Chapter 17

Charlotte couldn’t sleep once she returned to her apartment. She lifted a wine glass from the countertop, half-wanting to smash it to smithereens on the hardwood floor. Anger and sadness throttled through her, both working to reign. Quentin had kicked her out of his apartment at four in the morning, like a ragdoll, a plaything he no longer wanted. And he’d given her no real explanation, besides grumbling something about it being an “emergency.”

She couldn’t linger on it. He was just done with her. That had to be it. And now, she was stuck as his intern, probably having to fight to stay relevant at the magazine, when he would probably want her gone at every turn.

Of course, what was worst of all, was that she was falling for him, head-over-heels. When he’d fucked her against the countertop, blasting his mighty, rock-hard dick between her pussy lips, she’d sensed a growing love in her heart. It was bigger than lust; it was stretched larger than a crush. Gazing into his eyes, she’d sensed that he felt it, too.

At least, she’d thought so.

After showering off the musky scent of him, she sat, a towel wrapped tightly at her breasts, and wove through the countless writing jobs on the Internet in New York City. Perhaps she could leave the magazine, start anew. She’d royally fucked up her first experience, potentially ruined her career and life.

But none of the listings she caught compared at all to her position at MMM. Frustration brimming, she dressed in a simple black mourning dress and donned makeup with intensity, wanting to look hot and almost wicked at the office. Red lipstick flashed into a near-evil smile in the mirror. She would show him she was more than just his plaything.

Entering the magazine offices, however, she noted that Quentin’s office door was flung wide open, without him in his familiar position. Curious, she headed to the coffee machine, finding that Pamela was filling her cup. Her hair hung in tight red curls down her back, and she’d clearly bought a new black dress, one that revealed a bit more cleavage.

Was Pamela trying to copy Charlotte, just to attract Quentin’s attention?

“Oh, hello,” Pamela said tartly, slipping to the side. She swept a tad of sugar into the coffee mug, twirling a spoon in the center. “How was your night?”

“My night? Oh. Fine,” Charlotte murmured, not wanting to discuss it.

Had she been speaking with Rachel, she would have said, “Well, I’ve been fucking the boss, and now he seems to want me out of his life for good, which is great. Just great.” But of course, this would negate her contract.

“And yours?” Charlotte finally managed.

“Oh, fine. Just been working on a few pitches for the writer’s meeting this week. I think I’ve cooked up some pretty good ideas,” Pamela said, her eyes flashing. “You have some good ones. Don’t you?”

Honestly, Charlotte had a few ideas jotted down at her desk, but hadn’t given the writer’s meeting much thought, beyond that. Now, fire burst up and down her spine, reminding her. If she embarrassed herself in that meeting, in front of Quentin himself, she’d never live it down.

“I have some stuff up my sleeve,” Charlotte said, sounding mischievous. “Meeting at eleven?”

“Yes, apparently,” Pamela said as they continued into the hallway and toward the intern offices. “But Quentin still isn’t here today, which has everyone nervous. He’s normally always here by eight or nine. And it’s already almost nine-thirty.”

“Shit,” Charlotte murmured, her heart beginning that now-familiar hammering. Did he really want to avoid her this much? Was this an act, putting her in her place?

“Not that it’s any of my business, but the magazine does go to print in just over a week. He should be here,” Pamela said, sounding snooty.

Charlotte eyed her suspiciously as they entered the intern offices, feeling vaguely angry. She wanted to say something sarcastic about Pamela’s dress, alerting her that she looked foolish. But she was a good person, a girl with class. She held her tongue and turned to her desk, where she collapsed beside Randy. His blond hair glittered in the light.

“How’s it going?” Randy asked her, a smile stretching widely. “You look upset.” He leaned forward, whispering, “Did you see what Pamela is wearing?”

Charlotte grimaced. “It’s pretty bad.”

“You know she just wants attention from Quentin. But I suppose, don’t we all? You’re the only one who’s getting it.”

