Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Spencer
“Here?” Her fingers clench on the armrests. “I wasn’t being serious about that whole becoming-one-with-the-couch stuff.”
I wave a hand. “No. Not here in the offices. I have an apartment upstairs. It’s not much, one bedroom, a bathroom, sitting room, and kitchenette.
It’s all clean and furnished. We can go to the inn tomorrow and get you sorted after we get your things.
It wouldn’t be a good idea to stay here long-term. ”
She frowns. “Oh?”
I rush to explain. “Because it’s a small town. People talk. They would absolutely get the wrong idea.”
She nods slowly. “I see.”
Maybe she does understand, and yet, my mouth opens, and words keep emerging. “Only because I’m single, and you’re single—”
Her brows shoot up.
“Oh, uh, at least I assume you’re single, and it’s not because they would think you’re some kind of floozy or something.
It’s just kind of what the people in this town do—they would assume that we are,” I gesture between us, “having relations or something, which would be highly inappropriate as your legal representative, if it were true, which of course it isn’t.
They love meddling here. As you probably know, since Beverly was one of the worst offenders. ”
Dear lord, man, pick up the lamp and shove it in your mouth if it will make you shut up.
I rub my head. “Anyway, you know what I mean.”
She presses her lips together. “I think so. You, single; me, not floozy.” She nods. “I think I get it.”
“I’m sorry. I’m normally not so . . . awful, I swear. We’re number one in customer service.”
She grins at me. “I believe you.”
“Right.” I push to standing. “I’ll show you where everything is.”
She follows me through the open doorway, past the waiting room, to the stairs down the hall.
“Should I put this away somewhere?”
I turn around.
Vivien holds out her empty coffee mug.
“It’s fine. Leave it down here. I’ll stick it in the washer later.”
She sets it on the side table, and then we head up the stairs.
I’m a little surprised she bothered about her dirty cup. It’s . . . considerate. Not that I think she’s a spoiled celebrity or anything, but, actually, yes, I would have thought she would be a bit of a spoiled celebrity.
Also, she came here alone. No “people” to do her bidding, like I would have expected. Rich people don’t normally worry about things like dirty mugs or their cars breaking down or people being mean to them and being falsely arrested.
Vivien had all of that in one night.
She’s not how I thought she would be. Of course, Beverly wouldn’t have left the theater to someone snotty or high-maintenance, but she also hadn’t seen Vivien since she was just a kid.
When we reach the bottom of the staircase, I point down the hall. “My rooms are that way. So if you need anything, you know where to find me.”
“Your rooms?”
“It’s another attached apartment, larger than the one upstairs. This was a boarding house in the 1800s, before it was converted into an office.”
We head upstairs, the steps creaking and groaning under our feet.
Vivien probably lives in some upscale, modern place in the city that gets redecorated quarterly by a professional designer. I live in a museum from the past century, all old heavy wood, antiques, and wood paneling.
Things around here might be a little shabby and in need of repair or replacement. I never bothered changing anything after my parents passed. I’ve been too busy.
“This banister is gorgeous,” she says, trailing fingers over the wood filigree.
“My dad had it custom built, back in the ’80s.”
“I love it.”
Okay, maybe she’s not thinking about how out-of-date everything is.
Once upstairs, I lead her down the hall to the door into the apartment suite. It’s where I lived when my parents were still alive.
I flip the light switch, revealing the small entry, a kitchenette to the left, and a door to a small bathroom on the right. Directly in front of us is a sitting area and dining nook.
Walking into the living room, I reach under a lamp to click on another light, casting a glow over the floral armchair.
She’s standing by the front door, staring into the room like a lost, sad kitten.
Shit. I’m an idiot. She doesn’t have any clothes or anything.
“There should be some extra clothes in the dresser. I have some old T-shirts and sweats in there. They’ll be too big, and I think they are mostly holiday themed, but they’ve been washed.
It’s small in here, but everything’s pretty easy to find.
The sheets on the bed are clean. This is a queen couch bed,” I tap a finger on the back of the sofa, “but the full-size mattress in the room is newer and more comfortable.”
She nods. “I can make it work.”
My mind rifles through what else she may need.
“There are extra toothbrushes under the sink in the bathroom, and I’m not sure if there’s soap or anything, but I’ll run downstairs and grab you some so you can shower.
Oh, and food.” I stalk over to the fridge.
There’s an expired container of orange juice and half a stick of butter.
“I’ll bring up some water and snacks too, just in case you get hungry. ”
“Thank you.”
