Chapter 22
Quinn
“ S hit. It’s not cooking.”
I’m making breakfast when I realize the quiche I put in ten minutes ago is still cold and runny.
“The oven again?” Mom asks from the breakfast bar, where she’s icing cupcakes for a client. She baked them last night, and the oven was working fine.
“Yup.” I check the elements on the stovetop, but they’re not working, either.
I pull the baking dish out of the oven, cover it, and slide it into the overstuffed fridge. “This place is falling apart,” I mutter, digging through the fridge for other breakfast options. I’m not feeding Mom cereal. “How can we keep putting money into a home we don’t even own?”
“We can’t. The landlord will fix it. I’ll call him today.”
“I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry.” Of course, every time he “fixes” it, it just breaks again. What we really need is for him to buy a new one, but I don’t know if he ever will.
“I wasn’t worried,” she says, but I barely hear her as I start making a grocery list. I didn’t realize we were so low on everything. And I can’t even heat up leftovers, because our ancient microwave died last month. I would’ve replaced it already if my car wasn’t in the shop again.
I feel like I’m caught in an endless cycle of barely making ends meet, and everything slowly but inevitably falling apart around me.
And now I’m pregnant.
I haven’t even told Mom yet. I don’t want to tell her until I feel like I have a handle on it, a solid plan, and I can convince her that I’ll be okay. I can’t become a source of stress for her.
What am I even going to tell her about the father?
You’ll be a wonderful mother, Quinn.
That was the only nice or supportive thing Harlan said to me when I told him I was pregnant. And that was almost a week ago.
The only thing worse than the torment of stopping myself from reaching out to check on how he’s doing is the fact that he’s barely reached out to me. He’s become even more withdrawn, and when I stopped texting him two days ago, he went silent.
I’m dying to know where we stand. I want to know what he’s thinking and feeling, but I’m way too tender to ask him right now.
I feel guilty for springing this on him, as if it were solely my fault. I’m terrified of the future, and my ability to take care of Mom and the baby. And I’ve started getting wickedly nauseous throughout the day. If I was partially in denial that I was pregnant that first day, there’s no denying it now.
I’ve been trying to cope by doing what I do best. Working. Taking care of my responsibilities. Which are now the baby and therefore my health, Mom and her health, my job, our business, and our home, more or less in that order.
Except for when one of them breaks down and suddenly takes priority. Like the damn oven.
“I don’t know when you started thinking I was so much more fragile than I am,” Mom says out of nowhere.
“What?”
“Whatever you’re obsessing about, maybe you should talk about it. You keep things inside and let them just spin and spin. It’s like watching a sad, obsessed little hamster on a wheel, thinking it’s getting somewhere.”
I scowl. “Really? I don’t do that.”
“Oh yes, you do. You’re so like your father that way.”
Am I?
Shit. It’s crazy how over two decades later, it still hurts to suddenly hear him mentioned when I’m not prepared for it.
To think of my own child, growing up without a chance to really know their father? Just because I couldn’t make a relationship with him work…
I mean, I’m just assuming that Harlan is the father. Because as hard as I know that road may be, I desperately don’t want the baby to be Justin’s. I’d honestly prefer a flat-broke Harlan to a Justin, any day. Because at least there’s a chance that I could fall madly in love with Harlan.
I already know that’s not happening with Justin.
But I can already feel it starting to happen with Harlan. And if we really gave it a chance…
I just don’t know if I have the ability to deal with his mood swings and the turmoil it’s going to cause me. I have too much on my plate already. I need a man who’s emotionally stable.
I’d even take that over financial stability.
I finish making my grocery list, and check my online banking for my checking account balance. Not great. But fuck it. I can do this.
Maybe I just need to start thinking of myself as a mom-in training. If I can take care of Mom, I can take care of this baby.
I’ve got this.
“By the way,” Mom says. “You’re doing it again.”
“Ugh. Stop watching me.”
“Well, you’re the most entertaining thing going on right now. Do you want me to put on The Last of Us and leave you alone?”
“Yes. I’m heading out anyway. Do you want anything from the grocery store? I’ll pick up takeout on my way back.”
