Page 48 of Four More The Merrier

"That bad?"

"We're talking toilet seats permanently stuck in launch position." I mime an upward motion with my free hand. "And don't get me started on beard hair in the sink."

"Hey now," Beau protests, stroking his impressive facial hair. "Some of us maintain our beards with dignity."

"Sure you do, mountain man." I wink at Quinn. "Just wait till you see the morning routine. It's like watching bigfoot attempt personal grooming."

Quinn laughs, finally relaxing. "I survived a communal bathroom in college. I think I can handle you three."

"That's the spirit." I raise my thermos in salute. "Welcome to the circus, Quinn. May your aim be true and your shower shoes be thick-soled."

The scentof bacon and coffee wafts through the bus as Quinn moves around the kitchenette like she's been here all along. Beau hovers nearby, passing her ingredients and stealing glances when he thinks I'm not looking.

"This is gonna be interesting when dumb and dumber wake up," I say, settling onto the small couch. "Ten bucks says Jarron trips over his own feet when he sees her."

"Twenty says Austen runs his hands through his hair at least three times," Beau counters.

Quinn rolls her eyes. "You two are terrible. Pass me the eggs?"

Right on cue, the back door squeaks open. Two giggling women in sparkly dresses from last night stumble out, followed by our disheveled bandmates.

"Call me!" One of them calls out. Neither Jarron nor Austen responds.

They shuffle toward the front, both squinting against the morning light. Jarron's wearing yesterday's jeans and no shirt, while Austen's flannel is buttoned wrong.

"Coffee," Jarron grunts, dropping onto the couch beside me. He hasn't noticed Quinn yet, who's quietly whisking eggs.

Austen runs his hands through his messy hair. "Who's cooking? Smells good."

"That would be me," Quinn says, turning around with the skillet. "Eggs?"

Jarron jerks upright, nearly spilling the coffee I just handed him. "What are you doing in here?"

"She lives here now," Beau says, his tone daring them to object. "Got a problem with that?"

Austen runs his hands through his hair again. I smirk at Beau – that's twenty bucks he owes me.

Jarron's coffee cup freezes halfway to his mouth. "Hold up. When exactly was this decided?"

"Last night," Beau replies, reaching for a piece of bacon. Quinn swats his hand away playfully.

Austen runs his hands through his hair for the third time – I'm definitely winning that bet. "You didn't think maybe we should've all been consulted about this?"

I can't help but snort. "That's rich coming from you two. When's the last time either of you 'consulted' us about the parade of groupies you drag through here?"

"Touche, white flag raised," Austen says as he stuffs his mouth with a piece of toast.

"That's a little different," Jarron protests, but there's already a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Yeah? How many times have I woken up to find Brittany-with-an-i passed out in our kitchen?" I counter. "Or was it Brandi-with-an-i? Hard to keep track."

Quinn tries to hide her laugh behind her hand, but fails miserably. Even Austen cracks a grin.

"At least Quinn can cook," I add, snagging a piece of perfectly crispy bacon. "Unlike what's-her-name who nearly burned down the bus trying to make toast."

That does it. The tension breaks as Jarron throws his head back laughing. "God, I forgot about that. The fire marshal's face when he realized who we were..."

"Welcome home, Quinn," Austen says, finally giving in with a chuckle. "Just... maybe keep the cooking lessons to yourself?"

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