8. Quinn
CHAPTER EIGHT
quinn
The bakery closed an hour ago, and Johanna has been sitting gawking at me for five minutes since I told her of Graham’s proposal.
It’s a good thing there were no customers around to hear her shocked reaction. Shut your fucking mouth and shove it up your butt is not exactly the best way to promote a serious business.
From the look on Jo’s face, there are a million thoughts churning through her brain.
I’ve only thought about one thing since he dropped the bombshell on me yesterday. Which is a weird sense of dissatisfaction in finding out he wants to date me as a ruse.
I am in no way looking for a boyfriend, yet somehow, when he made it clear this was for mutually beneficial arrangements, it hurt. Without sounding cliché, he’s very different from most guys I’ve dated in the past, and there’s something more to him I haven’t quite nailed down.
Sure , I have the opportunity to find out what that is, but this sudden pull I’m having toward him needs to be nipped in the bud, pronto, or I risk making a fool of myself .
Finally , Jo speaks. “ This is very un- Graham -like.”
“ How so?” I take a sip of my sauvignon. It’s a Saturday evening, so an impromptu wine night was on the cards. Especially after yesterday’s turn of events.
“ Well , for one this whole fake dating thing screams Booth , so I can’t imagine Graham being the mastermind behind this plan. He likes to keep to himself. Even before Jenna came into the picture, he’s been quiet, reserved. None of us would have him any other way, and I’ve always hated how people misinterpret his behavior for something it isn’t.”
The mention of his ex makes my blood boil. “ Even her name makes me angry.”
“ Mm -hm,” she hums around the rim of her glass. “ I never liked her. Over the years, she somehow made him more introverted and unsure of himself. I have no idea how they lasted as long as they did.”
“ Were they ever happy?”
She sighs. “ I wasn’t here for the last five years of their relationship. Patrick tells me they basically coexisted. Graham is so many things; kind, attentive, faithful. She took advantage of those characteristics. I’ve never seen him so…detached. Not from his friends or family, but from himself.”
My heart drops. His ex clearly did a number on him. I found it surprising he had to ask someone to be his fake date. He’s fascinating, sweet, and extremely handsome. Any woman would be lucky to go out with him.
“ Do you think he wants her back?”
“ God , no,” Jo gasps. “ I one hundred percent believe him when he says it isn’t about that. Pat and Booth hated her. Florence couldn’t stand her. I’m not even sure Ted liked her. Claire was always friendly but that woman isn’t stupid.” She leans in, leveling me with a serious look. “ Honestly , knowing Graham , he wouldn’t ask just anybody.”
A kernel of satisfaction glows in my chest at that. “ I’m going to help him,” I declare, squaring my shoulders like Jo is going to talk me down.
A knowing smirk plays on her lips. “ I’m glad. I’m great and all, but you could do with another friend.” She flicks her long hair over her shoulder. “ No matter how fake it is, I think you’ll be good together.”
“ Oh , lord. The meddling has already begun,” I tease.
Scratch .
Scratch .
Scratch .
My eyes fly open, and I sit upright in a heartbeat.
Once the brain fog clears, I realize those noises are not from the depths of my deep sleep.
I’m grateful to be woken up from that specific dream—or nightmare. A recurring scene from the week I left home, as vivid and raw as the real thing. Smashed glass. Cigarette smoke. The radio blasting. Blinding pain. Pitch black.
“ Ugh , not again. You critters are cute, but not at two in the morning,” I grumble after squinting at the time on my phone screen. Dragging myself from the cocoon of blankets, I sleepily stumble toward the door. The other week, I was woken up in the middle of the night by similar noises and found a family of raccoons scratching at the back plates. I have no idea what they thought they’d find in the engine, but luckily I haven’t seen them since I shooed them away.
By the scuffling noises outside, I’m guessing the furry little family is back. The closer I move to the rear of the van, though, the noises get louder: scratching, scraping, and squeaking. Wait , squeaking? Do raccoons squeak?
Throwing on my fluffy robe and fuzzy slippers, I unlock the door to investigate, using the flashlight on my phone to help light the way in the pitch black.
Once at the back of the van, I rest my head on the cool metal and listen. When the same squeaking meets my ears, I recoil backward in horror.“ Ohhhhh no. No , no, no, no,” I chant. Those are definitely not the sounds of raccoons. I turn the release lever, then raise the panel slowly.
“ Don’t scream. Don’t scream. They’re simply overgrown mice. They’re more scared of me than I am of them.” My self-reassurances don’t help much when I take in chaos in front of me and a small plea escapes my lips. “ Please don’t eat my face.”
The squeaking stops, and several beady eyes reflect back at me. Before I get a chance to shut the compartment, chaos ensues. They start to scurry and scatter among the grass, paper, and insulation nest they’ve built in my engine, and nope.