Before Mom can answer, someone knocks on the screen door. I look up to find Harlan standing outside.
He’s holding a large paper bag that looks a hell of a lot like takeout. And a tray holding three large smoothies.
“Good morning,” he says stiffly.
“Uh, good morning.” Calm down, heart flutters. I try to tell my body we don’t get excited about men who ghost us after impregnating us, but too late.
“Have you had breakfast?” he asks me.
“No,” I say warily.
He holds up the bag and the smoothies. “I brought breakfast. For your mom, too.”
I open the door for him. “Come in.”
“Thank you.” He steps inside, swiping off his sunglasses. And maybe that’s when he notices my mom at the breakfast bar.
She’s forgotten about her cupcakes, and stares openly at the man in her kitchen.
“Do you ladies like breakfast sandwiches? I brought egg and back bacon, and an avocado one, just in case. And smoothies.”
“Oh, we like meat,” Mom says suggestively.
I shoot her a look that I hope conveys I will duct tape your mouth.
“That wasn’t necessary,” I tell him.
His gray eyes lock on mine. “You need to eat properly.”
That bossy look on his face says, Because you’re pregnant.
I can feel the pink creeping into my cheeks, and Mom watching us. “Thank you.” I snatch the bag from him, set it on the counter, and say, “This is my mom, Lorraine. Mom, this is my friend Harlan. He’s been letting me bake in his kitchen.”
He raises an eyebrow slightly at the word “friend.” I ignore it, and he crosses the room to shake Mom’s hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Lorraine.”
Mom looks openly awestruck. “What a work of art. It’s like you’re chiseled out of stone.”
She’s really lost a filter since becoming a cougar.
Harlan cracks a smile, caught off-guard in a way I don’t think I’ve ever seen.
“You have your daughter’s charm,” he tells her.
What? I’m charming ?
“I suppose I do,” Mom says. I have never seen Lorraine Monroe look so flattered.
I have no idea what’s going on here, but I’m not sure I like it.
“Let’s eat.” I shove a bunch of junk that’s piled on the kitchen table aside and start unpacking takeout boxes. “I have a shit-ton to do today.”
“Do you tell her she works too hard?” Mom asks him. “Or is it just me?”
“I’ve told her. She doesn’t like to hear it.” He starts taking dishes from my hands as I pull them from the cupboards, and setting the table. “I’ve advised her that if she quit the waitressing job, she could really make a go of the cake business.” I have a hard time even looking at him while he chats with Mom.
I’m hurt. It’s been haunting me, that when I broke down crying, he didn’t touch me. He didn’t pull me into his arms. He just stood there.
And now that he’s right here, I can feel that same ache.
The desire to be closer to him.
“But she doesn’t appreciate unsolicited advice,” he adds, glancing at me.
“Well, who does?” Mom says. “Though knowing what advice to take and what to leave is key.”
“True.”
I don’t know whether to be pleased or annoyed that they seem to be bonding. Over their shared disapproval of my life choices.
Mom moves over to the table, and takes the seat Harlan pulls out for her. “Quinnie,” she says disapprovingly. “You don’t take business advice from someone who’s wildly successful in business?”
“I don’t like you like this, Lorraine,” I grumble, as Harlan sits down with her.
“She doesn’t like to see us getting along,” she tells Harlan, like a traitor.
“Not true,” I say, dumping cutlery in front of them.
“Oh, it’s true. I’ve never liked a man she’s introduced me to before.” She leans in and tells him conspiratorially, “She has this terrible habit of dating down.”
“We’re not dating,” I interject, before he can say anything.
“Well,” she says, “I’d rather you brought home a fuck buddy who was a true gentleman than married a loser. Even if it doesn’t give me grandkids.”
“ Mom. Jesus. Tone it down.” To Harlan, I say, “I have never seen her like this. I need to get her meds checked.”
“Quinn! Who raised you to be so rude?”
I roll my eyes. Mom’s “who raised you” thing is always her comeback when I say or do shit she doesn’t like. I never let her get away with it.
