Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

QUINN

"So, Quinnicorn," my father says, using the nickname I insisted on going by during my unicorn-obsession phase. "Anything new with you?"

Almost as if it were rehearsed, like we're some choreographed family band, every single one of my siblings and their partners lifts their head, turning their attention to me. They sit blinking, waiting for me to reveal all my secrets while I sink lower in my seat, weighing my options very carefully because how the rest of the evening goes largely depends on what answer I give my father.

I could tell him the truth—I got fired. Or I could lie my ass off and tell them everything is amazing, tell them I didn't lose my job and my car is running perfectly and I'm not hanging on by my fingertips.

The second I meet my mother's hard stare, I fold .

"I, um…" I take a deep breath, sitting taller in my chair and tipping my chin up. "I parted ways with The Dock."

"Jesus, Quinn," my sister Liza mutters. Her husband, a total asshat if you ask me, shakes his head, throwing back the rest of his wine like he's the one who needs a drink. Their four kids—who I much prefer the company of—are playing in the living room, having only eaten a few bites of their dinner before racing off to get back to their video games.

"What a surprise," Ruthie, my other sister, offers, which really isn't helpful at all. Her partner says nothing, which isn't shocking. Kristin is always quiet, and I'm pretty sure she has hated me ever since my semi-drunken speech at their wedding, where I accidentally spoiled their pregnancy announcement.

"Again?" my oldest brother, Daniel, asks condescendingly. His wife gives me a smug smile, rubbing her pregnant belly. Baby number three is on the way, and we're all hoping this one doesn't get saddled with another D name like the other two. Having a Daniel Jr, Danielle, and Danika gets entirely too confusing as it is.

"Didn't you part ways with your last job too?" Matthew says beside me. With him being the one I'm closest to in age, you'd think we'd get along a lot better than we do, but we couldn't be less alike. He's the exact opposite of me. Luckily, his equally stuck-up girlfriend isn't here to offer her words of wisdom, which she always hands out without prompting.

Meanwhile, my parents sit quietly watching me. Disappointment shines brightly in my father's eyes, though I'm used to it, so whatever.

My mother, though? There's no disappointment. There's no annoyance. No frustration. There's just indifference, and I'm not sure if I feel worse or better about that.

She turns to Daniel with a smile. "More mashed potatoes, dear? Made them from scratch myself this afternoon."

Oh, okay. I guess we're done with my thing now. On the one hand, I'm relieved. On the other, I'm a little upset. Does she even care that I was fired again? Is she at all surprised? Does she simply expect this out of me?

I stab my fork into my Brussels sprouts. I take a bite, chewing and swallowing with a grimace. No matter how old I get or how they're cooked, I just cannot get behind these little green suckers. Still, I eat them, because I know my mother worked hard on this dinner, and I don't want to upset her even more.

The conversation picks up around the table, and I do my best to tune everyone out, ignoring the not-so-subtle jabs from Matthew about his upcoming five-year anniversary at his company and the disgusted glares from Liza whenever our eyes accidentally meet. It's what always happens at family dinners. My siblings pile on me, then they act like I'm not even there. I guess that's what happens when you're the perpetual screwup—you get tossed aside and ignored.

I look over at the sole empty chair, the one that was occupied by Brody, my favorite brother, over the summer. If he were here right now, he'd tell them all off or start a fistfight with Matthew just to defend my honor. He's always been like that, fiercely protective of me. I remember when I was six and he was ten, Brody found me crying in our treehouse because a kid from school teased me for having braces. The next day, the kid showed up with a black eye and an apology.

I wish he were here now, not to protect me or beat someone up, but just so I could have someone on my side. With the season coming up so quickly, he's already back in Tennessee to do what he was born to do—play hockey.

"Quinn?"

I snap my head up, surprised to find my mother staring down at me.

Huh. Guess I tuned my family out better than I thought.

"Would you like to help me with the dishes?"

Honestly, no. Who actually wants to do the dishes? But I know that's not what she's truly asking. She wants a minute alone with me, and she knows as well as I do this is the only way she'll get it with my other siblings here since they aren't about to help clean up.

"Of course." I rise from my chair, grabbing my plate and then Matthew's. He doesn't thank me, so I make sure to walk extra close and "accidentally" elbow him in the head.

"Ouch! Brat," he says to my back, but I ignore him and continue following my mother into her spacious kitchen.

When she and Dad moved out this way two years ago, the one thing my mother wanted more than anything was a kitchen big enough to comfortably accommodate all six of her children. I'd say she got her wish with the sprawling space that fits an island, a commercial refrigerator, and not one but two walk-in pantries. My entire apartment is the size of her kitchen, but she deserves it and more after raising six children while my father worked absurdly late hours.

