Page 6 of Delayed Penalty

I lift my coffee to my lips, taking a tentative sip since it’s still hot as hell. Flora matches my movements.

It’s cute, her mirroring me. I just wish I could tell if she’s doing it intentionally or if she’s simply learning. With Flora, I never know. The kid has the best poker face of all time.

“So, how’s school going?”

She lifts a dainty shoulder. “Fine.”

I try not to react to her one-word answer.

“And what about Mrs. Aguilar? Do you like her?”

“She’s nice,” Flora tells me. Then surprises me by following it up with, “I like her dresses. She always wears pretty dresses with flowers on them and matches them to her earrings. Some of the kids in class make fun of her, but I don’t. I always tell her I like her outfits.”

It’s sad to say, but this may be the most my niece has ever said to me at one time, and it’s easily the best. She might have spent the first seven years of her life with my asshole brother, but it’s clear Flora is nothing like him, and damn am I glad.

“Is that so?” I ask her. “Tell me more about Mrs. Aguilar.”

That’s how we spend our breakfast—Flora telling me about her teacher and me listening intently, not at all worrying about all the other things I need to do to prepare for the season.

Who the hell would have thought my life would turn out this way?

CHAPTER 2

QUINN

“You got fired?Again?You haven’t even been there a month!”

I wince at George’s tone, then unwrap a butterscotch candy—my favorite—and pop it into my mouth because I could really use something sweet right now.

For a man in his seventies with a heart condition, George sure does like to get riled up. Then again, he’s been like that since I started coming to George’s Grocery two years ago. It’s a little store with everything you need from milk to ice cream to bread but also somehow everything youdon’tneed, like the display of whoopie cushions that sit by the register. I honestly have no idea how this place is still in business with its identity crisis, but the people love it.

“First of all, settle down, Mr. Heart Problems,” Itell the old guy I’ve spent way too much time talking to over the years. “Second, yes, but it wasn’t my fault this time.”

He huffs like he doesn’t believe me, and honestly, I can’t say I blame him. I have a bit of a reputation of losing my job to things that “aren’t my fault” but, if inspected extremely closely, might actually be.

Aw, who am I kidding? They’ve all totally been my fault. Generally because I can’t keep my own impulses under control. The proof of that can be found in the overdue credit card statements sitting on my kitchen counter.

“What happened this time?” George asks, his arms crossed over his burly chest and covered in thick white hairs.

“Marco.”

“Polo,” the old man automatically responds.

I smile. “No. He was my assistant manager. And, uh, let’s just say we had a…special connectionand his fiancée didn’t appreciate it very much and made a scene during our lunch rush when she found out.”

Or at least that’s what Marco said after he stripped me out of my dress and had me for dinner on his kitchen counter. Then for dessert on the living room floor. And second dessert in his bedroom. How the hell was I supposed to know he was engaged? I didn’t ask,and he didn’t offer up the information. I assumed he was single when he asked me out after work one night.

Now that I think about it, the heels sitting by his front door should have been an indication, but I was so lost in the lust I didn’t even think twice about them.

George is right. This is my fault too.

“So what are you going to do now?” he asks. “Isn’t your car still in the shop? You’re going to need somewhere local you can walk to.”

“Are you offering me a job, George?”

He laughs. “Not a chance. I know you too well.”

I know he’s only teasing because George loves me like his own daughter, but I can’t deny that his words sting.

---