“ You raised me, Lorraine. And isn’t it ‘rude’ to like someone simply because you know he’s a billionaire?” I claim an egg-and-bacon sandwich and sit down.
“I like that he surprised you and your mother with breakfast,” she corrects me sharply. “It reveals character.”
“Or psychopathy,” I mutter.
Harlan just smiles in that way I’ve seen him do so infrequently, with his eyes, like he’s truly enjoying himself.
Come to think of it, I’ve only seen him smile like that once before. The morning we woke up in bed together and he called me a grump.
He blinks at me. “What?
“Why are you so happy right now?” I demand. “It’s early as fuck. I haven’t even had coffee.”
He gives me that bossy look again and informs me, “You shouldn’t be drinking coffee anymore.”
I glare at him.
Mom watches us curiously.
“Mornings are great,” he says lightly. “You can get a lot done before other people get in the way.”
“Oh my god,” I groan, as realization dawns. “You’re a morning person.”
“Oh, I love morning people!” Mom says, delighted.
“Don’t you have work to do?” I grump. I’ve been denied coffee, and instead handed a rooibos tea that tastes of flowers by an extremely controlling billionaire who seems to think he can just pop in and take over my life whenever he feels like it. It’s an annoying pattern. “It’s Monday.”
I’m in the back of Harlan’s SUV with him. After he drilled me about my plans for the day, he insisted on driving me around as I ran errands. He and Manus have just taken me grocery shopping, and helped me deliver Mom’s cupcakes.
Now we’re driving deep into the Kitsilano neighborhood on “a little detour.” I don’t know why.
“I have a lot of work to do,” he says. “But this is important. And time sensitive.”
We pull in behind a row of commercial buildings facing West Broadway. When we park, Harlan comes around to get my door, and offers me his arm. He’s been doing this all morning, as if I’m suddenly breakable now that I’m pregnant.
A man waiting by the back door shakes hands with Manus, and lets us into the building. Harlan and I enter alone, stepping into what appears to be a commercial space in mid renovation.
It’s empty except for the construction tools that are still everywhere. At the front end, there’s a storefront area and a big window facing the street.
“What’s going on?” I ask Harlan, as he leads me into the middle of the room. “Where are we?”
“This, Quinn Monroe,” he announces, “is your bakery.”
I stare at him, shocked.
“Or at least it could be,” he says. “It’s being renovated, as you can see. It was stripped right down to the studs, and the new drywall has just gone up. It will be painted by the end of the week, and then it can be outfitted for your bakery as needed. There was a delicatessen with a full kitchen in here before, so electrical, plumbing, and exhaust fans are all in place.”
I look around, still in shock.
“What do you think?” he prompts when I just gape.
“I… I don’t know what to think.”
He steps into my line of sight and looks me in the eyes. “I want to apologize for how I reacted when you told me you were pregnant. It wasn’t my best hour.”
I scrape myself together and find words. “Yeah. I noticed.” Then I admit, “It wasn’t mine, either.”
“I want to make things right,” he says seriously.
I sigh, feeling exhausted by his mood swings, and the hormonal changes that are already affecting my body.
“Honestly… I don’t even know what that would look like, Harlan. I’ve been upset that you’ve been distant. But the truth is, I can hardly blame you. We barely know each other. And this was supposed to be casual.” I take a deep breath and forge on. “I’ve had more time to think about it, and I meant what I said. I don’t expect anything from you. And I really have no vision of the future right now. I’m just trying to get by, day by day. It’s all I can manage.”
Every word I just said is true.
But fuck, I crave his support like I crave his attention.
I’d rather try to handle this together than apart. I just don’t know if he wants that, if he could ever want that, or if it would work, anyway.
“That’s all understandable,” he says calmly. “It’s been a shock, to both of us. But I thought maybe you’d reconsider leaving the waitressing job if you had some security in your business. I can help with that.”
I take this in.
I know he said he’s supported start-ups before. And maybe this is a simple solution to my problems, in his eyes. It’s generous.
But it’s also easy for him to buy me a bakery. He bought Crave on a whim, because I worked there. I still don’t understand to what end.
