2. Quinn
CHAPTER TWO
quinn
OCTOBER
“ Hey , Siri , how are you today?”
“ Hey , I can’t complain. Thanks for asking,” the automated voice from my phone responds.
“ Well good for you.”
The weight of my arm increases with each pass around the ceramic mixing bowl. I’m certain it’s going to fall off if the clumps of flour don’t disappear soon. Sometimes my KitchenAid doesn’t give me the consistency I want, so I have to revert to the old-fashioned way. Blisters be damned, I will get a lump-free cake batter.
“ Hey , Siri , what’s the weather like today?”
My phone dings, prompting the voice of my robotic friend again. “ Expect clear skies, with daytime highs of seventy-one degrees and lows of forty-nine degrees Fahrenheit .”
“ Fall is definitely here,” I singsong, though it’s a little breathless.
When I glance down, the greenish-yellow batter looks well combined. I place the bowl back on the worktop with a big sigh, reach up to the ceiling, and stretch out my aching muscles.
Who needs a workout when you attempt to beat at one hundred and fifty strokes per minute?
Pun intended.
Before the screen on my phone locks, I see that it’s almost seven a.m. I came into the bakery early today, eager to try out some fall-themed recipes. When inspiration hits, I grab it by the horns, no matter how bad my bed head is. Which is why I’ve been here since five.
There are currently several sponge cakes lined up in front of me: spiced apple and pecan, maple butternut, and cranberry-orange. All flavors of fall, and the spicy, buttery goodness that comes with it. The batter I’ve just finished is for pistachio and cardamom muffins, which I’m planning to pair with a cream cheese frosting. And , of course, there will be something pumpkin spiced, I’m not a monster.
Once I transfer the batter to the muffin tins, I pop it in the preheated oven and move the finished cakes to the large refrigerator behind me. I slap my hands together—the excess flour clouding in front of me—and switch my raggedy, denim apron for one of the newly branded ones I had made for the bakery.
They’re peach with the bakery’s name embroidered on the front. Just Brew It . My bakery . I’m a sucker for a good pun, so when the name came to me on the long drive to my new home, it was meant to be.
It’s been ten months since I opened the doors, and the need to squeal every time I’m reminded that I’m my own boss hasn’t lessened.
How does one decide to open up a bakery slash coffee shop in coastal New England ? Easy . A few too many margaritas, a dart, and a map. A week later, I’d packed up my van, and it was goodbye, Golden , Colorado , and hello, Sutton Bay , Maine . Trading snowy mountain ranges for crisp, salty air. It’s the first time since I was eighteen that I’ve lived near the ocean.
Oh ! Sea salt and rocky road cookies. The idea suddenly pops into my head, and I jot it down on the pad stuck to the cork board before I forget.
The quaint little fishing town is hidden away next to the state’s beautiful natural habitats, Acadia National Park , and since moving here, I totally understand why tourists flock to this corner of the world every year. The moment I parked my orange VW van up along the beach, I was furious at my past self for having never been to New England .
While I had the funds to rent a small commercial space and open up my very own bakery, I hadn’t expected for it to happen so soon. I’m certain fate had a part to play in where that dart landed. Within my first hour in town, I’d come across this very building, and by the end of the week, I’d secured a three-year lease agreement. Hey presto, Just Brew It was born.
A tapping noise from the front of the bakery gets my attention. I peek my head around the partition wall, separating the kitchen and seating area, and see Jo waving through the window, her blonde hair shining in the early morning sun. Padding over to the door, I unlock it and let her in. Without her needing to ask, I’m already making my way over to the coffee machine and starting up her usual order.
Johanna Thomas was born and raised in Sutton Bay but lived in Tennessee with her sister until earlier this year. Maybe fate had a part to play in her return, too, because she ended up getting her second chance with her childhood friend, Patrick . She moved out of the apartment above the bakery and into Patrick’s house last month, but she still pops in most mornings for her daily fix of caffeine.
She makes grabby hands toward the fresh coffee pouring out of the machine. “ Oh god, I need that so bad today. Lottie had us both up before the ass crack of dawn. She’s had a thing about being late for school ever since she started kindergarten.”
Chuckling , I pour the double shot of espresso over the ice I’ve already scooped into a plastic take-out cup, add a pump of syrup, and top it off with coconut milk. Lottie is Patrick’s young daughter, and despite not being with her mom, Carrie , they make a really good co-parenting team. Lottie is obsessed with Jo , as is she with the five-year-old. I wouldn’t be surprised if they started popping out their own little gremlins soon.
