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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.
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?