I really don’t understand this man at all.
He keeps telling me he wants just a sexual relationship. But then he wants me to quit my job. He wants to help with my business.
It’s like what he really wants, as always, is control.
He wants ownership of me, but without giving me any real part of himself, is that it?
“I hope you know that I’m serious,” he says, like he’s struggling to understand me, too. “I haven’t bought it yet, but it’s ours if you want it.”
I can tell he’s serious.
“Could you see yourself here, running your bakery?” he asks me.
Honestly, I don’t know. It’s so hard to even wrap my head around the idea that my dream, which always felt so out of reach, could suddenly come true.
But as I gradually get past the shock that he’s actually offering to buy a bakery for me…
I try to take a more serious look around.
It’s definitely not what I would’ve chosen. Parts of the walls are drywalled, while others are stark concrete. Exposed metal beams crisscross the ceiling. The only window is on the front wall. It feels like it would be perfect for a hipster coffee house with an industrial vibe. Which is really suitable to Vancouver.
But not so suitable to me.
However.
It’s a bakery. Of my own. In a fairly prime location.
Not the location of my dreams. But a cool, bustling neighborhood.
I could never afford the location of my dreams, anyway. Because a storefront with a view of the water would be not only rare to find in Vancouver, it would be astronomically expensive.
Harlan is waiting for some kind of response, and he certainly deserves one.
“I can’t believe you’d do this for me,” is all I manage.
His reply to that is a confused, “Why not?”
Maybe to him, this is a purely logical investment. Even if it turns out not to be a financially sound one, it’s an investment in the happiness of his baby’s mother.
“It means a lot to me that you’d be willing to invest in my dream, and Mom’s,” I tell him. “I’m touched. Really.”
I look around again. Maybe I could turn it into my dream bakery, with some work, and some time…
“I’m glad you feel that way,” he says. “Because this isn’t even the best part. There’s also living space attached.”
“Living space?”
“There’s a generous two-bedroom apartment above. It’s being renovated right now, but we can go up and take a look. There’s a den with a window that can be converted into a bedroom for the baby. And even a rooftop garden area.”
“I… don’t know what to say.”
He drifts closer to me. “I know you’ve enjoyed having more space to bake in. This would be even better. It would be yours.”
More space. In his kitchen, he means. In his house.
Which I won’t be using anymore, once I move in here, is that it?
“You’d buy it so I can work here, and live here? With Mom?”
“I thought it would be the best solution. I want to support you in raising the baby, however makes you happy.”
His words are kind. But his tone is even, unemotional. Businesslike.
Detached, even.
I take a long look at him, really trying to see him, too.
Standing a short distance away from me in his black suit, studying me in return, he reminds me of the Harlan I first met. Mr. Black. Cold, closed and unknowable.
I feel so deeply unsure of where I stand with him, I barely dare ask. But I force it out.
“Harlan… do you want to be in the baby’s life?”
I definitely can’t bear to ask, Do you want to be in my life?
“Of course,” he says stiffly.
I turn to look out the window, onto the bustling street, and take a breath. What are the chances he’ll open up to me, want any kind of real relationship, before the baby comes?
There’s only eight months until then.
How long will I be able to work? Care for the house and Mom?
Can I really do it all myself?
I try to look at this offer objectively, as the opportunity that it is. The opportunity for Mom. The truth is, our current home is becoming too much work for us both.
“It will be hard to get a business off the ground while pregnant, and then becoming a new mom,” I tell him.
“That’s fine. We can hire support. And you can take all the time you need,” he says easily. “Don’t you think it could work? It’s a great space.”
I turn to face him again, and I try to smile. “It’s amazing. Can I have some time to think about it?”
He’s so stoic, I can’t even tell if he’s surprised or not that I’m not jumping at the offer. “Of course. I can hold the deal off for a bit. Why don’t we go take a look upstairs?”
“Okay.”
I try to tell myself that this as a purely thoughtful gift. And extremely generous of him. In some ways, it’s actually a serious commitment to me and the baby, right?
It’s not a bunch of walls Harlan’s putting up between us.