Page 80 of Enemy Crush
Miller has peeled, chopped and boiled the Russets, and he’s added warmed milk and butter, and now he’s expertly mashing them.
“You’re not what I expected,” I say, smiling at the way he presses the masher down.
“Neither are you.”
“I can’t believe you’re just doing it, without a recipe or anything.”
“And I can’t believe you’ve never mashed potatoes before,” Miller says, dipping in and licking a dollop of creamy potato off his finger. He sprinkles a little more salt. “And to think you’ve been conning all those people at the farmers market who think you’re a potato expert.”
“I haven’t conned anyone,” I protest in an uppity voice. “I’ve never said I know how tocookpotatoes.”
“I’m kidding,” Miller says, handing me the masher. “Finish them off.”
“I thought you wanted me to put it in the dishwasher,” I say, adjusting my grip on the utensil that I didn’t even know existedbefore today. “Is this right?” Miller covers my hand and we mash together.
When Miller, Ash and I were planning our menu, I was all in. My suggestion of avocado crostinis was met with impressed looks—until I told them it was a fancy name for avocado toast bites, and I thought herb crusted chicken and mashed potato was more adventurous than Ash’s idea of fried chicken and wedges. It was unanimous that apple crisp and whipped cream complete our meal. Yeah, that was the easy part. Allocating the cooking, not so much. Forced to confess I had no culinary skills at all, that I failed at frozen waffles, prompted Miller to give me private lessons, starting with mashed potato.
“Okay, what’s your verdict?” He gives me a taste on a teaspoon.
“It’s delicious,” I say dreamily, swirling the fluffy potato around my mouth. “You know, I’m sad the market is closed for the winter.”
Across the room, I hear my phone ping, but with Miller’s hand on mine, I don’t want to move away.
“Me too. But, hey, maybe you could start a potato consultancy business? Advising people on their perfect potato match,” Miller jokes.
“Hmmm,” I muse. “In that case, I’d recommend the Yukon Gold for you.”
“Because I’m like gold? You know, a national treasure?” He flashes me a grin that goes beyond cheesy, but it’s a smile I totally love. Silly, goofy, warm, adoring, Millerisprecious.
“No...more like mushy on the inside.” I let go of the masher when he flicks a blob of mashed potato at me. I squeal and duck, the potato hitting the kitchen floor.
He wraps his arms around me, restraining me. “Did you call me mushy?”
“Mushy is good!” I say, half-heartedly fighting to free myself, but I like being held by him. “You’re mushy and squishy...”
“What? Like a Squishmallow?”
“Yes, I love squishing you. And you’re smooth and buttery...”
“Buttery? What the heck does that mean?” He mocks me with a scowl.
I laugh because I don’t know what it means, only that Yukon Golds are rich and buttery. “And...and...you’re,” I’m struggling to improvise, “you’re...versatile...”
“What? You’re mashing me, roasting me...?”
“And you’re sweet, so, so sweet,” I say, out of breath from giddiness and laughter, “and you make everything better.”
At that, he loosens his grip and turns me to face him and whispers, “I make everything better?”
I nod, my eyes piercing his, his gaze warm and tender and devoted. And that’s how Miller has made me feel ever since he asked me on a date. We’ve become inseparable, our lives entwined on a daily basis. We hang out all the time, me, him, Hamish, Mason.
I’ve decluttered the Trask’s garage while he and his Dad have worked on the Mustang, and Mr. Trask repaired the Ambrose Manor archway when a gust of wind nearly brought down the top of it. Mom was literally speechless when he did that and didn’t know how to repay him. Mr. Trask didn’t want any payment but Miller had suggested she offer him a free shampoo and haircut from her salon—a joke that had Mr. Trask chuckling and rubbing his bald head. But Mom had been inspired and ordered him a beard grooming kit from one of her suppliers. Miller says that the smell of sandalwood overpowers their house now. And another thing about Mr. Trask—he’s seeing a woman called Jesse who he works with. They went on a date just a week after Miller and I went on ours. Miller said it’s the first time his Dad has dated since their Mom left.
But it’s true that Miller has made everything better. With him, and because of him, I feel appreciated for who I am, just me, Quinn Devereaux, lover of Squishmallows and potatoes, happy in hoodies and jeans and not worrying about makeup or designer clothes.
Even Mom is more mellow, the truth an eye-opener. Yes, the scandal around the Devereaux downfall was as she feared, and she was dropped like a hot potato by many in her supposed circle of friends. But she’s happier without those people in her life and she knows the ones who stayed and support her are genuine.
“Hmmm,” Miller murmurs, “you make everything better for me too. Did I ever tell you that because of you I love washing dishes?”
