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Charlotte felt her heart erupt with warmth. Jesus. This man wasn’t just a sexual icon. He was probably a good person. What was this emotion, this spinning in her head?
Was she falling for him?
No, no. It was too early.
“Well, great. I’ll know to go to his apartment if I ever need anything,” Charlotte answered softly. “It’s good to have kind neighbors. Especially in a new city, alone.”
“Darling, you were never meant for Ohio. I could see it bleeding you dry, every year when I came to visit. You have something more in you. I can smell it.”
Charlotte thanked her aunt for the apartment once more and then said her goodbyes, with her aunt telling her that she’d spend the rest of the evening drinking mimosas near the poolside. Brimming with daydreams and impossibilities regarding her boss, Charlotte walked back home, hopeful that she’d somehow run into Quentin in the elevator once more.
But the elevator doors opened, revealing an empty, silver interior. Her neck bent like a sad giraffe, she stabbed the ninth-floor button and felt the pressure of gravity as it launched into the sky.
Her apartment was just as lonely, just as somber as she’d imagined it to be. She unpacked slowly, methodically, stabbing hangers into her dresses and stuffing tights and shoes into the closet. She played music that made her anxious, and then stabbed the “Next” button countless times, trying to hone in on her mood.
Nothing fit. Nothing fit except Quentin, beside her. Speaking with her. Teasing her.
Frustrated, she lifted her phone and texted Rachel, ready to confess.
CHARLOTTE: I did it. I slept with him.
Charlotte dropped the phone on the bedspread, immediately panicked. Writing it out meant it was real; writing it out meant that she was allowing this to happen. Writing it out meant she wanted it to happen again.
After a small, panicked eternity, Rachel began to message her back, in a flurry.
RACHEL: OMG. You slut.
RACHEL: Just kidding.
RACHEL: I mean, how did this happen?
RACHEL: Please, tell me everything.
CHARLOTTE: He just came over last night.
RACHEL: Very cool. Very hot. He’s used to getting what he wants, I guess.
CHARLOTTE: I just don’t want to be his collateral damage. I told you. I want a career. I want to be a music writer.
RACHEL: But you also want that sweet dick.
CHARLOTTE: Sad, tragic, but true.
RACHEL: HAHA.
RACHEL: Let me know if you want me to come over. It must feel crazy, just being down the hallway from him.
CHARLOTTE: It does. But I’ll be all right. I’m going to have to get used to this eventually.
Charlotte undressed, donning a pair of leggings and a black V-neck shirt. After she realized she hadn’t yet gone grocery shopping, her stomach did a brief flip of hunger, crackling within her. “Shit,” she murmured, surfing through the Internet, on the hunt for cheap Chinese. She felt concave, like she was folding in on herself. “I can’t survive like this.”
Would she grow accustomed to talking to herself, now that she lived alone? Now that she was growing more and more mentally unstable, due to lusting after her boss?
“Yes, hi,” she said, speaking now to the Chinese restaurant down the road. “I’d like to order some food for delivery. Orange chicken, with a few of those spring rolls. Yes. That’s all.”
The Chinese woman on the other end spoke to her tartly, telling her it would be about twenty-five minutes till she’d receive it. The order amount was almost nothing—less than eight dollars, shockingly, and without a designated amount required for delivery. Charlotte imagined that if she passed the Chinese place on the sidewalk, her stomach would curdle at how disgusting the interior was. What she didn’t know wouldn’t kill her.
Poised on the couch, she waited for her Chinese, sensing the nighttime come rushing in. Unfortunately, her mind turned to thoughts of Quentin almost immediately, imagining him with his daughter. She imagined him stirring dinner, his business sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing his tattoos. He’d instruct Morgan on her piano technique, using his many years of musicianship to guide her hands. Just because he’d been a raucous rock star didn’t mean he didn’t have the skills to back it up.
And, Jesus, those hands hand been pressed against her clit earlier that afternoon as he’d bent her over his desk.
No. She had to stop thinking about it. She had to draw the line and tell him, almost immediately, that she couldn’t be alone with him again. Resisting his prowess was almost impossible. His scent drove her wild, made her frenzied. Even just thinking about it, her legs began to part; her pink pussy lips bounced softly apart, yearning for him.
The doorbell rang, then. Charlotte ripped up from the couch and rushed the door, feeling out of her mind. She grabbed her wallet and opened the door to reveal a Chinese delivery driver on the other side. He passed her a massive dripping bag, and she handed him ten dollars, including the tip. He nodded primly and then turned away, without speaking. He darted toward the elevator before Charlotte even had the chance to say goodbye.
