first real date makes me want to do more firsts with her.
“Cheers,” I say and tap my glass against hers. The Chardonnay that a customer recommended to go with the heavier dinner tonight is delicate and a little tart and easily slides down my throat. “Happy first date.”
A blush spreads across her freckled cheeks.
The flame-free candlelight casts a pretty, soft glow, and I swear I could sit in this moment forever.
She cuts a piece of chicken and takes a bite.
“Oh my God, this is so good.” She adds another bite before she finishes chewing the first one.
“Okay, tell me every single thing about what happened with Mrs. Pinkerton.”
We spend the rest of dinner talking about the day, the Mrs. Pinkerton story, and memories of Thanksgivings growing up.
As I take a second helping of the most creamy, buttery mashed potatoes I’ve ever had, and make a mental note to tell Luna how delicious they are, Quinn chats about how the holiday has been for her in the past. “Frankie and I had this favorite Chinese restaurant not too far from our place that stayed opened during Thanksgiving, so we’d gorge on egg rolls and sesame chicken,” she says.
“Not a lot different from how we did it when we were younger.”
The tone is so matter-of-fact about never really celebrating Thanksgiving, and I bite back the urge to force my traditions on Quinn.
There’s still a fragility to this relationship, and the last thing I want to do is smother her.
But next to Christmas, Thanksgiving is my absolute favorite holiday.
The food, the family, the full bellies after lunch.
I help my mom in the kitchen all day, and we make a ridiculous amount of sides, from tater-tot hotdish, green bean casserole, stuffing, and candied yams. I bring pies from the shop, and the house is full of not only family, but friends and neighbors.
So, I’m really swallowing back the urge to ask Quinn, again, if she wants to join me for Thanksgiving. When I asked her last week, she was noncommittal, and that pesky little insecurity gremlin keeps edging its way into my brain, thinking I’m pushing this too fast.
When Josie and I broke up, and I went to counseling, a recurring theme was that I was terrible at communication.
My eyes dip to my plate. I take a quick breath and stiffen my back.
I refuse to allow my lack of communication get in the way of what Quinn and I have.
She, we, us, are worth fighting for. If I’m being too pushy, I need her to tell me.
Not me blocking myself. “Can I ask you something?”
The smile drops from her face at the serious tone. She lowers her glass to the table. “Of course. Everything okay?”
I nod. “Last week when I asked if you wanted to come to my family’s Thanksgiving, was that too pushy? I know we just got together, but it seemed so natural. And… it’s super informal. Like sweatpants and Vikings sweatshirts and there’s a revolving door of guests that traipse through and—”
Her soft hand touches mine and stops me.
“I am so sorry if I gave you that impression. God, I’m glad you said something.
No, not too pushy. At all. I’m sorry if I blew off the invitation.
” She removes her hand. “I’m freaking out more than I thought I’d be right now about the farm, and that is the day before I open.
I just didn’t want people to count on me being there, and if something happened last minute and I couldn’t show, I didn’t want to seem disrespectful to your parents. ”
Oh, for Pete’s sake. Duh. “This makes perfect sense.” I pick my knife and fork back up. “Well then, we’ll make a different time where we go out on snowmobiles. It’s almost a family tradition. Turkey, pie, nap, then snowmobile races.”
“Wait,” Quinn says, stabbing a fork into a brussels sprout. “You drive a snowmobile?”