Chapter 13

“She’s really good,” Charlotte finally managed, her voice raspy. Had she been able to breathe for the past few minutes? She couldn’t feel her fingers, her toes. Her heart ramped up intensity against her ribcage, making her feel like a tiny animal, caged. She eyed the door, conscious that if she left immediately, she could avoid pure disaster.

She could avoid this growing intensity.

She could avoid this—could it be heading toward—love?

No. She’d known him just over a day.

“Well, she’s much more diligent at it than I ever was.” Quentin rose and collected their plates, dropping them into the sink and tossing out the Chinese trash.

Charlotte stood, her shoulders quivering, and watched him from the counter. She felt frozen. Finally, he turned toward her, catching her staring at him. His eyes were incredibly dark, dense, filled with secrets. What could he possibly be thinking? What could he possibly want?

“You’re a good father,” she murmured, hardly heard over the music. “It’s so comfortable here. With the Chinese and music. And her personality. It’s so… alive. It’s been a while since I felt something like that. Being young, twenty-something… sometimes I think it’s one of the loneliest emotions in the world.”

“I remember those days,” Quentin answered. “I was famous, of course. But alone in many respects. I didn’t think anyone understood me or could even imagine what it meant to be me. I eliminated any chance to get close to anyone.”

“What about her mother?” Charlotte murmured. “Did you get close to her?”

Quentin shook his head, almost imperceptibly. His eye contact remained intense. “No. I thought I could. But I couldn’t. Morgan’s the only person I’m close to on the planet. I’m guarded. More than even I know, sometimes. My life is only the magazine and her. I don’t even go see shows anymore.”

“Must be bizarre. A complete switch,” Charlotte said. “One minute, you thought you knew everything your life could be and everything it could mean. And then you stretched the definition.”

“But that’s why—“ Quentin began.

In the next room, Morgan hit a wrong note. “BULLSHIT!” she yelled and then proceeded on, causing both Quentin and Charlotte to burst into laughter. They tried to quiet themselves, drawing their palms over their lips.

“Shhh. I don’t want to upset her,” Charlotte whispered. “She’s really very good.”

“And that mouth,” Quentin said. “I swear, it’s her mother’s friends. Not me. I’m very, very careful.”

“Maybe you’re not as careful as you think you are,” Charlotte said then, her words loaded.

Quentin paused. Charlotte felt panicked, certain she’d stepped out of line. Of course, she wanted to poke him a little bit, like a human trying to wake a bear. But this wasn’t the time. Just as she prepared to apologize, Quentin pushed his thumb toward the far cabinet, shrugging.

“I was going to drink a glass of wine. Want one?”

“Only if she keeps playing,” Charlotte said, her heart ramming still harder.

“Once she gets started, she can go for hours,” Quentin said, grinning. “I can’t tear her away from that thing.”

Charlotte watched as Quentin knelt his muscled form at the base of the cabinet, hunting for the right bottle. She adjusted her weight, feeling her pulse proceed from her chest, through her stomach, to her pussy, which seemed to ache for his touch. Him being a dad was the hottest thing she’d seen in her life.

“An Italian wine all right for you?” he called.

“Of course.”

He poured the reds evenly, with firm movements. Charlotte struggled reading him. Was he just being polite? Did he wish to keep her there, sleep with her later, and then make their relationship still more muddled?

Did she wish to muddle it?

She had brought the Chinese food over. She could have left well enough alone. She’d literally poked the hibernating bear. She’d thrust the night into motion. And she couldn’t very well barrel out now.

“To your first week of work, I suppose,” Quentin said, clinking his glass with hers.

“And to you,” Charlotte murmured. In her heart, she couldn’t remember a time in the past twenty-four hours when she hadn’t been by his side. He was all-important to her, now. She worshipped him.

They stood in silence for a moment, listening as Morgan bounded through several arpeggios. Charlotte bit her lip, feeling uncomfortable, but knowing nowhere else to flee. She took a tentative step forward, inhaling the scent of him, desire coursing through her.

“What was it really like?” she asked, her voice catching. “To give up your entire life, for this?”

Quentin looked shocked, as if no one had actually asked him that question before. He peered at her curiously, as if expecting a trick. “Are you interviewing me for some sort of MMM article?”

Charlotte shook her head slowly. “No. Just curious about you. Can’t say I know the first thing about you, besides what I’ve read in magazines. Besides what you eat at the Chinese restaurant. Besides how good of a father you are.”

“And that’s already more than most people know,” Quentin said, now sounding vaguely playful. “Why should I reveal more of my soul to you? I hate to say this, but I’ve fucked tons of women. And none of them were ever privy to my life.”

“Does it make me different, that I’m still here?” she asked him, wincing slightly at his “fucked tons of women” statement.