I scrape the leftover food from the plates into the trash while she fills the sink and gets the dishes ready. Sure, she has a big, fancy dishwasher, but she refuses to use it when we have these family dinners. She says this is our quality time. I fear this is going to feel a lot less like quality time and more like lecture time. I pull a butterscotch candy from my pocket and pop it into my mouth because I suspect I'm going to need that too .

When she grabs the first plate and her sponge, I step up beside her, taking my usual spot—me drying while she washes—and hold my breath, waiting for what's coming next.

"So," she begins, then there's a long pause. It's the kind of pause that makes the hamster that lives in your brain start running on his little wheel, letting all the questions you don't really want answers to start spinning around. "I noticed you walked instead of driving. Everything okay?"

I exhale heavily. It's not at all the question I was expecting, but I'll take telling her my car woes over explaining why I got fired yet again any day. The last thing I want is to have to explain to my mother I lost my job because I slept with my engaged boss.

"The Bug is out of commission again."

She frowns, scrubbing the plate in her hands extra hard. "Hmm. Want your father to take a look at it?"

Our eyes meet, and we burst into laughter, and the tension I've been holding all day eases just a smidge. We both know my father, who is far more adept with technology than anything hands-on, would have no clue what he's looking at were he to pop the hood of my car.

"Nah. I had it towed directly to the shop." I grab the clean plate from her hand, running the dish towel over it. "Cost me an arm, a leg, and a pinky, but it's there."

She's back to frowning. "Do you?—"

I hold my hand up, stopping her, because I know exactly what she's about to say— Do you need money?

"I'm good," I tell her, continuing to rub at the plate that's so dry it's squeaking. "If I need help, I'll let you know."

But I won't let her know, and we both know that too. The truth is, I do need money. Bad. I just don't need their money. It was embarrassing enough the first, second, third, and fourth time, but I'm not letting there be a fifth. I can't. I won't .

Mom scrubs and rinses a few more plates, and I dry them, that tension I've been holding since I was fired creeping back into my neck and shoulders as the strained silence fills the kitchen.

"You know, I could use some help in the bakery tomorrow if you're not busy." She says it so casually as if she's not throwing pity work my way because she knows I'm in desperate need of income.

"That so?" I ask, my attention solely on the dishes as I refuse to look over at her so I don't see the displeasure in her muddy stare.

"Yes. We're getting quite swamped over there. An extra set of hands would be nice."

While my father worked on getting his tech company to where it is now—a roaring success—my mother held down the fort at home, rushing us kids to and from every sports activity, after-school program, and playdate like it was nothing. But what she really wanted to do was open her own bakery. Last year, when she turned fifty-five, she made her dream come true, and B's Bakes, her final baby, was born. While I have no doubt the business is doing well—my mother makes the best sweets—I also know she doesn't need my help and is just trying to offer me a job.

And I absolutely love her for it.

"Sure. I mean, if you really need the help."

I dare a glance her way just in time to see her smile softly. "Even if it means being there at five AM to help prep for the morning rush?"

I swallow back the urge to gag. "Yep. Five AM. Bright and early."

So, so very early.

Her smile widens, her eyes softening in the corners. "Good. I'm so excited to work with you. It'll be fun."

She's wrong. Nobody has ever thought five AM was fun. I'm already regretting tomorrow.

"Is it always like this?" I ask my mom before taking a long pull off my second iced white chocolate latte of the day.

We've been busting our asses since five, and I am beat. There's no way I won't have achy shoulders from rolling dough and blisters on my feet from being on them all day.

"Yes," she says. "Why do you think I make someone else bring dessert when we have these dinners? I need a break."

I shrug. "I just figured you wanted to make sure your kids still listen to you."

She laughs. "Well, yeah, that too." She dips her head toward the creamer on the end of the counter. "Refill those while we're slow, will you?"

I nod and finish off my coffee before making my way over to the fixings station. The bell over the door goes off just as I gather the carafes between my fingers. I'm not sure how many times it's sounded this morning, but I do know it's far too many. I repress my sigh, pasting on a smile and turning toward the door.

"Good morn?—"

The rest of the words don't come out because Adam Hayes is standing inside my mother's bakery, and he's scowling at me just as hard as he was yesterday.

I ignore him, letting my eyes trail down to the little girl pressed to his side, her hand tucked tightly into his. Flora's blue gaze sparks when she sees me, and she lifts her free hand in a soft wave. I return it, ready to ask her how she's doing, but the perpetual grump doesn't let me.