“ Here ya go.” I hand over the cup and she presses her nose to the lid with a deep inhale. “ You need help.” I laugh.
“ I know, I know. Patrick dared me not to drink any iced drinks once the temperatures drop below forty. That’s , like, next week, Quinn !”
I shake my head and start flipping the chairs over from the tops of the tables. The small space has six two-seater tables, allowing people to sit in with their coffees or pastries if they wish. Most take their orders to go, but it’s always nice to meet someone new and hear about their life story or what their plans are for the day.
“ Where has this year disappeared to?”
“ It’s really gotten away from us,” she answers. A wistful smile pulls at her lips, and I know she’s thinking about the last few months and how much has changed between Patrick and her. I’m happy for them. They’re obviously soul mates and I’m a big enough girl to say I’m jealous. Heck , I tell Jo I’m jealous of her all the time.
“ How are things with the new owner?” I ask hesitantly.
She looks as fed up as the last time I asked her this. “ Their lack of involvement is really starting to grind my gears. Each week, we wait for some life-changing email from the buyer, but all they ask for are the same boring updates or to boss Booth around. It’s bizarre. What kind of owner doesn’t even show their face or reveal their name to their new employees? ”
George and Ted , Jo and Patrick’s dads, founded and co-owned a seafood restaurant down the road called Our Place . Patrick’s dad sadly passed away almost seven years ago, leaving his eldest son to take over the family business. To the shock of everyone earlier this year, Patrick’s mom and Jo’s dad broke the news that the restaurant was struggling, and despite months of trying to save it, they had no choice but to sell. Oddly , the new owner is very hands-off. So hands-off, in fact, that no one knows their name or what their future plans are. The silver lining is that everyone who works there got to keep their jobs, and nothing has changed.
“ What does Graham think of it all?” It’s a hard task to keep my face neutral as I wait to hear about Patrick’s brother.
“ Tight -lipped as always. He’s taken a step back from his firm, even dropped a few of his big clients to spend more time at the restaurant. He’s just as worried as we are, though less vocal. The uncertainty is starting to get to Booth too.”
Graham and Booth are polar opposites. Booth reminds me of a hyperactive golden retriever who hasn’t been neutered yet, and he’s quite the ladies’ man. Graham , however, is an enigma. A shy, handsome, and serious nut to crack. He always looks deep in thought behind his glasses, which makes the brooding stare even hotter. They’re tortoiseshell glasses, for Pete’s sake.
“ I’m sure it’s a good thing he’s close by now,” I supply.
“ Absolutely . Lottie loves him, Claire is happy he’s not traveling into the city each day, and it’s nice having him around more.”
Claire is the matriarch of the Sadler family, and she’s always been sweet and welcomed me to Robin Road when I opened the bakery. She comes in with her sons on occasion, but just once with Graham . Thinking back to that particular afternoon when Graham calmly, yet sternly, warned his older brother has me biting my bottom lip. Poor Patrick was in a bit of a panic when he stormed in here looking for Johanna after they found out the restaurant was being sold, so I don’t blame him for his abruptness.
“ Watch it ,” he’d said. Voice all deep and gravelly. It was only our second time meeting, but it was certainly memorable…
“ Did you ever speak to him about working with the restaurant?” Johanna’s question interrupts my daydreaming.
My grimace is hard to hide. In March , Jo had suggested I speak to Graham about us partnering up. To my surprise, I found out he’s the restaurant’s accountant as well as being in charge of supplier relations. When Jo first mentioned it, the ideas I had for the restaurant were endless. Lobster -shaped croissants. Fresh brioche rolls. Sourdough bread.
After a couple of shots at the local bar, I accosted Graham , who also happens to be a brooding hottie. I quickly realized a bar wasn’t the place to build a working relationship, so what did I do? I scribbled my number on the poor guy’s arm—a very nice forearm, I might add—with eyeliner and practically begged him to call me.
Only , he never called, and that was seven months ago, and he’s a hard man to “bump into.” Sure , I could reach out to him, but soon after that night at the bar, I realized what a shit show my financials were in. There was no chance in hell he would want to work with me and my shoe box full of receipts and invoices. Numbers are not my forte, but I’ve done enough research to know I won’t be dealt a hefty fine at the end of the tax year.
