His Princess (A Royal Romance)(85)

I shrug back and turn away from him, sighing as I stare out the window.

“How long have you been having problems with the boss?”

I stare at my own reflection then look past it to his. He’s not looking at me, exactly, but he keeps glancing at my shoulder. I shift in the seat and sigh.

“He’s always been like that. He’ll fire me eventually if I don’t sleep with him.”

Quentin’s hand grips the wheel until it creaks.

“Then why are you working there?”

“I need a job and that was the only one that I could find. After Russel—”

I stop myself.

“Who’s Russel?”

“Ex-husband.”

“Ah.”

“It’s his house,” I say bitterly. “He fights me tooth and nail on alimony and child support, and with the two of them together it doesn’t cover the mortgage. If I don’t keep Burt appeased—”

“Burt?”

“The dentist.”

“Right.”

“If I don’t keep Burt appeased, I’m out of a job. I’ll lose the house. If I lose the house, Russel will get custody of the kids.”

“Russel. He’s Karen’s dad?”

“Yeah. Karen and Kelly, my youngest. She’s ten.”

“She didn’t mention a sister.”

I clear my throat. “My daughter was in your house?”

“Yard, yeah. Not really ‘in.’ She was poking around the back windows.”

“Did she say why?”

“No, but she asked if I like you.”

I plunge my head into my hands and groan.

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. You don’t have much experience with girls, do you?”

He gives me a sharp look.

“I mean girl children.”

“No, can’t say I do.”

I roll my eyes. “So you don’t know. Good, we’re almost here.”

I lean back as Quentin waves at the gate guard and rolls into the neighborhood. It’s a quick drive down the two streets, and then he’s pulling into my driveway.

I sit awkwardly as he looks at me.

“We’re here.”

I almost feel like I should invite him in.

Then Karen makes the decision for me. She throws the front door open and shouts, “Mr. Mulqueen!”

Oh for God’s sake.

I palm my face as she shouts, “We made you a pie! Come in!”

Wait, what?

He looks at me. “Should I?”

“I don’t know…”

“Up to you,” he shrugs, “but you do owe me a pie.”

I scowl at him and step out. I say nothing but he follows me up the driveway anyway and to the front door. I step inside and smell…burning.

Dropping my tote bag, I rush into the kitchen and yank open the oven.

The thing inside is round, and it’s in a pie pan. I guess that qualifies it as a pie of some sort. The crust looks overdone and the filling is a brownish glop. I snap on a pair of oven mitts and lift the thing onto the stove top and step back.

“Smells good,” Quentin says, striding into the kitchen.

I turn slowly and look at him.

Smells good?

He looks at me and shrugs.

My girls rush to his sides, and Karen grabs the pie slicer from the cupboard and starts sawing into the so-called pie, while Kelly stands on her tiptoes to perilously pull plates out of the cupboard, until I rush over and grab them before they end up shattered on the floor.

“Why did you make me a pie?” Quentin asks.

“Um,” Karen says, at the height of her verbal powers.

It’s only now I notice that they’re both wearing dresses, and Kelly has a bow in her hair, and Karen has slopped on makeup in the way only a fourteen-year-old can.

What are they doing?

“Here you go,” Karen announces proudly as she deposits a slice of pie in front of Quentin.

“What is this, apple?”

“Yeah. We didn’t have any apples, so we used applesauce.”

Quentin and I both stare at her.

It doesn’t look like applesauce to me. It holds its shape well enough, for one thing.

“I like a slice of cheese on my apple pie.”

Before I can say anything, Kelly slams the block of cheese from the deli drawer onto the table and daintily peels off one slice, which Quentin lays on his pie before he cuts off the end with his fork and chews it.

I catch a momentary flash of disgust on his face before he forces a smile and takes another, big bite.

He coughs. “Can I have some milk?”

“Yeah, sure!” Kelly chirps.

I beat her to the fridge and pour a big glass myself, and he drinks half of it before he soldiers on through the rest of the pie, finally scooping up blackened shards of the outer crust with his fingers before drowning the last of it in the dregs of the milk. I pour him another glass before he even asks and he drinks most of it in one go then wipes his chin on his arm.

“Thanks,” he says. “So, Rose, you need a ride or not?”

“Yes,” Karen cuts in before I can answer. “To school, right?”

“Yes,” I sigh.