Page 42 of Enemy Crush
The tradition to do housework on a Sunday had evolved over the years so that we got up and automatically did the chores assigned. Dad’s plan was that if we did it on Sunday, we could forget about it for the rest of the week. We switched the jobs around, floors, laundry and bathroom. I hated the bathroom but it actually took the least amount of time. Today I was on laundry and it was sunny enough that I could hang the clothes on the clothes frame. We had to position it on the far side of the house, out of sight of the lane. Several times we’d put the clothes frame on the front porch and every time Mrs. Devereaux made a complaint. She declared that nobody wanted to see our underwear in public. Though, being the last house in the lane, she was the only one who would see it.
Chores out of the way, Mason retreated to his room to read while Dad surprisingly said he was going out for lunch.
“What? Where?” I asked, staring at his new maroon t-shirt, not a color I’d ever seen him wear.
“It’s a birthday lunch for Jesse,” he muttered, “from work.”
I sniffed the air. “Are you wearing cologne?”
Dad fake-sniffed. “All I can smell is bleach.” He picked up his keys and rubbed his hand over his head.
“Yeah, still bald,” I said with a laugh.
“I’ll be back later,” Dad pouted, but he’d definitely sprayed on something other than Axe.
I went out to the garage, working on the Mustang’s bumper. Wiping the chrome till it shone, I pondered the new things I’d learned about Quinn. Above all, she’d been kind to Mason and I couldn’t get that out of my head. She’d been there for him when I hadn’t. And yet, when she had needed someone, I’d bailed. I’d had the opportunity but literally looked the other way, pretended not to notice. And what would’ve happened to Mason if she hadn’t stepped up?
And to find out she’d been cut from the soccer team even though she was a good player, and that her date with Ronan King had somehow been a fail. I wasn’t sad over that, but it seemed like Quinn was going through a lot.
The sound of the lawn mower came from across the lane. I hadn’t seen the Devereaux’s gardener drive in, but he must’ve been back to finish the yard work. Seconds later, the mower stopped. Then I heard the engine splutter to life, but immediately stall. It happened again...and again. It appeared the gardener was having trouble with the mower so I walked across the lane and craned my head, but I couldn’t see through the Devereaux’s hedge.
Hamish bounded over behind me, then headed down the Devereaux driveway, veering off through the trees. I broke into a jog to chase. Not that Mrs. Devereaux was likely to be out on the lawn but I didn’t want the old gardener to get a fright.
But I was the one who got the fright. There was no gardener on the riding mower, no, Quinn was seated on it. I stopped, but Hamish didn’t. He went all the way up to her, seeming to prefer her company to mine.
I shouted in a gruff voice, “Hamish!” and caught him up, ready to plead for mercy. I didn’t need Mrs. D calling the dog pound for being off-leash or for trespassing on private property. “Sorry,” I said, panting after my sprint. “He just got away. I heard the mower and thought your gardener—”
I never finished my sentence. Quinn was wearing a pair of denim shorts, the kind that were frayed at the edges and her cropped gray sweatshirt was falling off of one shoulder and her dark hair was loose and straight and I was sure it was the first time I’d seen her wear it down.
Quinn’s eyebrows rose a little and for the life of me, I couldn’t remember what I was going to say. All I could think was that she was mesmerizing, her eyes blue, not like the sky, but like a deep, deep ocean. And her hair was smooth and shiny and—
“Hey, boy.” For a stupid microsecond I wished her affectionate greeting was for me, but her attention was firmly on Hamish, gently patting him under his chin. “Good boy,” she said to him, her gaze darting up to me, prompting me to pull myself together.
“Uh, um, I could hear your gardener having trouble with the mower?”
Quinn shrugged. “I don’t know why but it starts, but then it won’t stay running.”
“You’remowing the lawns?”
She frowned down at the ignition and I barely heard her, “Mr. Jones isn’t here today.”
“You want me to take a look?”
“Could you?” she asked, the relief in her voice massive as if I’d just made her day.
I stepped closer, but not too close, acutely aware I’d thrown on an old tattered tank with holes in the front. Dang it!
“Is there gas in the tank?”
She stared at me hard like I was a fool for asking. “Yes,” she enunciated the word crisply. “I did check that.”
“Just making sure,” I mumbled. “Uh, you mind if I—?” I gestured that I needed to sit on the mower and test it for myself.
Quinn hopped off, and Hamish was all over her like a rash. Even though the smell of freshly clipped grass permeated theair, I got a faint whiff of her perfume, enough to give me a heady moment. I sat on the mower, familiarizing myself with the controls. I’d never driven a lawn tractor before, but my one thought was that if Quinn could drive it, so could I.
I turned on the ignition, the engine fired and I drove forward a few yards before it cut out. I tried again and the same thing happened.
“It keeps doing this?”
