Page 42 of Just One Moment

“No.Iwouldn’t,”Ireply earnestly.

“Thenkeep doing what you’re doing.Ithink you’ll be surprised with the outcome.”Josqueezes my arm before changing the subject. “Question.WouldJennamind ifIwore a white, floor-length gown to the wedding?”

Shakingmy head with laughter,Ibump my shoulder with hers. “Ididn’t take you for the vengeful type.”

“Pfft.Sheonce told me she suspected my skin was breaking out because of all the cheeseIate.Thefucking audacity.”

“Uh-oh!JoJoswored,”Lottieshouts, holding out an open palm. “Onedollar, please.”

Withan eye roll,JopullsPatrick’swallet from his back pocket and drops a bill ontoLottie’shand. “Love, you need to start carrying your own dollars if you continue to curse in front of her.She’sgot bionic hearing.”

“Butyou’re my sugar dad—”Patrickclamps a hand over her mouth, pulls her into his side, and kisses the tip of her nose.

“Pat, did we put in the application for this year’sFallFair?”Boothcalls from across the room, thankfully halting thePDAgoing on beside me.

“Yeah,Idropped it off at the town hall last week.”Patrickturns toQuinn. “Hey, you should apply, they’re accepting applications for a few more days.Thebakery would make a killing.”

Excitementtakes over her features and she opens her mouth, but then something snuffs it out, and her eyes dim. “Isit…umm…free?” she asks, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Wewish,”Boothreplies. “Itcosts four hundred dollars for the table and then another two for the permits.Moreif you want to sell alcohol.”

Quinn’sbubbly and positive demeanor fizzles out, andIhate it.It’sirrational for me to be mad atBooth, he’s answering her question, butIreally want to throw a cushion at his idiotic head for breaking her spirit.

Sincethat morning at the bakery whenQuinnwas crying in my arms, panicking over money and how she couldn’t afford to fix her van—her home—and pay for a hotel,I’dguessed money was a little tight for her.Ithappens to the best of us, especially when you’re first starting out as a business owner.It’sobvious pride tends to stand in her way, and even now that she’s agreed to let me help the bakery and live with me free of charge,Iget the feeling she’s itching to repay me.

Herearlier comment about not having people in her corner replays in my head.

Ihate that she can’t have this.Ihate seeing her sad.Ihate thatIcan’t fix it.

Shedeserves all the things that bring her joy.Thesame type of joy she effortlessly brings others.

Theoretically,I’mnot the guy to fix it.ButIcan sure as hell try.

And, likeJosaid, maybe the outcome will surprise me.

“Wouldyou rather have lobster claws or octopus tentacles for hands?”

“Easy.Tentacles.Next.”

Myroommate lets out an exasperated sigh.We’vebeen playing this game for half an hour, each question more ridiculous than the last, but apparently my quick, logical answers aren’t the way to do it.

Quinnarrived back at the apartment minutes afterIfinished work, ending her day much earlier than usual.Myhead was aching following hours of back-to-back meetings with difficult clients, so when she suggested we walkCurlytogether,Icouldn’t say yes quickly enough.

We’restrolling along the boardwalk that spans the length of the bay, the old planks creaking with each step as we make the most of the nice weather this evening.Afew clouds hang in the sky, each painted a pastel pink or purple to match the setting sun, our lungs filling with fresh, ocean air.Thetemperature is quickly dropping the closer we get toNovember, and we’ll soon be trading flannels for thick, winter coats.

Asmall line of boats bob back into the bay, the shouts and cheers from the fishermen taking in today’s haul ricochets off the row of colorful houses facing the water.Boothwas down here first thing this morning when the first load of boats returned, ensuring the restaurant had the freshest catch on the menu.Hetook a class in how to filet fish a couple of years ago, allowing him to purchase it all dockside, rather than waiting for the fishermen to prep the fish elsewhere.

“Whynot lobster claws?”Quinnasks with a poke to my bicep.

“It’shighly inconvenient.”

Myhand hooks around her hip when a truck speeds past us, andImaneuver her untilI’mbetween her and the street.She’stoo busy muttering away about sea creatures to even notice she’s switched sides.

Westop soCurlycan sniff a trash can, and whileQuinnstares out at the choppy waters,Itake in her flushed cheeks and windswept hair.

Iavert my gaze when she turns to look at me and asks, “Andtentacles aren’t?”

“Whywon’t you just let me be happy with my tentacles?Ifyou want lobster claws, you have them.I’vemade my decision.”

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