Chapter 12

“Orange chicken?” Quentin said, sighing. Morgan blinked up at him, expectant, her fingers still scribbling their scales across the countertop.

“You didn’t order that, Daddy,” Morgan said, her voice bobbing up and down. “Is my rice pudding in there?”

“No. Not here, either,” Quentin sighed, frustrated. He dumped the bag on the far side of the counter, unsure of what to do. There wasn’t enough food for both of them, and Morgan had been quite picky lately, eating only vegetables and avoiding meat at all costs. She was a seven-year-old activist and an annoyance at the dinner table. Phase after phase after phase: that was childhood. Maybe it was adulthood, as well.

“Well, what am I going to eat, Daddy?” she asked playfully, spinning on a single toe.

“Why don’t you go practice the last page of that new one you brought home and leave me to the dinner making, huh?” Quentin said, snapping his hands to his knees and leaning down to her height, looking her in the eyes. “We all have responsibilities in this house. And yours is to ENTERTAIN ME!” He wrapped his arms around her, suddenly, and spun her in a mad circle, causing her to giggle maniacally.

Finally, he let her loose, watching as she scrambled back toward the piano. She gave him a final, half-evil look, and then curved her fingers over the keys. For a moment, Quentin felt his heart pulse with happiness, and with pure love.

Filling a large pot of water, he salted it and waited for the bubbles to come to the surface. Spaghetti, again. For an outright millionaire, it seemed strange that he fed his kid spaghetti. But she loved it, swirling her fork as many as twenty times in the gooey strands before lifting it to her gaping mouth.

Sometimes, everything about their life seemed too good to be true.

As he poured the spaghetti into the water, however, he couldn’t shoot the thought of Charlotte from his mind. He’d spent the majority of the afternoon with the memory of her kiss on his lips, talking in low tones with The Morning Stars and holding himself back from bragging about her.

He couldn’t. Somehow, he felt she meant more than just a few brief lays.

But no. Jesus, no. He shook his head wildly, watching as the spaghetti broke down, became wavy. The no-fraternization policy had to be upheld, at all costs. Feelings were out of the question, as well. Morgan didn’t need him to have a relationship, slicing through the perfect structure of their four-day-week lives.

Besides. He’d never had to explain a girlfriend to Kate; hadn’t had to voice the words that he’d “moved on” completely from their marriage. He knew she didn’t love him any longer. Perhaps she never had. But just watching the realization that she’d “lost” fold over her face would destroy him. He also didn’t know if she would work to turn Morgan against him in the aftermath. And if the relationship didn’t work out, he didn’t want to face that, either.

It was better this way.

“It was a little fling,” he whispered to himself, practicing. “It was nothing at all. We fed our curiosities, and now we’re both over it. Completely.”

At that moment, the doorbell rang. Quentin’s stomach clenched. He wiped his hands on the blue-striped kitchen towel. With each movement, his tattoos flashed from beneath his rolled-up shirt.

“Dad? Are you going to get that?” Morgan called from the piano room, halting her playing.

“Got it, sweetheart. Keep going!”

Quentin began his stern march toward the door, pressing his lips together firmly. If it was Charlotte, he’d have to send her back down the hallway. What was she thinking, anyway? He had a child. It was still relatively early, which meant she wasn’t in bed yet.

This felt invasive. This felt wrong. This was everything he was trying to avoid.

Through the crack in the door, he revealed that it was indeed Charlotte. Immediately, her beauty caused his throat to catch. She wore a deep, V-neck T-shirt, black leggings, and a pair of off-kilter, red socks—a bit of personality, maybe. Her figure was an absolute dream, with those large, soft breasts, that cinched waist, and those doe eyes.

In her hand, she held a greasy, white bag. A Chinese food bag.

“Hey,” she stammered, clearly feeling awkward.

The tension was nearly impossible to slice through. Quentin peered at the greasy bag, questioning.