It was the responsible thing for me to get my bookkeeping in order first, before starting up any business arrangements. Especially with Our Place , where I presume I’ll need to get approval from their faceless owner.
“ Oh . Do you know what? It totally slipped my mind.” I’m a terrible liar and from the quizzical brow Jo raises, she sees right through it. Most people say they can read me like a book, but right now I’m trying my best to keep my pages tightly shut .
“ You forgot?”
“ Mm -hmm.” Spinning around, I give her my back and hope she doesn’t see me gnawing away at my lip as I wipe down the milk steamer.
“ Quinn . If I’ve overstepped, you’d tell me?” Her voice is cautious and my stomach drops.
“ No ! No !” I rush out, spinning around, and almost send the rag in my hand flying. “ It’s not that, I just… I think I need some accounting help first.” Embarrassment floods my cheeks.
“ Well , it’s a good thing Gray is an accountant. Let me speak to him.”
“ Gray ?”
“ Yeah ”—she shrugs and takes another sip of her drink—“that’s what we all call him.”
“ Oh .” I make a mental note of the nickname, but I think I prefer Graham . “ You don’t need to do that.” If there’s one thing I hate, it’s favors. Maybe it’s juvenile, but after years of being told how lazy and what a burden you are, you start to see handouts as the easy way out.
She studies me for a moment, sensing my discomfort, then gives me a gentle smile. “ Well , when you’re ready, talk to Graham . He’ll have to speak to the owner, but I know he’d love to work with you. No pressure. He’s not as big and scary as he looks.”
Nodding my head slowly, I suck my bottom lip between my teeth, holding in my rebuttal. The last thing I want anyone to think is that I’m not serious. And despite only speaking to Graham on two occasions, he’s someone I don’t want to disappoint.
I’d hoped to make another friend in town, but when he didn’t text or call, I put it down to the fact I came across as unprofessional or annoying. Without sounding narcissistic, I have an innate need for people to like me.
My mind wanders back to the evening at the bar seven months ago. When I spotted a man in the corner, standing by himself, I asked Jo who the “tall, moody drink of water” was, and it just so happened to be Graham .
Short , neatly styled hair the color of sand right after the tide has gone out. Dark , thick eyebrows hidden behind his tortoise shell glasses, that do all sorts to my insides, frame vivid green eyes. Reminding me of the moss growing in the lush forests in the park. He’s always wrapped up in a knitted sweater or cardigan that does nothing to hide the strong muscles that stretch the wool around his shoulders and arms.
Yes , I wanted to butter him up, however, something else drew me toward him. The slight crease between his brows as he studied the room deepened when the music got turned up, which made me giggle. He was tall, very tall. Mysteriously alluring. He didn’t demand the attention of the room, but he had it—or mine, at least.
I remember feeling like I’d found a hidden treasure that night.
Fueled by a questionable shot of liquor I thought was a lemon drop, but most definitely wasn’t, I skipped over, introduced myself, and dove right in. There was something fascinating about him. Most of the guys I’ve dated have been immature and stare at my breasts rather than listen to what I have to say. Graham was different. Maybe it’s because he’s a little older, but during our short interaction I knew he was listening intently and something about his quiet, considerate demeanor had me forgetting why I approached him.
People around town describe him as intimidating or standoffish, but I disagree. I could chat to people until the cows come home, and it’s obvious when my verbal diarrhea starts putting people to sleep, but Graham gave me his undivided attention the entire time.
When I walked away, I felt… appreciated.
Now I wonder if he only stayed quiet so I would stop rambling. It stung when he didn’t reach out, and I concluded that it was due to one of two things:
1. He dislikes me.
2. He doesn’t like my baking.
I have no idea which one is worse. Neurotic ? Maybe a smidge. I’m an Enneagram four, what do you expect?
“ Quinn ,” Jo says with a smirk. “ I hear the wheels turning from here. Don’t overthink it.”
“ Lemme think about it.” My shoulders relax, and I hope the faux cheer in my voice signals her to change the subject.
We chat for a few more minutes, making plans to meet up over the weekend, and then I’m alone again.
Huffing out a big breath that blows my bangs off my forehead, I connect my phone to the speakers and let the voice of Harry Styles drown out the noise in my head.
I lose myself, singing along, until the last chorus is interrupted by a text notification.
The number is one I should have blocked years ago and I stare at the hateful message until the bitter smell of burning fills the air.
Shit , the muffins.