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Mom is in about eight different clubs, and they all have something dirty about them.

“It’s called erotica, Quinn. Don’t be such a pearl clutcher.”

I clutch my imaginary pearls. “It’s not the books that disturb me. It’s the women who read them.”

“Women over fifty enjoy sex,” she says dryly.

“As you remind me daily.” She’s actually become a raging cougar since her cancer diagnosis, like she’s afraid her time will run out before she gets to shag all the young hotties in the neighborhood. I guess I can’t blame her.

“Speaking of which,” she says. “Did you see that delivery guy the other day? In his little uniform, with the shorts? Those legs.”

“Wow. The electrician’s coming to look at that wonky outlet this afternoon,” I remind her, neatly avoiding chatting about men’s body parts. It’s another thing I don’t do with my mom.

“I have a calendar app, Quinn.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I tease. “I didn’t realize women over fifty knew how to use such things.”

“Brat. Are you working today?”

“I’m not at Champagne again until tomorrow. But I did go pick up one of my turntables from Crave this morning. I just realized I’d left it there.”

“And how did that go? Was Justin there?”

“He was. He’s still running the place, apparently. And it was uncomfortable. But we didn’t really talk.”

“Do you need to talk?”

“No. I already said everything I needed to say to him. He wasn’t exactly heartbroken when I ended it. He only mildly freaked out when I quit the bakery because it means he has to find another cake decorator willing to work for him around the clock.” I hesitate, but decide to tell her, since it’s over now. “I guess when he decided to sleep with someone else, it killed the romance for me anyway.”

“Oh, Quinnie. Shit. I didn’t know.”

“It’s fine,” I tell her.

But she finishes her joint and gets up, comes over and gives me a Mom hug. The best kind.

“I’m all good,” I assure her.

She scoops my face in her hands and tells me, “You deserve better.”

“I know.” I return to packing. “The romance was dead already. I mean, maybe that’s why he slept with someone else,” I joke. Before Mom can worry that this is false bravado, I add, “I’m moving on. I already found a new place to bake my cakes.”

“Really?” She starts filling our ancient kettle with water for tea. “I thought you were kidding.”

“Nope.”

“Prince Charming?”

“That part was the joke.”

“So where’s the kitchen?”

Here goes.“Well, it’s the luckiest thing. Nicole’s friend Megan has this brother-in-law with a great, incredible kitchen he’s not even using. Isn’t that amazing?!”

I know I’m overselling it with brightness, but I’ve gotta try.

Mom arches an eyebrow at me, clearly not buying. “Megan… the one who’s marrying the billionaire?”

“Yup! That Megan.”