Page 22 of Kitty Season (Green Line Ice #2)

“ A m I a natural service person? No. Am I hard working? Not particularly. Am I allowed near the coffee maker thingy? Or the sandwich toaster. Or anything else hot? No. But I have figured out the till. Word has spread that I no longer give full refunds if a coffee goes weirdly cold thirty minutes after it was served. I’ve lasted two whole days longer than Dad predicted, and that, my friend, makes the snickers, princess jibes, and the scolds worth it. ”

“Quinn.” Amidst rattling pots and curse words, Callie summons me from the kitchen. “Can you give me a hand out back for a second?”

“And could you give me my frappe right this second? You’ve been monologuing for like five minutes.

” I drop the can of cream and scramble to hand the overflowing drink to its owner.

“Shit, sorry. Sure thing, Chip. Enjoy!” Of course.

Trust me to uninvitedly debrief all over Chip Kwon, head of BC BooBoo; Boston College’s gossip page on Insta. He’s sure to keep it all to himself.

It’s true that things are getting better, but it’s also fair to say that the road from princess to waitress is a rocky one littered with far more burns, cuts, blisters and daggers than I would ever have imagined.

Especially today, when I have Troye’s whispered words and the possibilities of the night ahead clouding my mind.

So while the physical dangers remain, hence only making cold drinks four shifts in, the rumbling resentment in the ranks over my hiring has dimmed to a sympathetic, running joke.

I can’t even say the hostility directed at me was undeserved.

Almost every hockey jock on campus has been in and tipped me twice as much for doing half the work as they have the non-millionaire coach related staff.

Most of that money was snuck back into the tip jar every chance I got, but then Mika busted me, and that went over as well as my suggestion for a sexy calendar shoot to raise funds for the hockey team’s end of season trip.

As a precautionary measure, I shove my hands into the fire resistant mitts Callie gave me last shift, and push my way through the saloon-style doors. “Yes, the frother stick-thing was set to the wrong temperature, but I swear I didn’t touch it.” I don’t think I did anyway.

Callie grins and pulls a tiny blue box with white ribbon from her pocket. “I know you didn’t. That’s not why I called you back here. This is.”

“Is that a Tiffany’s box?” Am I drooling? Wiping my chin with the back of my left hand, I inch forward and hold out my right.

“Don’t get too excited, Quinny. I found the box in a dumpster outside my dorm and thought of you … but I did clean and sanitize it,” she adds when my face screws up of its own accord.

“That’s so … thoughtful. Thank you, Callie.

” Trying not to wince, I plaster on my most serene, princess face and take my street trash from Callie’s open palm.

I don’t want to. I’m as sure that you can’t sterilize a cardboard box as I am certain that licking the bottom of my shoe would be more hygienic.

But I also want to fit in, and if dying of a plague-soaked gift box related death will get me there, second hand dumpster germs and a well attended wake it is.

Thank God I have my gloves.

Box in hand, I step back and study it.

“Did you just sniff it, Quinn?” Shit, did I?

“No I was just … studying the wrapping. Excellent job. Cal.”

“Thank you. I think you’ve been doing a great job, too. That’s why it is what it is. Happy Birthday, Quinn.”

“Ohhh. Now I’m intrigued as well as scared.” I tear into the box, discarding the ribbon with thinly veiled fear and pop off the lip with the tip of my pinkie finger. “Holy shit, Callie!”

Showing she has spent way too much time around Lotte, she bounces on her toes and blinks excitedly. “You like it?”

“I love it! All germs and bacteria are hereby forgotten.” Proud as punch I pull out a faux silver-plated badge and toss the box. “Quinn.” I read a loud, then look up to Callie, “That’s me.”

“It is.” She laughs, doing an excellent job of confirming the obvious without patronization. “Well done. You’ve graduated from Trainee to real life person.”

“I am! I’m a real boy! Well, girl technically, but still I’ve really Pinocchio-ed the shit out of this, haven’t I? Yay! I can’t wait to show Troye and Brady.”

Troye and Brady .

Menage A Trois

Lust shoots down my spine, zinging through all my favorite little spots that only Troye knows to the point I feel a little woozy. Will Brady know them too by the end of the night?

Blood continues to rush south and I can’t help but wonder if this is what guys feel like when they pop a boner in public. God, does it look as obvious? If so, Callie mustn’t think anything of it, she’s too busy stabbing me with the badge.

“Sorry babe. I think I nicked your nipple.”

“Didn’t feel a thing.” I reassure her truthfully. How could I when I’m numb from the waist up.

The rest of my shift passes in a hazy blur of birthday wishes, blueberry muffins and wiping tables. I try to focus on the task at hand, but those belonging to the two men I can’t stop thinking about, are all I can think about.

I want them. Together. Tonight.

Dad arrives shortly after one, insisting I leave my car here and ride with him to their place. “It really means a lot that you’ve let us throw you this party, Quinn.” Smiling, he opens the passenger door on his precious G-Wagon and waves me in.

“Of course, Dad. I know Mom lives for this kind of thing.”

“She does. She’s been prepping for days.

