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The mint and chocolate melted in a chorus of flavor on Charlotte’s tongue, bringing a slight smile.
“See. It’s damn good, isn’t it?” Morgan demanded.
“Language, little thing,” Quentin said, tossing her blond hair around with his firm hands. “And what did I say about the chocolate? No more before dinner. Charlotte here is slaving away to make you some really good lasagna.”
“Oh! I love lasagna,” Morgan said. “Mom never lets me eat it. Carbs,” she whispered, almost conspiratorially.
“As if she really knows what carbs are,” Quentin said, rolling his eyes. “Hop back to the piano, Morg. We eat in forty-five minutes.”
She did, leaving Quentin and Charlotte to make out heavily in the kitchen to the sound of Mozart and Bach, drummed with the fingers of a seven-year-old.
They ate companionably at the table, getting to know one another more intimately and laughing outrageously at Morgan’s silly school stories, along with her apparent distaste for the hospital nurses.
“Oh, she was nice to you!” Quentin declared, pointing his fork. “She fluffed your pillows!”
“She always messed them up,” Morgan insisted. “Mom did it perfectly, then this nurse comes along and… bang.”
“Wow. She should definitely lose her license,” Charlotte joked.
“Ha,” Quentin said, rolling her eyes. “I can’t handle you women. I have a constant headache.”
But his eyes gleamed with sure pleasure, obviously surrounded with people who ignited joy into his once dark and drug-addled mind.
This was a new chapter for him, Charlotte felt sure. And perhaps she could be semi-responsible for making it whole.
23
The next week, on Thursday, Quentin called Charlotte into his office. The secret pair had successfully avoided each other’s presence at work the previous few days, only catching one another’s eyes across rooms and stewing with tension and desire for the other. Faced with “what to do” regarding the non-fraternization clause, they’d apparently decided to avoid it for now. They’d known each other less than two weeks and already they brewed with a sense of purpose, with growing love.
“I’m falling for you,” Charlotte had told him in the hotel room the week before. And she’d meant it.
Charlotte entered, choosing to keep the door ajar slightly, so as not to attract attention.
“Hello, sir,” she said, her eyes bright. She was playing the role of intern, now, despite her frequent appearances at his apartment and her growing friendship with his tiny daughter. “You wanted to see me?”
Quentin’s voice boomed. “Sure did. I was thinking about your pitch last week, regarding the article about Thick Soled.”
“Ah, yes. The pitch that nearly got me fired,” she joked, crossing her arms over her breasts. “How could I forget?”
“If only our interns didn’t speak out of turn,” Quentin said firmly, his eyes still playful. “Then we would get a lot more done around here. But alas…” He shrugged. “It’s a changing world. I can’t pretend to keep up with it.”
“You’re an old man,” Charlotte breathed, her tongue slipping from between her lips. She imagined drawing it around the tip of his cock, forcing it to grow rock-hard, veiny. She’d begun to know his body with intimate detail; what made him stir, what caused him to moan. She’d never had this with a man before.
“Anyway,” Quentin continued, his eyes flashing. Could he tell she was thinking about his rock-hard staff? Was that it, bulging up at his crotch? “I want to change the article completely. I want you to take the lead on the second interview, and I want you to write it. Yourself.”
Charlotte’s lips parted. Her heart hammering, she hunted for words. Taking this on… Wouldn’t it alert the other interns that she had “special favor”? She reached back and pressed the door closed, giving them privacy, allowing them to talk as equals.
“Won’t they guess something’s up if I take the article?” she asked tightly. She struggled to inhale completely.
Quentin shook his head. “They know you have ideas. They all heard your pitch. I think they’d assume it was the next relevant step.”
Charlotte wasn’t so sure. She shifted her weight, imagining what Pamela would say, faced with this information. “It’s just that they already don’t trust me very much. I was fired once, and then brought back on.”
“Let me ask you a question, Charlotte,” Quentin said, speaking with more dominance, more like her boss than her lover. “What do you want out of this internship?”
“I want to be a real music writer. You know that,” Charlotte said, her eyebrows lowering. “You know that.”
“I do. But I also know you need to take this opportunity, and fuck the others. You’re a damn good writer, and you have insight, and you have angles. That’s stuff that many writers take years to hone. Use your skills, and blast ahead of your peers. I’m just giving you the tools to do it.”
Charlotte nodded. She hadn’t interviewed an actual musician before, and panic throttled through her, sending bumps across her forearm. “When is the interview?”