“They gave me your order,” Charlotte murmured. “The Chinese place. And I’m guessing—“

“You have orange chicken,” Quentin said then, understanding. After a pause, he whispered, “Fuck. They really screwed us over, didn’t they?”

Charlotte pressed her lips into a smile. “It’s almost stupid, really.”

“DAD? WHO’S AT THE DOOR?”

“I see you’re not alone,” Charlotte said, drawing strength into her voice.

“Not often, no,” Quentin said, accepting the bag of Chinese from her outstretched arms. “And we’re both starving.” He paused again, searching her eyes. She seemed sad, demure. Almost expectant that they shouldn’t be together, right now. Almost as if she understood precisely what was on his mind.

“I’ll grab yours,” he said, tossing the bag onto the counter and trading them off.

“Thanks. How was your meeting? With the Morning Stars this afternoon?” Charlotte asked, her voice lilting. She was making slight small talk, trying to bridge the friendship.

“Ah, maybe we should talk about this at work tomorrow instead,” Quentin said, passing her the food.

The line was drawn. It was over. It had to be. His heart ached with the truth of it.

“Makes sense,” Charlotte whispered, her eyes glimmering.

Morgan hopped from the piano room, then, and spotted her. Her wide grin forced a larger smile onto Charlotte’s face. Quentin watched as Charlotte gave the girl a slight wave, her slim fingers pointed skyward.

“Hey, kiddo. Sounds good in there.”

“You haven’t even heard the best part!” Morgan cried, tumbling closer. “What did you bring?”

Charlotte searched Quentin’s face. Quentin bowed it, giving her the okay. She could handle this on her own.

“Just your Chinese,” Charlotte said, speaking in light tones. “The Chinese restaurant mixed up our orders. How silly, no?”

“That’s hilarious,” Morgan said, smacking her palms onto her jeaned knees. “They are always mixing up our orders. But Dad says they’re the best in the city, so.” She shrugged, sounding blasé, like a much older woman.

“She sounds like she knows what she’s talking about,” Charlotte said warmly, eyeing Quentin once more.

What did she see when she looked at him? Her boss? A rock star? A father to the little girl between them?

“Well, then, you have to eat with us,” Morgan said, her voice insistent.

Charlotte hesitated. She bit her lip in that sensual way she always did. Quentin could almost literally see the wheels cranking in her head.

“Come on, Charlotte,” Morgan said, rolling her eyes. “You can’t just hang out in the hallway all day. The food’s getting cold.”

“I don’t mind eating alone,” Charlotte said hesitantly, glancing up at Quentin once more. Something within his gut clenched with interest, with yearning.

“Dad says it’s unhealthy to eat alone,” Morgan said primly. “He says that’s why I can’t eat in front of the television by myself. Dinner is for communion.”

“Does he say that?” Charlotte murmured.

Quentin shrugged evenly, not even hating that his daughter was giving him away. He couldn’t take his eyes off the gorgeous girl. He opened the door a bit wider, gently tossing his head toward the dining room table. “Come on, Charlotte. Like the girl says, it’s completely irresponsible to eat alone. You’d be doing your body a disservice.”

He gave her a meaningful look, raising his eyebrows. Charlotte’s soft pink lips parted. Tiny, thin feet flicked over the entrance of his apartment as she entered, shrugging her shoulders, unable to break their eye contact.

“Yay! A guest!” Morgan cried out, leaping up. “We never have guests. Just Mom, sometimes. And she never lets me eat Chinese food.”

Morgan clipped the door closed behind Charlotte. The noise burst in Quentin’s ears, reminding him that he was trapped with this girl he “couldn’t” lust after, at least for the next hour or so. With her just a half foot away from him, he inhaled her scent, which was, frankly, still a mix of their sexes, together.

He led Charlotte and his daughter to the table, lifting three plates from the upper cabinet. The three plates were unfamiliar and strange in his hand, representative of a mother, father, and daughter trio that he, Kate, and Morgan had never created. He dropped each plate in place, and then grabbed the two greasy bags of Chinese, portioning out Morgan’s and his, and handing the orange chicken bag to Charlotte.

