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“No. Stay here. Watch cartoons with me,” Morgan said, her words insistent. “Please?”
“Of course, darling. I owe it to you,” Quentin murmured, leaning forward and kissing her palm softly. “I wouldn’t leave your side today for the world.”
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.”