In my rush to get away, I lose my grip and my phone slips from my sweaty fingers. Guess it belongs to the rats now. I jump up and down, shaking out my arms and legs, as if the rodents have somehow managed to bury themselves in my pajamas.
The condensation of the grass soaks through my slippers and just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, the first few drops of rain fall against my face.
Sleeping outside is out of the question and there’s no chance I’m staying in my van tonight.
My heart thunders in my chest as I stand in the middle of the field, with no idea what to do. All the lights are out in Mr . Willis’s farmhouse, and I don’t want to wake him up at this hour.
There is no way I am rooting around in my rodent-infested van for my phone, so that means there’s no calling Jo or…anyone. Right now is the worst moment for the sad realization that Jo is my only friend. Even if I did have my phone, they’re doing a ton of renovation work in their house at the moment, and they’re stressed enough as it is with the restaurant. Plus , it’s Patrick’s night with Lottie .
I’m in a pickle.
I won’t get a wink of sleep if I force myself to stay in the van, and I count my lucky stars I have the bakery to camp out in.
I’ve never moved so fast in my life as I dart around, packing up whatever clothes, underwear, and toiletries I can grab in two minutes. I’m a big animal lover, and I want to give the rats the benefit of the doubt. They’ve had a bad rap since the Black Plague , but I have to draw the line at them having zero boundaries.
My stomach drops when I realize there is no way in hell I can afford Graham’s services now.
After swallowing my pride on his offer to help me, I called him last night and we settled on a very fair price for him to balance my books, despite him arguing it wasn’t necessary. I shared with him what documents I had, and he promised to have a rough analysis ready for me on Monday . I haven’t given him my answer yet, but he seemed adamant to help me out, regardless. Those rats have definitely done some damage under the hood. With the potential cost of a mechanic and a temporary place to live, I may as well kiss my savings goodbye.
With my bag and pillow in tow, and a saddened look over my shoulder at Nelly , I make the thirty-minute walk to the bakery. Hopefully I’ll get another couple of hours of sleep before I have to open—then call the local mechanic and spend money I can’t afford to lose.
Once at the bakery, soaked through to the bone, I try to get comfortable on the makeshift bed I’ve set up in the kitchen. Defeat weighs heavy on me and it’s all I can do not to cry myself to sleep.
Bang . Bang . Bang .
The headache that’s been brewing behind my eyes all night thumps without pause. I can hear the banging against the side of my skull as I burrow my face into my pillow. My alarm hasn’t gone off yet, so I must have at least another hour of sleep left.
Pulling my robe up over my head, I shield my eyes from the early morning rays shining through the window and try my best to find sleep again.
The second I feel myself drifting off, a large crash comes from the front of the bakery. I’m jumping to my feet at the noise, but I fall back on my butt when my head smacks against the edge of the stainless-steel table.
“ Ow ! If you’re the family of rats coming to finish the job, have at me!” I call out as I rub at the bump already swelling at my hairline. My fingers come away with a little blood, but nothing too worrying.
“ Rats ?! Fuck , Quinn , please tell me that’s you.” I recognize that deep voice. It never fails to weaken my knees anytime I hear it.
The stomping of feet lets me know someone is making their way to where I’m sprawled out on the floor, likely concussed.
Graham rounds the counter and stops short when he sees me, his shoulders relaxing the moment we lock eyes.
“ Oh . Hey , you. We’re not open yet,” I greet him with a wince and a small wave.
The typically even-tempered man looks… angry ? He’s red faced, chest rising and falling, and hands shaking at his sides. “ You’re not open yet,” he parrots, though his tone isn’t upbeat like mine. He’s definitely mad.
“ Have I done something wrong?” I squeak and sit up right, the blanket I’ve had wrapped around me falls to my waist. That’s when I notice a wide-eyed Johanna and Patrick behind him. Jo is quick to slap her hands over Patrick’s eyes, before dragging him behind the partition wall.
What in the world is going on?
“ I thought you were hurt. All we could see were your feet sticking out from behind the wall. I’ve been bang—” His head snaps up to the ceiling and a groan that could shake the foundations of the building rolls from his throat. “ Fucking hell, Quinn .”
“ Hey , we can’t all look like Disney Princesses when we wake up in the morning.” I pout and run my fingers over the tender spot on my head.
He brings his thumb and forefinger to massage his nose, pushing his glasses up from his face, but he still doesn’t look at me, because clearly I look like a wretched monster.
“ Quinn .” I usually love it when he says my name, that one syllable sounding delightful in his voice, but right now it’s said through gritted teeth.
“ What , Graham ? You barged into my bakery,” I snap. “ And now you come in here like a bear that’s been woken up early from its hibernation.”
“ Jesus , woman! Your boob is hanging out!”