“I’m not sure yet,” Quentin said, sounding truthful, and frankly curious. He cleared his throat, softening slightly. “To answer your question, it was a relief to give it up for this.”

Charlotte’s eyes widened.

“I was exhausted. I was tired of all the drugs. I was tired of drinking till dawn. I was tired of living for no one else but myself. I’d been a long-time reader of MMM, and, a few months after Morgan was born, I just walked into the offices and asked if they’d give me a chance. The band was breaking up. I needed something else to do.”

“So, they gave you a test?” Charlotte asked.

“No. First, they flipped their shit,” Quentin said, laughing. “They were only used to seeing photographs of me. They weren’t used to seeing me up close, much less talking to me. Then, they assumed I was fucking around. But I came prepared. I brought a few reviews I’d written about the bands I’d toured with, and they were impressed. And with my name on the MMM writer list, they knew they might sell a few more copies. It was worth it, for them.”

“Wow,” Charlotte breathed. “And just like that, you became a new person.”

“I’m sure you feel similar,” Quentin said. “You just moved to the big city from the middle of nowhere. Everything must seem chaotic and bizarre and otherworldly.”

“I don’t often talk about it,” Charlotte admitted softly. “I don’t want to sound like that little country bumpkin.” She swallowed sharply. “How strange that your daughter will never go through that kind of fear. She’s ahead of her age in confidence, surely. And she’s got beauty and brains. A treacherous combination.”

“I’m terrified,” Quentin admitted, laughing. “To tell you the truth.”

“I think we’re all terrified,” Charlotte murmured. She sipped her wine, feeling closer to him, emotionally. Her heartstrings yanked. Why was this happening? Should she even question it?

“What time is her mother coming?” Charlotte asked, remembering what Quentin had said. “Morgan’s spending the night over there?”

“Right. Yes,” Quentin said, shaking his head, jostling himself from somewhere far away. “She’ll be here in about twenty minutes, I guess. She lives just up the road and never runs late. Ever. She’s like clockwork. It’s almost freaky.”

Charlotte exhaled through her nose, her eyes holding such light and humor to them. She licked her lips, gazing up at him. When she felt the tension between them might crack the very molecules of the kitchen, he suddenly burst forward and kissed her on the lips. Charlotte swept her hand back, leaving the wine glass on the counter, and then wrapped her arms around his neck, bringing him into her. Accepting him. What the hell? If she wanted it, she was going to have it.

She sucked at his bottom lip for a moment until he tore into her, allowing his tongue to part her lips, and then searching through her, toying with her. He reached down, grasping her ass and yanking it upward, holding tightly to her. She cried out quietly, breaking their kiss with the shock of pleasure bounding up and down her back.

Fuck.

She gazed into his eyes for several moments, pressing her hands against his chest.

“What are we going to do?” she finally whispered. “What on earth are we going to do?”

Suddenly, they heard Morgan break her hands from the piano keys. She began to pad into the dining room and kitchen, her blond hair waving behind her like a flag. Quentin stepped back casually, his face breaking into a smile, void of the emotion he’d just held for Charlotte.

Charlotte felt broken, aching. She crossed her arms tightly across her chest, trying to smile at Morgan. In reality, she wished she was somewhere far away.

“What did you think?” Morgan asked her, popping up on her toes. “Did I do good?”

“Well, Morgan. Did you do well,” Quentin said, correcting her.

“Well, whatever. Did I?”

Charlotte nodded primly, taking a step toward the door. She sensed it was her time to leave. The spell had been broken. “You are a wonderful musician. I can’t wait to write about you one day, when I become a real music writer, and when you become a renowned musician.”

“Promise you’ll give me a good review?” Morgan asked, laughing.

“Promise. And I’d never lie,” Charlotte murmured, her voice wavering. She felt fatigued, aghast, frustrated. She waved to Morgan. “I suppose I better get back to my house. I know you’re heading to your mom’s, as well.”

“Aw. Dad, make her stay.”

“I can’t,” Quentin said.

Still, what Charlotte had said seemed to echo in the air around them. “What are we going to do? What on earth are we going to do?”

But the question remained unanswered.

Charlotte gave a final wave to the father and daughter before rushing into the hallway, racing down the rug, and finding solace in her aunt’s cold, dark apartment, exhaling roughly and finding it difficult to regain composure. Tears ran down her cheeks, wetting her black V-neck. Her unsteady legs forced her to the floor in front of the wooden door. Her ears grew accustomed to the silence around her, and the air felt sick with her panic.

Would she ever kiss Quentin again?

She was beginning to crave it. She couldn’t kid herself any longer. He was becoming interconnected with her time in New York, becoming the very oxygen she breathed and the thoughts she formed.

And she was going to make herself sick with lust for him.