“And?”
Quinn swallowed hard, her gulp loud and thick. “And then there was this weird, soothing vibration coming from the ground that rumbled my feet. It spread up my legs and worked its way all along my rib cage. It was incredibly peaceful…er, at first. But then the pillar shook with a god-awful heave, splitting the marble and shooting chips of rock at me in every direction—and it fell! I swear! It fell right out of the column. Just splat, hit me on the head and rolled right to my feet.”
“The apple?” Ingrid squeaked.
“Yes! It was as if the column had given birth to it. I swear I’m telling the truth, Ingrid, because look!” She dug around in her straw bag and retrieved the apple, holding it up as it gleamed, gold and perfect in the sun.
Ingrid’s breath shuddered in and out, her voice skipping when she spoke. “This made your boobs bigger? An item from the produce section?”
Quinn whirled in a circle, letting her arms flap open wide. “I don’t know, Ingrid! I just know the second it fell from the column, my boobs inflated at least two cup sizes. How, I ask you, does Shawna even breathe with these things?”
Ingrid held up a hand and took a long breath, her eyes again scanning the area surrounding the Parthenon. “First, put that thing down.”
Quinn obliged, setting the apple at her feet—feet she could no longer see past her poofy chest.
“Don’t touch it again. Now, I’m calling Nina. She’ll know what to do. So let’s just stay calm and breathe.”
Fear sped up Quinn’s spine as a mental picture of Nina Statleon formed. A brooding, hoodie-wearing, angry, foul-mouthed woman who was nuts with a capital Crazypants. And though absolutely, breathtakingly gorgeous sans makeup and all manner of finery, she was, oddly, very, very pale.
Nina, along with Marty Flaherty and Wanda Jefferson, were Ingrid’s bosses at the office she worked in while studying to become a vet tech. The basement office in Manhattan Ingrid never allowed Quinn anywhere near when they had study dates. Which now, come to think of it, was pretty strange.
Nina evoked fear in her belly after their last encounter, when the woman had discovered what Igor had done and how Quinn had considered not taking this trip to Greece. Nina had been full of all kinds of opinions about it. They’d been littered with colorful language and sometimes even threatening stances and the words “limp” and “dick”.
She was the one who’d suggested Ingrid come with Quinn in Igor’s stead, to keep Quinn from throwing herself off the top of Mt. Olympus.
Which was a hasty assessment of her mental state, if you asked her. Okay, so she’d cried. She’d cried a lot that night she and Igor broke up and Nina happened to witness it. Cried so much, Nina had offered to chew her way through Igor’s chest and eat his heart for her.
No doubt a kind act of girl-power solidarity. But she hadn’t just cried about Igor. She’d cried because no matter what she did, Quinn Morris sucked ass at getting a relationship right.
Regardless, she was a little afraid of Nina
But it didn’t make any sense that they’d call her for anything unless they needed a creative swear word or the eating of someone’s face.
Quinn latched onto Ingrid’s arm. “Nina? Why would you call her? How can she possibly help me with my huge lady lumps?”
Ingrid looked as though she was weighing her options and then she said, “There’s some stuff you might need to know about Nina and my other bosses, Marty and Wanda. But not right now. Right now, I just need you to trust me, Quinn.”
Trust. Sure. What else did she have but trust—and big boobs.
Holding up her phone, Ingrid grimaced. “Ugh! I can’t get a damn signal. Stay right here and don’t move. I’m just going to go over there and call her.”
“But—”
“Not another word, Quinn. I know Nina scares you, but she’s not just my boss, she’s a good friend, and she will know what to do. She can help, and I promise to tell you why later.”
Quinn couldn’t imagine Nina as helpful. Maybe she’d be helpful if World War III erupted, but in something as sensitive in nature as this?
Fat chance.
She watched as Ingrid walked away, stomping over the debris of the column, kicking up dust with her heavy black work boots in search of a cell signal.
“Quinn Morris?” a deep, velvety voice asked.
Whirling around so fast she almost lost her hat, Quinn found the face that went with the voice.
Oh, and the body.
Yes—dear future soul mate and Jesus forgive her—the body.
She blinked in the glare of the bright sun. “Yes?”