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.”
