Page 18 of Scotch & Shortbread

Quinn told them everything starting with the guy who spilled his drink on her.

“So the second time he caught you, you think he held his arms around you longer than necessary?” Belle asked, needing further clarification as to every exact detail.

“I don’t know. Well, yes, I think so. I mean, it was longer than the first time.”

“And it felt good?” Megan grinned conspiratorially.

Quinn rolled her eyes and then scrunched them closed. She wasn’t going to lie to her friends. They’d call her out if she even tried. “A bit,” she conceded.

“And he smelled good?” Belle's black-brown eyes burrowed into Quinn’s, waiting for confirmation.

“Yes.” She sighed heavily in resignation. “So good. Like peppermint and cedar wood and fresh yummy spiciness.” She bit her lip. “But then things took a turn, I wasn’t feeling very well.”

“Please, for the love of God, tell me you didn’t puke,” Meg said her nostrils flared in apparent distaste.

Quinn folded tiny corners on the sugar packet. “I puked,” she said in a barely-there voice.

“Uh, God. In front of him?” Meg was incredulous.

“And you are a terrible puker. You always sound like a freight train is roaring out of you. It’s kind of terrifying.” Belle quivered as she simultaneously ran her forkful of food over the last of the hollandaise sauce and ketchup on her plate and popped it into her mouth.

“Thanks, Belle.” Quinn shot her a look.

“It’s true, Quinn. We’ve witnessed it more than once. It’s nasty when you puke.” Meg waved for the server’s attention as she was about to walk by. “Can I get another orange juice and hot coffee? This one’s gone cold.”

“Right away, hun,” the bubbly server said.

“Thanks. Oh, could you leave out the green herb thing from the orange juice this time?”

“Not a problem. Can I get anyone else anything?” she said brightly as she deftly cleared their finished breakfast dishes, expertly stacking them in her hands.

“I’ll have a coffee too, with eight creams, please. Oh, and one of those Christmas strudel things,” Belle said, sliding her cleaned-off plate to the side. Quinn and Meg gawked at her, wide-eyed. “What?” she shrugged, her silky black hair bobbing.

Quinn shook her head with a smile.

“Where were we?” Belle said after the server walked away.

“Nasty puke,” Meg supplied looking pointedly at Quinn.

“Right, fine, whatever, I nasty puked in front of him!” Quinn snapped.

Meg and Belle both looked like they smelled something off, and Quinn rolled her eyes.

“It’s okay, Quinn. He’s a cop. I’m sure he’s seen worse.” Belle reached across the table and patted her hand.

“So then what happened?” Meg asked, and Quinn somewhat reluctantly continued the story. In one way, it felt good to talk it through, but it also made her cringe, recalling all the sordid details. What he must think of her. Not that she should care.

“I can’t believe he actually physically carried you. I didn’t think cops would be allowed to even do that.” Belle leaned back in the leather booth seat.

Quinn shrugged. “I don’t know, but he didn’t carry me in the nice way,” she said as if that were the real issue.

“Yeah, Belle, he didn’t carry her like a bride to their honeymoon suite,” Meg added mockingly.

Quinn groaned, still stinging with the embarrassment of it all. “God, I hope I never see him again.” She laid her head on the table.

“You could still change your mind and come with us back to B.C. for Christmas,” Belle said, not missing a beat.

Meg shot her a disapproving look and turned to Quinn. “You have to see him again!”

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