Page 52 of Enemy Crush
Chapter 18
QUINN
My head was spinning on the drive back home. Shayla was saying that it had been the best day in a long time and she was ever so grateful for my help, especially as I’d shown up at short notice. That wasn’t why I was in a flap though.
It was the nearness of Miller Trask.
And the fact that he hadn’t said anything about what had gone down today. Not about Noah Forbes mentioning my father’s business collapsing. Nor my card being declined for insufficient funds. Or the way he’d sat and looked at me in the back of the truck sharing a cinnamon roll...when I secretly—or stupidly—wondered what it would be like to kiss him.
And now, in this forced proximity, I could hardly function. Because I couldn’t understand all the crazy feelings happening, the heart flutterings, the breathing difficulty, the weird sensations that had me ready to burst out of my skin.
Because now, more than ever, I had to stay away from Miller. He knew too much. Or rather, he had the potential to know too much. He’d only have to use some basic logic to work things out: I’d left my prep school, I no longer had a car, I was working the Spud Harvest, my father’s business closed down and my card declined for a coffee cart purchase. It wouldn’t take a genius to put two and two together.
There was too much at stake, too much risk being this close to Miller.
As we neared Snow Ridge, I texted Mom that I’d meet her at the salon. I kept my phone low on my lap so Miller couldn’t see it, not that he appeared to be looking my way, more interested in the passing scenery. Mom answered with a thumbs up emoji which indicated she was busy working.
Shayla insisted Miller and I take a bag of potatoes and other vegetables when she dropped us off. I had been about to turn down the offer—not wanting to look like a freeloader because we were getting paid for our time—but Miller took his bags with unabashed gratitude.
“Appreciate it, Shayla,” he said. “Thanks a bunch.”
“My pleasure,” Shayla replied. “See you guys.”
“Yeah, thanks,” I said, taking my two bags, but realizing I’d have to carry them with me to the salon.
“You need a ride?” Miller asked.
“No, I’m good,” I said, lifting the bags into my arms.
Miller shrugged. “Fine then,” he said, putting on his helmet which made me wonder if he’d thought I’d ride on the back of his motorcycle. It kind of blew my mind because I’d never ridden on a motorcycle before. Motorcycles were for...well, people like the Trasks, Mom would say.
Mom was the last one working—as per usual—but today I helped with cleaning up as she finished her last client. I wiped mirrors, sprayed counters, sterilized equipment and swept the floor. I didn’t mind doing it, but I did have an ulterior motive. When Mom cashed up the register, I piped up.
“Hey, you wouldn’t be able to lend me some cash would you? I had to buy my lunch at the market and had to borrow some money.”
“Borrow some money?” Mom asked.
“Yeah, I didn’t take any,” I said, not about to admit my public humiliation. I don’t know why I hadn’t checked my balance but the Karma cafe and the bus ticket home had emptied myaccount. “And we won’t get paid till the end of the harvest. Oh, and Shayla gave us some potatoes and veggies too. For free.”
Mom hesitated but then peeled off a ten dollar bill. And then another. “Is that enough?”
“Yeah, thanks,” I said. “Hey, are we doing okay, you know, money wise? Are we going to be okay?”
Mom pursed her lips. “The bills are being paid,” she said, letting out a sigh. I thought she was going to say something else, finally tell me about selling her handbags, but she only nodded her head.
“I...I can help out when I get paid,” I said. “Someone said we’ll get close to a thousand dollars if we stick out the whole harvest. Already some kids dropped out, even after the first day.”
Mom shut the cash register. She clasped her hands together and smiled at me. Like, a real, heartfelt smile. “You’ve really stepped up Quinn. I’m proud of you,” she said, her eyes misting over.
I swallowed hard, like a lump was stuck in my throat. Praise from Mom was rare at the best of times, almost as rare as a show of emotion.
“I want to help,” I murmured, unsure of how to deal with her sentimentality.
Mom’s hand pressed my shoulder. “Thank you.”
“Of course,” I mumbled, uncomfortable with her touch, as innocuous as it was. But it struck me that Mom hardly ever hugged or showed physical affection, not even to Dad. She was always worried about messing her hair or nails or crumpling a linen suit.
Because of the Farmers Market, it was my first day in a week where I was home before eight. Twelve hour days had become the norm, and I was getting a good idea of the amount of hours Mom worked and could only guess at her level of fatigue.
