Birdie is Harrison’s wife. They gotten married a few years ago so she could get a green card or something, but they didn’t live together until recently when this mess with the Crawfords’ grandfather’s messed up will came out.
She’s beautiful and practically royalty from some European country I’d never heard of before now. And she designs computer games for a living. So, basically, she’s the coolest person I’ve ever met. With this fancy, posh accent and she says funny things like ‘bugger’ and ‘rubbish’ and ‘knickers.’
She also works long and odd hours—which apparently is something all programmers do—which explains why she’s only now coming downstairs for breakfast, even though it’s nearly noon.
Now, she’s staring at me like she thinks I’m crazy. Not that I blame her, since she just walked in on me talking to a bowl of bread dough.
“What?” I ask, hoping she’ll just let it go.
“You asked what was wrong with you,” she explains in her delightful accent. “And I said nothing is wrong with you.”
“Hmm …” I murmur, now hoping that she’ll let this go.
No such luck.
She slides onto the stool by the kitchen counter and props her chin in her hands, blinking sleepily. “Why would think something is wrong with you?”
Automatically, I wipe the dough off my hands and turn on the tea kettle to make her tea.
“You don’t have to do that,” she says quickly. “You don’t have to make me tea.”
I wave aside her comment. “It’s literally my job. I’m the cook.”
Worried my tone sounds bitter, I smile at her. Smiling at Birdie is easy, since she’s ridiculously nice. Not feeling bitter about my job is a tad harder.
I don’t mind hard work. I’ve worked hard my whole life. And my job here at the Little C is by far the easiest job I’ve ever had. I get decent pay. I don’t have to cover my own rent. I’ve even been saving to take some online classes so I can get my degree.
It’s not the job I’m bitter about. It’s the lack of Quinn I’m bitter about.
Even though I don’t say any of this out loud, Birdie nods like she can read my mind. “This is about Quinn, isn’t it?”
“How’d you guess?” The kettle starts whining, so I pour the hot water into a cup and then slide it in front of her.
Instead of answering my question, she drops a tea bag in and asks, “How long have you worked here now?”
“Thirty-two days.”
“Hmm …” she gives her tea a stir with her spoon. “And how long have you been in love with Quinn?”
I gasp feeling like I’ve been punched. She quirks an eyebrow, clearly prepared to wait for my answer.
Finally, I admit, “Thirty-two and half days.”
“That’s what I thought.” She wraps her hands around her mug and brings it up to her lips to blow on. “What exactly are you going to do about that?”
I throw up my hands in frustration. “That’s the point! I don’t know what to do about it! I thought there was chemistry between us. I was so sure of it. That’s why I moved in here when he offered me the job. But, it turns out, he really just wanted a housekeeper and a cook.”
She’s shaking her head. “Negative, Ghost Rider. Quinn’s just being stubborn. I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”
I eye her suspiciously. What I want to do is yell, “Tell me more! How does he look at me? How do you know? I need details!”
I’m still trying to figure out how to say this without sounding needy, when Birdie sends me a sly look.
“Moreover, I’ve seen the wayyoulook at him.”
I give her the side eye. “What do you mean?”
She leans forward and props her elbows on the counter, cupping her mug in her hands. “Okay, is it time for straight talk? Are we there yet?”