“I heard that,” Greg called out over his shoulder. “It’s technically still breakfast, but since you save lives, I’m going to let that go.”
“Appreciated.”
Greg wasn’t done. “And stop flirting with my wife. Go get one your own age.”
Bash’s teasing eyes glimmered. “But you got the last good one.”
Greg let out a womp womp. “Yep. Sucks for you.”
Bash chuckled, then sat up straighter when a curvy woman in a short skirt walked by. Of course, he noticed.
Quinn eyed the exchange. “I’m guessing this means you’re no longer seeing the emergency operator in Colorado?”
Bash might be a flirt, but when he was seeing someone, he was loyal. So, for him to be even glancing at someone else told his sister all she needed to know: he wasn’t dating Ms. 9-1-1 anymore.
“We’re going there already? I haven’t even gotten my food yet.”
“Consider this the beginning of your meal.” Ms. Eun plopped down a glass of Coke in front of him. “Now, spill.”
He stalled, taking a big gulp. “Thanks, but I’m going to be a stickler and wait ’til I get my burger before I start the sharing circle.” His phone started ringing, cutting him off. He checked the screen, and his eyes widened. “Oh crap, didn’t expect this call so soon. Sorry, Quinn, I have to take this.”
“Oh, it’s okay. You weren’t even supposed to be back for another two weeks. This whole moment is like an extra gift on Christmas, except it’s April.”
His expression warmed.
She patted her messenger bag. “Besides, I brought a book with me.”
“Of course you did. Be right back.”
He ruffled her hair like he’d been doing since they were little. He sauntered to the back of the restaurant, heading for the bathroom.
Quinn opened her cross-body messenger bag and took out her latest book. She was going through a cozy mystery phase. This new series had a feisty amateur sleuth marooned, right on the beach, in a Pinterest-worthy retro-chic Airstream. Too bad it looked like the murderer might have just moved in next door.
The tiny bells over the door jingled yet again.
A woman’s shrill voice filled the space. “Are you sure you want to eat brunch here? I can call over to Bazin’s and have my regular table ready.”
“Don’t make a big deal, okay? You can live without your prosecco for one meal.”
The woman talking didn’t seem to care that everyone at the eatery could hear her. Quinn knew who both of them were without turning around, and started praying she wouldn’t be noticed.
It was her ex-boyfriend, Scott, otherwise known as Tricia’s current fiancé. He had just walked in with his mother, a woman who considered herself the epicenter of high society, if Vienna had such a thing. Although the town certainly had its share of well-heeled residents, few regarded having money as a status to hold over others’ heads. It was no wonder when people described Millicent “Milly” Hauser, they usually said, “Her house may be in Vienna, but she still lives in McLean,” a not-so-subtle dig at her and the haughty neighboring town inside the Beltway.
Ms. Eun interrupted. “Actually, we do have prosecco. They come in these cute lil’ bottles. Oh, and feel free to grab any available table.”
“Why don’t we park over at the counter?” Scott asked.
Please don’t sit by me. Please don’t sit by me.
There was silence for several seconds.
Scott’s mother spoke up. “We’ll take a table over there … such as it is.”
Quinn kept her head in her book, hoping that if she ignored them, they’d go away-her version of Field of Dreams, but, well, the opposite. Her book was on the counter, so she propped both elbows on either side of it and gazed down, letting her hair fall forward in an autumnal wave, her lame attempt at hiding in plain sight.
Even with her head down, she could feel Scott standing behind her.
“I know you believe books are magic, but please tell me you don’t actually think you’re wearing some sort of invisibility cloak to hide yourself.”
She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Closing the book, Quinn met Scott’s gaze. “You get points for throwing in a Harry Potter reference. What’s up?”
He smoothed his hand down the front of his mint-green, Vineyard Vines button-down shirt, every blond hair on his head laquered in place. He gave a toothy grin. “Nothing. Just came by to say hi.”
“Okay, well … hi.”
He gave a quick nod. “I heard Tricia came by Guinefort House this morning, saying you really needed her help.”
Oh did she now?
Quinn feigned a smile. “Yes, she really was such an asset, I couldn’t have managed without her. Will you let her know I said it was okay to come back and volunteer again with the heavy lifting next month?”
See? Clandestine methodology. She had learned that maneuver from reading Mother Teresa’s biography. True story.
Scott beamed. “I’ll do that. Wow, I had no idea she was even interested in helping out on a regular basis. Isn’t she great?”
Tricia was a queen-bee train wreck who talked through her nose, but no way was Quinn going there. “I don’t know her very well,” she lied. “But congratulations. I heard this morning you two got engaged.”
“Did you see the ring I put on her finger?” He actually puffed his chest out like a ready-to-mate peacock. “Over three carats.”
“I’m happy for you both.” She waited to see if he was going to tell her what he wanted.
He just stared, looking a bit put out.
“I’m sorry—is there something you needed?”
He huffed. “Geez, Quinn. I thought me getting engaged to another woman would get some sort of reaction out of you. You and I have history.”
Oh wow. Cue the awkward. “Scott, we dated for, like, a minute and a half, three years ago before I left town. By all means, have a happy life. Live long and prosper. May the force be with you, and all that good stuff.”
Her words seemed to help him relax. His shoulders dropped as he let out a long breath. “Thanks, I appreciate that.” Something was still working behind his eyes. “I’d still like to talk to you about another matter. Another time, that is.”
She felt the lines furrow between her brows. “About what exactly?”
“Scott Alexander!”
His mother must’ve been in a state, because she was using both his first and middle names, which everyone knew moms said in lieu of doing what they really wanted, which was to slap the spit out of their children’s heads. Didn’t matter that her son was twenty-seven years old.
“What?” He did not bother to hide his annoyance.
Kitten heels together, arms straight at her sides, she resembled a coiffed mannequin in a Bergdorf’s window. “You are being rude, that’s what,” his mother bit back.
Quinn tried to diffuse the tension. “Hello, Mrs. Hauser. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you and Scott.”
Vienna’s version of Cersei Lannister revealed the barest hint of a curled mouth. “Hello, dear. You’re looking well.”
“Thank you. Congratulations on the happy news, by the way.”