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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.