“Well, not anymore,” Charlotte murmured.

Confused, Randy’s eyebrows lowered. He leaned toward her, sounding conspiratorial. “What do you mean? What’s going on? You know something. You have a secret.”

“No, no,” Charlotte said, her cheeks reddening. “Of course not. I just mean… he paid attention to me yesterday, but that doesn’t mean he’ll even look at me ever again. He doesn’t care about us interns at all. We’re just dust. And he’ll clean us out of here at the end of the semester anyway.”

“Wow. Someone’s depressed today,” Randy said, elbowing her softly in the upper arm. “If you want to talk today, let me know. I know transitioning in this city can be rough as fuck.”

“Tell me about it,” Charlotte murmured, feeling the heaviness of the past week shift on her shoulders. “I feel like I just want to sleep for the next three weeks.”

“They call it the city that never sleeps for a reason,” Randy said.

Charlotte worked swiftly throughout the morning, actually getting a bit of writing done, due to the fact that she wasn’t distracted by the intensity of Quentin’s presence. But still, she kept her eyes to the hallway, hunting for his return. Should she approach him, demanding why he’d toyed with her? She imagined this other reality, in which she was a strong, outrageous woman, blaring words of regret and anger at her boss.

Ha. She was nothing but a meek mouse.

Sometime after lunch, she inched from her seat, glancing around the intern office. Pamela had yanked her red curls into a ponytail, finding solace in her tomboy nature. She scribbled roughly across a notebook, intent on “beating” Charlotte in the idea realm, whenever they eventually had the writer’s meeting.

Charlotte left and wandered down the hall, catching sight of Quentin’s office, which was still empty. Maggie was positioned outside of it, magazine spreads splayed out in front of her, her eyes dancing across the images. Charlotte approached her quietly, standing like a ghost.

Finally, Maggie flinched, realizing someone was beside her. She blinked wildly, trying to make sense of Charlotte’s face. “Shit,” she murmured, snapping the magazine pages closed. “You could have said something.”

“I didn’t want to interrupt you,” Charlotte said. She gestured toward Quentin’s office, trying to sound strong. “Where is the editor today?”

Maggie glanced toward the empty room, her face aghast. “He’s just stepped out for a meeting,” she said, her voice uncertain and wavering.

“But he hasn’t been here all day,” Charlotte stammered.

“He has,” Maggie said. “I had a lunch meeting with him.”

“Where did you go?” Charlotte challenged.

“That’s not your business,” Maggie began, before hesitating. “I mean, we went to the Trojan Horse. Up the road. Delicious Greek salad.”

“Huh.” Charlotte didn’t know whether or not to believe Maggie. Perhaps Quentin had already told Maggie that he’d been sleeping with Charlotte, and that Charlotte was to be let go soon. But why would they allow her to be on the premises, in the first place? Her eyes flashed. “Well, do you know when he’ll be back?”

“Not really,” Maggie said. “He tends to take a while with these big clients. They like to wine and dine, all that.”

“It’s only two in the afternoon,” Charlotte offered, arguing once more.

“Well. You know the rock star life,” Maggie insisted, turning away from Charlotte. The tension between them grew. “Anyway, I have to get back to this. Please, head back to your desk.”

Charlotte tossed her long brunette curls and trudged back to her intern office, angry. If she was about to be fired, she wished someone would just tell her. If she was going to be ignored for the next several months, as intern of a man she could have loved, she wished someone would just tell her.

If she was going to go up in flames; if the love she’d begun to harbor was about to collapse around her, then she damn well wanted to know.

Ultimately, she didn’t have a good feeling.

Returning to her desk, Randy leaned toward her, whispering into her ear, “Hey. Drinks tonight? I can tell you need some TLC.”

Charlotte nodded slowly, robotically, taking solace in this stranger. “I would kill for about three bottles of wine right now,” she murmured.

“That’s the spirit,” Randy said back.