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Quinn never answers. Instead, she carefully shuts the magazine and sets it on her other side, as far away from her friend as possible.
“Don’t worry. One day, we’ll find your type.” The friend pats Quinn’s arm and my stepsister smiles before ducking her head.
I hate when she hides like that, making herself small, hiding how amazing she really is. A surge of protectiveness swells in my chest, but I shut that shit down. That’s the same sort of emotion that got my head fucked up in the first place. Quinn didn’t want my protection in high school, and she doesn’t need it now.
Brady can handle it on his own.
I toss my phone onto the seat beside me and turn the car on. On the way home, my gaze strays back to the phone more often than I care to admit. Dammit. Why did Brady have to tell me she was back?
Nine
AUSTIN
It’s been days since I found out Quinn would be house-sitting for our parents. Looking out for her so far has equated to watching her via the security camera feed. It’s a little creepy, if I think too hard about it, but watching her toil away in the kitchen, working on whatever concoction she’s making, is fascinating.
Whatever she’s doing, it’s not edible, and I’m dying to know what it is.
Quinn was always a good girl. At the top of her class. She sang in the chorus. Played piano. Curled her hair. Wore a pretty pink lip gloss. An omega like that was sheltered. Or so I’d thought. Turns out, Quinn and her mom had their fair share of hardships, but she always did her best to make sure everyone around her was happy.
A people pleaser through and through.
And then the alphas started sniffing around, cornering her in school. I had to train her in self-defense, and that’s when things got messed up. No. That’s when I fucked up. She doesn’t hate me, even though she has every right to. It’s almost like she’s pretending it never happened, but I remember. I remember the thoughts I had and the dreams that still haunt me.
I remember the way her breath hitched as I ran my hands over her body.
“Venison is ready, Chef.”
The way her eyes flew to mine, questions upon questions that I didn’t have answers to shining within their depths. I don’t know what came over me. I was supposed to be teaching her self-defense. I don’t know why I kissed her, but I know she didn’t like it. She ran away from me like her ass was on fire.
She could have told her mom. Thank fuck she didn’t. I never told my brothers. Brady would be pissed and Dylan might kill me. And while the way Quinn treats me hasn’t changed, all I can think about when I see her is the way her body felt beneath mine as I pinned her to the mat. All I can remember is the way she writhed as she tried to break the hold.
A hand lands on my arm. “Chef?”
Jolting, I blink as the sounds from the kitchen suddenly become crisp and clear. Sizzling meat. Boiling water. Pots and pans clanking. Plates being set on the counter. Murmurs from the kitchen staff.
The clock above the swing door tells me I’ve wasted five minutes I didn’t have thinking about Quinn.
I clench my jaw and glance at Mia, the beta dishwasher.
Her eyebrows are pinched together as she searches my face. “Are you good, Chef?”
“I’m good.” I nod and turn back to the staff, praying I haven’t fucked shit up too badly in my distraction. “Where are we at?” I ask Jorge, the boucher.
He nods at the plate in front of me. “I’ll start a new one.”
“Fuck,” I mutter, yanking the plate toward me and cutting off a piece of the meat. Sure enough, it’s too cold to be served. The sweet potatoes and juniper reduction are wasted too. My pulse spikes. Some people might crack under pressure, but this is where I come alive.
“All right. I need a venison plate as of yesterday. Candy, prep a curry pineapple on the house and send it out ten minutes after the venison. Lance—” I glance around but can’t find the beta porter anywhere. “Where the fuck is Lance?”
“Smoke break, Chef,” Mia calls from her station. She’s in charge of washing the pans and cooking utensils, but Lance washes the other dishes and spot cleans the kitchen as needed.
The venison and sweet potato dish is set in front of me, and I check it over, making sure the presentation is as pretty as a piece of art before sending it out with Talia, the expediter.
“What time is it?” I demand of the staff. The swing door whispers open, and everyone in the kitchen moves together, a practiced dance that’s precise and heartbreakingly beautiful to watch.
“Showtime,” they all call back, well trained and professional. Unlike Lance.
The next plate comes up—a lobster kebab and bisque—and I send it off before asking, “And do we take smoke breaks during showtime?”