"Good morn?" he asks, a dark brow arched, his lips in that same thin line they were pressed into yesterday. "Is that some new hip lingo I missed out on learning?"

I want to tell him we're likely around the same age, but I doubt my mother would appreciate me smarting off to the customers.

" Ing. Good morn ing ," I tell him through a forced grin. "Nice to see you again."

He grunts in response, ignoring me as he approaches the ordering counter.

Damn. And here I thought I was supposed to be the grumpy one today having to get up so early.

As they make their way over, I watch as Flora tugs on his flannel jacket.

"Use your words, Uncle Adam," she says softly yet somehow sternly.

He looks down at her with crushed brows. "What?"

"That's what you tell me, right? To use my words?"

I snicker as I set the creamers on the back counter and meet Hayes and Flora at the register to take their order .

"Let me guess, a black coffee to match your mood?"

His lips don't even so much as twitch at my joke. "And an everything bagel with cream cheese."

"Got it." I punch his order into the screen, then grin at the little girl in a simple gray dress, her hair desperately in need of detangling. "And what about you, Miss Flora?"

Her eyes brighten, and she gives me a small smile. "A chocolate donut, please."

"Sprinkles or no sprinkles?"

She nods. "Sprinkles, please, ma'am."

"Ma'am? Good lord. I am way too young to be a ma'am . You can call me Quinn."

"Please, Miss Quinn."

I laugh, not having the heart to correct her again. "Anything to drink?"

"Chocolate milk, please."

I'll give the girl this—she may be quiet, but she has some excellent manners, which she no doubt did not get from her uncle.

"You got it, little flower." I look at her uncle. "For here or to go?"

He stares back at me like he's never heard that question before. Then he looks at me, at Flora, and back at me again. I look at Flora, but she's staring at her uncle, equally confused by whatever is happening. Just when he's about to answer, my mother speaks up behind me, and I jump at her sudden appearance.

"For here. They always get their breakfast for here." She rounds the corner, bending at the waist and beaming at the kid. "And how are you today, sweetie?"

The girl tucks herself halfway behind her uncle's leg again. She darts her eyes at me before turning them back to my mother. "Good, Mrs. Bess."

"I'm so glad to hear that." My mother straightens, turning her curious gaze to Adam Hayes, who is…

Holy crap! He's smiling !

And it's hot .

If I thought he was attractive when he was scowling, that was nothing compared to his grin. It's like he's a whole different person when he smiles. I want to make him smile.

"And you, Mr. Hayes?" My mother lifts a brow. "How are you ?"

"Please, Bess, just call me Hayes." He says it like he's asked her this before, but knowing my mother, she doesn't care. "And I'm good."

But there's something in his voice…something in his eyes…they don't match the words that just left him. He's lying, and damn if it doesn't make me curious.

"Any leads?"

Leads? Leads for what?

Hayes's eyes find mine for only a moment, almost like he wishes I wasn't here to witness this conversation, and then he shakes his head. "Nothing yet."

Mom hums. "That's too bad. I— oh my gosh! " she gasps loudly, clapping her hands together excitedly.

"What?" I ask.

"I can't believe I didn't think of this before!"

"Think of what ?"

I look to Hayes to see if he has any idea what she's going on about, but he just shrugs.

"It's genius, really. And it works out perfectly since you just lost your job."

I wince, daring another glance at Hayes, who lifts a single brow in my direction. I duck my head, hoping he doesn't see how red my cheeks have become. I'm not sure if I'm more embarrassed by my mother just blurting it out for all to hear or if it's because she said it so casually since it happens so often.

"You!" She points to me.

"What about me?" I ask, not sure I want to know the answer given how excited she is. That can either be a really good thing or really bad.

"You can help him!"

I jerk my head back. "Excuse me?"

"You can nanny for him." Her eyes are bright with excitement as if she's just coming up with the solution to everyone's problems, and she sort of has.

I don't have a job right now, so any income would be nice, and apparently Hayes here needs a nanny. This would be a win-win, except that I'm not a nanny. I've babysat my nieces and nephews, but that's different. I've known them since they came screaming into this world. I don't know Hayes or his niece. My mother might think it's a genius idea, but no matter how desperate I am, it's not happening.

"No," I say simply, turning to Hayes and ignoring the hard stare my mother's throwing my way. "That'll be ten seventy-five."

Hayes thrusts a card at me, and I take it, swiping it through the machine before handing it back while he takes cash from his wallet—a crisp twenty-dollar bill—and tucks it into the jar like he didn't just spend more on a tip than he did his entire breakfast.

