Trev, the carefully tousled barista behind the counter winked at her. “Hey, darlin’,” he said warmly, hands working at the speed of light while the rest of him seemed chilled and relaxed. The LA beach bum slash aspiring actor forced to work to support his surfing habit. “How you doing?”
“Good,” Quinn said automatically. And hey, she didn’t like to brag but she’d totally gotten out of bed today. “How did your audition go?”
“Got the part.” Trev beamed. “You’re looking at the best fake Thai delivery guy who ever lived. I think you’re my good luck charm. Say you’ll finally go out with me.”
Quinn smiled—see, she totally did smile!—and shook her head. “I’m off dating right now.”
He said the words in perfect sync along with her and shook his head. “You’re too young to be in a rut, you know that, right?”
She wasn’t in a rut. She was . . . not feeling life right now, that was all. “Hey,” she said, realizing he was already working on her coffee. “I didn’t give you my order.”
He kept moving. “Has it changed? Ever?”
Well that made her want to order something crazy just to throw him off. Hell, it would throw her off too, but she held her silence because she wanted her damn regular.
And shit. Okay, she was in a rut. But routine made life simpler, and after the complications she’d been through, simple was the key to getting out of bed and putting one foot in front of the other every day.
“You should go out with him,” Carolyn whispered. She smiled kindly when Quinn looked at her. “You only live once,” she said.
“Not true,” Quinn said, beginning to lose her sense of humor. “You live every day. You only die once.”
Carolyn’s smile slowly faded in understanding. “Then make it count, Quinn. Go hog wild.”
Hog wild, huh? Quinn turned to Trev, who got a hopeful look on his face.
“An extra shot and whip,” she said.
Trev blinked and then sighed. “Yeah, we need to work on your idea of hog wild.”
When Quinn got to Amuse Bouche, the trendy, upscale restaurant where she worked, it was to find her fellow sous chef Marcel already in the kitchen.
He glanced over at her, sniffed disdainfully, and went back to yelling at Sky, the new hire, who was chopping onions the way Quinn had shown her.
“Leave her alone, Marcel.”
He slid her a glacial stare. “Excuse me?”
Sky backed away from them both as if they were a live grenade. Quinn squared her shoulders and faced down Marcel the Tyrant, as the staff called him.
Behind his back, of course.
“I showed Sky how to chop,” she told him. “She was doing it correctly.”
“Yes,” he agreed, dropping his fake German accent. “If you work at a place flipping burgers and asking what size fry you want with your order.”
Here was the thing. Some days Quinn surprised herself with her agility, and other days she put her keys in the fridge. But she was good at this job. And yes, she understood that at twenty-nine years old and quickly rounding the corner kicking and screaming into thirty, that she was young and very lucky to have landed the sous chef position in such a wildly popular place. But she’d worked her ass off, going to a top notch culinary school in San Francisco, spending several years practicing cutting and or burning her fingers to the bone. She knew what she was doing—and had the tuition debt to prove it.
Oddly, Marcel wasn’t that much older than her—late thirties, maybe. He’d come up the hard way, starting at the age of twelve washing dishes in his uncle’s restaurant not all that far from here, but light-years away in style and prestige. He was good, excellent actually, but he was hardcore old school and as far as she could tell, he resented a woman being his equal.
Quinn did her best to let it all bead off, telling herself that she believed in karma. What went around came back around. But near as she could tell, nothing had kicked Marcel in the ass yet.
“You,” he said, pointing at her. “Go order our food for the week. And don’t forget the pork like last time. Also your cheese supplier? She’s shit, utter shit.”
Quinn bit her tongue as Marcel turned away to brow-beat Sky’s dicing of some red peppers. He jerked the bowl away to prove his point and ended up with red pepper all over the front of his carefully starched white uniform shirt.
Karma had finally shown up, fashionably late, but better than never.
On Sunday, Quinn got into the fancy Lexus her parents had given her for her last birthday in spite of her insistence that she wanted a cheaper, more affordable car, and headed to their place for brunch. A command performance since she’d managed to skip out on the past two weekends in a row due to working overtime.
She hoped like hell it wasn’t an ambush birthday party. Her birthday was still two weeks away but her mom couldn’t keep a secret to save her own life and had let the possibility of a party slip several times in spite of the fact that Quinn didn’t like birthdays.
Or surprises.
She parked in front of the two-story Tutor cottage that had been her childhood home and felt her heart contract. She’d learned to ride a bike on the long driveway, alongside her sister who’d been a far superior bike rider, so much so that Quinn had often ridden on Beth’s handlebars instead of riding her own bike. They’d stolen flowers from their mom’s beloved flower garden lining the walkway. Years later as teens, they’d also sneaked out one of the second story windows, climbing down the oak tree to go to parties they’d been grounded from attending—only getting caught when Quinn slipped and broke her arm.
Beth hadn’t spoken to her for weeks.
Coming here alone never failed to make Quinn feel hollow and empty. And cold.
And deep down, she was afraid nothing would or could ever warm her again.
It’ll get easier.
Time is your friend.
She’ll stay in your heart.
Quinn had heard every possible well-meaning condolence over the past two years and every single one of them was shit.
It hadn’t gotten easier. Time wasn’t her friend. And as much as she tried to hold on to every single memory she had of Beth, it was all fading. Even now she couldn’t quite summon up the soft, musical sound of Beth’s laugh and it killed her.
Shaking it off the best she could, she slid out of her car and forced a smile on her face. Sometimes you had to fake it to make it.
Actually, more than sometimes.
June in southern California could mean hot or hotter, but today was actually a mild eighty degrees and her mom’s flowers were in full, glorious bloom. She ducked a wayward bee—she was allergic—and turned to watch a flashy BMW pull in next to her, relieved to not have to go inside alone.
Brock Holbrook slid out of his car looking camera ready and she couldn’t help but both smile and roll her eyes. “Suck up,” she said gesturing to his suit and tie.
Brock flashed a grin. “I just know where my bread’s buttered.”
He worked for her father’s finance company and no one could deny that Brock knew how to work a room. He was good-looking, charismatic, and when he looked at her appreciatively, she waited for the zing she used to get from that very look.