“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice soft. “This means more than you know.”

They sat, with Charlotte and Quentin across the table from one another, and with Morgan at the head of the table, holding court. Charlotte dove into her meal with chopsticks, while Morgan stabbed at her veggie dish with a fork.

Suddenly, Charlotte pointed her chopsticks toward the stove. “Are you boiling something?”

The bubbles from the boiling pot flung over the sides, then, coating the stovetop. Morgan let out a yelp of glee as Quentin sprang to his feet, barreling toward the pot. He moved the pot to the side, turning off the heat, and watching as the bubbling water receded. “Still want spaghetti, Morg?” he asked, laughing.

“No way, Dad,” Morgan said, sounding like a know-it-all. “Maybe Charlotte does?”

“Maybe next time,” Charlotte answered, grinning. She stood and wandered toward the stovetop, swiping a loose towel over the hot water, careful to avoid the hot burner. Quentin watched on, perplexed, unaccustomed to a woman’s touch in his apartment. Before he could find words, she’d folded the towel evenly and placed it on the hanger, over the oven, and swept back to her seat.

“How was school today, Morgan?” Charlotte asked her, flashing her eyes toward Quentin.

God, she was perfect. Quentin wrapped his black hair around his ears and joined the girls back at the table, hardly able to eat, given that he was suddenly bubbling with nerves. This glorious, angelic woman was sitting at his table, with his daughter. She was now privy to his world. And he hadn’t stopped it.

“It was fine,” Morgan said, rolling her eyes. “I got an A-minus in sight-reading, which is bullshit.”

“Morgan. Don’t say bullshit,” Quentin said quickly.

“Fine. It was bologna,” Morgan scoffed. Whispering, she turned to Charlotte. “But really, it was bullshit. I didn’t mess up even once!”

“Holy cow. Well, an A-minus is still really good,” Charlotte said, lifting a small chopstick bite to her lips. “Better than I could have done, I’m sure. And certainly better than your dad.”

Quentin smiled widely, feeling his heart open to her playfulness. “Hey, now. Leave the dad out of this.”

“Never!” Morgan proclaimed happily, pointing her fork into the air. “Never, ever, ever.”

“She’s a gem, isn’t she?” Charlotte said, flashing her teeth.

“A pure one,” Quentin said sarcastically, dosing out more vegetables onto his daughter’s plate. He found he juggled his attraction to Charlotte and his fatherly nature toward Morgan rather easily, slipping from passionate confusion toward Charlotte, to knowing that Morgan needed more food, in a snap. “I think—you know, I know—that after this plate of food, you should show Charlotte your latest piece you’ve been working on. You haven’t had an audience yet, now, have you?”

“But I was thinking she could play Barbies with me,” Morgan said, her voice dipping into a whine now. “I never have anyone to play Barbies with. Except for you…” She trailed off, testing him.

“It’s going to be past your bedtime, soon,” Quentin said, suddenly yearning for just a moment alone with Charlotte. “I think just another round of piano, then teeth brushed, and then your mom’s coming to get you. You’re sleeping there tonight.”

“I know, Dad. You’ve told me like eighteen times. You’re acting almost as lame as Mom.”

Quentin gestured easily toward Charlotte. “See. I’m almost as lame as Mom. That almost means everything.”

Morgan grumbled into her food, allowing tension to grow between Charlotte and Quentin once more. After several more bites, the girl sprang up from her chair and bounced toward the piano room, introducing the tune. But neither Charlotte nor Quentin could hear the specificity of her words any longer. Their eyes were centered upon one another; the chemistry was tight, intense.

Charlotte swallowed harshly. Quentin watched as her posture seemed to grow taut, into the frightened little animal he’d seen in his office earlier that afternoon.

This was a standoff. This was an unfortunate, end-of-the-road. And, in the background, Morgan began to play, her fingers articulating with perfection, allowing the melody to tinkle in their ears.