Must be nice, rich bastard.

"We'll have your breakfast out in a jiffy," I tell him with a smile he doesn't return.

He just leads his niece to the table near the front window and settles in the chair opposite her.

"Quinn!" hisses my mom the moment they're seated.

"Mother," I return calmly, turning to pour his black-like-his-soul coffee.

"That poor man needs help, and you know it."

"Why do you care about some random customer so much? "

"Because he's not just some random customer and you know it."

Which is why I don't feel bad for him. He makes millions. He doesn't need help from some girl who can't even afford to pay her own rent.

"So he's a hockey player, big deal. Why should that make me feel bad for him?"

"Because he's a good man who took his niece in when she needed it and is now her sole guardian and needs a nanny for her during the season and clearly has no clue where to start. I mean, look at them. Do you really think he has a handle on this situation?"

She waves her hand toward the duo. Flora's attention is trained on her hands, which are folded together in her lap, her little shoulders sunken in. And Hayes…well, he just watches her. They aren't engaging in conversation like every other patron in here. They aren't smiling or sharing jokes. They're just sitting there awkwardly like they're total strangers when they're family. If I were at that table with my niece or nephew, we'd be playing a silly slap game, or I'd be making faces at them, doing anything I could to get them to laugh, but not these two.

And damn if that doesn't make me sad.

"Are they always like that?" I ask.

"Pretty much. I think I can count on one hand the number of times I've seen them talk to one another for more than a few sentences, and they're here multiple days a week. Don't even get me started on that." She huffs, grabbing the donut Flora ordered from the case. I don't miss her pulling out the shaker of sprinkles and adding even more to the top before plating it. "I bet they don't have a single decent thing to eat in that house if he's feeding her donuts daily."

I want to remind her that she used to feed us kids sweets every day, but I don't think it would be wise given how much this clearly bothers her.

"And let's not forget his profession. You know how often your brother is gone. How can he raise a kid on his own with no help?"

I shrug. "I'm sure he'll find someone."

"It's been months, Quinn, and he hasn't found anyone."

I'd be lying if I said that didn't tug at my heart, but I try my best to push it aside. I have my own problems to worry about. I don't need to start feeling bad for some multi-millionaire who can't find a babysitter.

"I just…" She trails off, shaking her head as she begins wiping down the display cases that aren't at all dirty. "Well, I just don't know what he's going to do. I feel so awful for them. I would take her in myself, but…"

If she wasn't working so hard at making her dreams come true with the bakery, I have no doubt my mother would scoop that little girl into her arms and love her all season long. She can't do that, so she's trying to help in the only way she knows how to—fixing the situation for them.

I dare a peek back over at Hayes and am surprised to find him staring at me with hard eyes, brows pulled tightly together. I smile, and that gets him to look away, back at Flora, who hasn't moved a muscle. He sighs, his shoulders rolling forward, and that same sadness from before hits me again. They really do look like they're struggling. It's like they don't have a clue how to navigate this new life of theirs.

"What happened?" I ask my mom.

"Hmm?"

I nod toward Hayes and Flora. "Why does she live with him now?"

She lifts her shoulder. "I don't know. Hayes hasn't told me, and I haven't asked. I figured it was none of my business."

Yet she thinks helping him is her business.

"Look, it was just a suggestion," my mother says. "If you don't want to help him, don't. I'm sure he'll find someone, just like you said. He has some time until the season really starts."

Yeah, but not enough time. I know it, she knows it, and I bet Hayes damn sure knows it. He's screwed, and I know a thing or two about that with my unpaid credit cards and utility bills stacking up. And, oh yeah, my lack of income.

Perhaps my mom is right. Maybe this could solve both of our problems. Even if it's just for a few weeks until he finds someone permanent and I find a new job somewhere I actually want to work, it'll still help us both out. Besides, what's the worst that can happen? I can handle a few weeks of babysitting. Easy-peasy, right?

"What are you doing?" Mom asks when I grab the plated donut and bagel.

"I'm taking them their breakfast," I say nonchalantly.

But it's not casual enough because my mother grins like she's just won a giant stuffed bear from a claw machine on the first try.

"What?"

"Nothing." Her grin grows. "Nothing at all, dear."

I narrow my eyes at her, sliding past. I blow out a breath, then push my shoulders back, pasting on the best customer service smile I can muster as I make my way out to the floor.

Hayes catches me approaching in his periphery, his brows cinching tighter together the closer I get.

I'm about to ask a hockey player for a job…and I'm pretty sure he hates me.