The pool house looks like a Hawaiian beachfront, so you and your friends don’t have to hang with us oldies all night.

And, it’s stocked so thoroughly, the Four Horsemen of Armageddon could make an appearance, and we’d have enough food and beverages to bunker down and ride it out. ”

Leaning across the center console, I give Dad a few taps on the cheek. “I think you mean the Horsemen of the Apocalypse not Armageddon. And you are old, but not like, old old.”

“Just stupid then?”

“Not that either.”

For the rest of the drive to Beacon Hill, Dad peppers me with questions about school and work. The latter being of particular interest. “I know we had disagreements over that boy?—”

“You mean Troye? Your latest recruit.”

Dad grumbles something that sounds a lot like, pierced little punk under his breath. “Yeah. Him. And I know you want to prove yourself as a strong, independent woman but you don’t have to. You’re mother and I are more than happy to?—”

“Support me, I know. And I appreciate it because we all know I can’t pay for school, but I want and need to do this, Dad. Whether Troye’s in the picture or not.”

Grumbling again, he stiffens in his seat. “But he’s not, right? Right?” When I don’t answer immediately, Dad stares so intently in my direction the car veers into the gutter with a thud. “Princess, we talked about this.”

“We did and we won’t again. As of today I’m twenty-one, remember? My personal life is less of a concern to you than it was yesterday and it was already none of your damn business. Now, if you want to make a big deal of this you can turn around and take me home.”

“We are home. See? Look. There it is, right there.” We turn into the picture perfect cul-de-sac I grew up on, and Dad points out the house like I might have forgotten what it looks like.

“To my home, I mean. To Lotte and Noah’s. This isn’t mine anymore.”

Dad mutters, “It was until that boy.” And my blood boils in my veins as I spin in my seat slamming my hand against the dash.

“Mom was the only reason I agreed to this, but I swear to God if you don’t stop this right now, I will get out of this car, walk home and leave you to tell her why.”

“Princess.”

“Don’t call me that. I’m not your princess. I’m just me, Quinn. And whether I stay and pretend to have a super fun time with my friends, including Troye, or go home to have a super fun time alone is dependent on you. The choice is yours. What’s it going to be?”

Officially, the luau doesn’t start till seven, so there’s plenty of time for a late pot roast lunch after all.

Yippee.

It’s been awkward as fuck. Sensing tension, Mom who already teeters on the brink of Martha Stewart-dom, has made the small leap into Stepford Wives mode, going so overboard with the perfectionism, our table resembles a state dinner at the White House.

Our meal began with my childhood favorite chicken noodle soup, pot roast for the main course, and beside us on the credenza sits dessert, Jell-O, another favorite, cheesecake and of course, apple pie.

It’s a lot. The one positive? My stomach is bursting at the seams, leaving little to no room for the crippling nerves that besieged me when I pictured Dad and Troye …

and Brady and Troye … and me and Brady and Troye, in the same room.

Actually wait … there it is. Better keep eating.

“These potatoes are excellent Mom. I’m picking up on a hint of … Nutmeg?”

“Yes, you’re right, darling. Just a sprinkling of course.

April is a bit early for too much Thanksgiving, but well done.

” You’d think I just discovered gravity the way Mom beams at me, eyes crinkled in joy as much as I’ve seen since she started using Botox.

“Are they teaching you to bake at that little cafe?”

I shake my head. “Definitely not. Even cooking at home, there’s only one recipe I don’t fail miserably. It just happens to contain nutmeg.”

“Well, maybe we could bake them together sometime, and take some down to the boys at practice.”

“No.” Dad’s purple, his clenched fist slams into the table, then he’s pushing out his chair and tossing his napkin to the floor. “No hockey. No boys.”

Matching his stance and tone, Mom rises to her feet. “Sit down, David.”

“I beg your?—”

“Sorry. Did I stutter?” Whoa, Go Mom. “SIT DOWN.” Obediently, he drops like a dog and I can’t help the smile teasing the edges of my mouth.

Never have I heard Mom speak to him like that.

It’s not like they have a volatile marriage or anything, Dad rarely raises his voice either, but there’s always been a power imbalance between them and with three words, it shifted.

“It’s our only daughter’s. Our princess’s twenty-first birthday and I consider myself lucky to have her here for a few measly hours.

I understand your need to protect her, I do, but she is no longer a child and if you push her away again I will never forgive you. ”

On a shaky breath, she steadies, returns to her seat, reaches to the center of the table, then smiles. “More potato, anyone?”

Firmly put back in his place, Dad remains silent but there’s a slight movement in his head.

It’s possibly a nod but almost indiscernible.

The newly minted Dom in the room takes it as one though.

She also takes the bowl in hand, stands, elegantly covers the several paces between them, then plops a spoonful of mash on his plate.

“Thank you, Sarah.” Briefly, his eyes flicker to me, but they return to his plate before I can read anything they might portray. He clears his throat, and picks up his cutlery, the laden fork only halfway to his mouth when the door bell rings.

“Excellent!” Mom sighs.“That may be the caterer. Do hurry and finish that, darling. I need your muscles with the Musubi.”