I wave her off. “It’s not a problem. Can you think of anything else you might need?”
She bites her lip. “I don’t think so, but thank you, Spencer. For everything. I really appreciate all of this.”
The back of my neck heats. I blow out a breath. “It is sort of my fault. I’m sorry I didn’t know about our appointment.”
She shrugs. “It wasn’t your fault I didn’t check the weather, or that my car broke down, or that I forgot all my earthly belongings because I was distracted by gourds.”
I bark out a laugh. “Ah. Noah is a good kid. Well, anyway. I’ll leave you to it. I’ll be right back with a bag of necessities, but I’ll leave it outside the door so you can relax.”
She nods. “Great.”
We move at the same time. I go to shake her hand, she goes to step around me, and I wind up trying to shake her upper arm.
We laugh awkwardly, and I end up waving at her instead. “Sorry. Good night.”
Once on the other side of the door, I shut my eyes and shake my head.
Pull it together, man.
She’s just another client, nothing more and nothing less. Sure, she’s gorgeous and famous, and I had a major crush on her when I was ten, but she’s just a normal, ordinary person.
And yet I can’t shake the feeling deep down inside that even if she weren’t famous, she’d still be anything but ordinary.
Quinn enters every room like a tiny, hundred-pound tornado.
The door bangs into the wall. Her footsteps thump over the hardwood like a herd of mini rhinos.
It takes her three seconds to track me down in the kitchen.
She drops her backpack by the island with a smack. “Why are you cooking? Do I smell bacon?” She lifts the paper towels over the plate resting on the counter.
Her fingernails are painted black, matching her dark hair and black clothes.
She’s like an older, less pale version of Wednesday Addams. I’ve never actually seen her smile, and her voice is always the same octave.
She might actually be a robot. She’s insanely smart and remembers everything, even got accepted to MIT with a full scholarship, but her mom has Alzheimer’s and no one else to take care of her.
So Quinn’s been taking online college classes and working here as much as she can to pay the pills and her mom’s expenses.
I point my spatula at her. “Wash your hands first.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m twenty-five, not five.” But she walks over to the sink. Water gushes from the tap. “Hey, can you check my tires? I had one of those emojis show up when I was driving over, and I think it’s the tire pressure.”
“Emoji?”
She dries her hands on the small towel hanging over the oven handle. “You know, the picture on the dashboard.”
“Ah.” Emoji. I chuckle. “I’ll fill them before you leave today.”
She appears next to me. “Are those pancakes?”
“They’re crepes.” I nod to the jelly on the counter island in front of me. “Fruit crepes.”
She blinks once. “Did you slip and hit your head? Are you a serial killer now?”
I check the crepe in the pan, gently lifting one side to check for browning. “I have always been able to cook, Quinn.”
She walks around the island and hops up on a stool. “Cook what? Like meth?”
There’s a gentle knock. “Good morning.” Vivien is standing in the doorway wearing my clothes.
My mouth goes dry. I forget I’m holding a spatula over a hot oven, hell, I forget I have fingers.
She’s wearing an old Saint Patrick’s Day sweater from college.
It’s green and reads Let’s Get Weird in block letters across the front.
It’s too big, of course, one side of the neck dipping over her shoulder.
She’s wearing a pair of my old, ratty gray sweats, but she’s swimming in them.
Quinn stares at her and then turns back around to face me. “Oh, okay. This all makes sense.”
My ears go hot. “Vivien, this is Quinn. You spoke on the phone last week, I believe. Vivien, feel free to ignore everything that comes out of her mouth.”
“Right. Hi, Quinn, it’s nice to meet you. I love your name.” Vivien stops at the island next to Quinn.
“My mom named me after a character on some old TV show because she wanted me to be a teen mom. And a blond cheerleader.”
Vivien blinks. “What?”
“I’m a continual disappointment. Would you like a crepe? Maybe some bacon?” She motions to the plate I have set up on the counter.
“It smells great. I’m starved.” She smothers a yawn.
“Do you want coffee?” I ask. “There’s a fresh pot behind me.”
“Thanks. Coffee sounds amazing.” Vivien makes her way over to the coffee pot.
I focus on cooking, intensely aware of her presence behind me.
Quinn clears her throat. “Just so you know, this is all totally normal behavior. We do breakfast here all the time. Spencer is a great chef.”
I scoop the crepe and plop it on Quinn’s plate. If she eats, she can’t speak. “Here. Eat up.”