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He blinks at me, caught off guard. Perhaps I’ve stunned him.

I rather like it.

I walk over to him, get down on my knees, and unzip his pants—stunning him further, I’m sure.

He actually loses his balance for a second.

When I suck his thick, half-hard cock into my mouth and start going to town on it, he groans, loudly, hardening in my mouth. And he definitely doesn’t stop me.

He moans my name, almost gratefully, and sinks his fingers into my hair.

I guess those meetings weren’t so important after all.

Chapter 16

Quinn

When I arrive home, through the back door, Mom is still in bed, so I go about packing up a couple of bins and a cooler in the kitchen as quietly as I can.

Her voice floats in from the hallway. “Quinn?”

“I’m here.”

She shuffles up the hall and into the kitchen wearing the giant South Park T-shirt she’s been sleeping in. I think some thirty-something guy she had sex with recently left it behind.

Lorraine Monroe looks a lot like an older version of me. People used to think we were sisters, sometimes. But that was before she got sick the first time. She’s aged a lot in recent years.

She takes a seat at the breakfast bar, blinking at me sleepily. “I slept in.”

“I noticed. It’s like I’m living with a koala.” Right on cue, she fires up a joint. “Do you really have to smoke in the kitchen?”

“What? You’re not baking right now.”

“I’m breathing.”

She smiles. “Doctor’s orders. Cancer has to havesomeperks.”

I shake my head at her, like I’m the parent and she’s the unruly child. I have nothing against pot. I just don’t believe in smoking it with my mom.

Maybe because it makes me emotional, and I don’t like getting gushy with her. I’m too fragile around her for that these days, and I don’t like her to see it.

She offers me the joint. “It’ll enhance your creativity.”

“I’m creative as hell, Lorraine. You should see how creatively I keep our bills paid,” I quip.

She frowns a little, and I deflect. “How are you? There’s lasagna in the fridge for lunch.”

“I’m just fine. And thank you.” She turns on some music from her phone, because my mom and silence aren’t friends. Bowie’s “Let’s Dance” blares through the house, and she turns down the volume. She probably had it cranked while I was out last night. “Why are you packing?”

“Because I met Prince Charming and he’s whisking me away from all this,” I say cheerily. I’m halfway serious, but she doesn’t know it.

“About time.”

“Unfortunately, his castle kitchen doesn’t stock enough butter.” I pluck several blocks of it from the freezer and pop them into the cooler. “I’ll be out of your way when you make your cupcake order this afternoon.” It’s a not-subtle reminder that she has an order to fill. I point at the overstuffed cork board where we keep track of orders. “The client is coming by to pick it up when she gets off work, but you need to text or call her to confirm the time.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And don’t forget, your dirty book club is coming over tonight.”