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Finally, things were happening. Finally, the world was moving.
Inside the elevator, Charlotte pressed the button for her floor, brimming with excitement. But as the elevator doors began their natural close, a mad rush of feet sounded from the hall. Conscious that new neighbors wanted the elevator space, she brought her arm through the crack, holding it for them.
Suddenly, a man and a little girl, both holding dripping ice cream cones, appeared in front of them. The girl was vibrant, blonde, her smile crackling up at them and revealing that she’d recently lost a front tooth. Strawberry ice cream dripped from her nose.
And beside her stood a tall, muscled man, with dark hair down to his ears and horn-rimmed glasses hiding his dark eyes. His five-o-clock shadow covered his chin and high cheekbones. He looked smart, sophisticated, dominant.
Jesus. It was her editor. It was Quentin McDonnell.
Charlotte’s jaw dropped. The little girl hopped into the elevator, peering up at them. She giggled slightly, becoming a bright burst of energy as the elevator door closed behind the four of them, locking them in. “You guys sure have a lot of stuff.”
“She’s moving in here,” Rachel said, smiling and rolling her head toward Charlotte. Her eyes danced up to Quentin, who looked awestruck, like he’d seen a ghost.
“I’m Morgan. My daddy lives here,” Morgan said, gesturing to him. “And I live both here and down the road, with my mommy. We just got ice cream. You guys should try it. It’s absolutely the best.”
Charlotte’s eyes were centered on the ground, at her pointed, black shoes, feeling the embarrassment draw up from her stomach, through her neck, into her heated cheeks. She exhaled roughly, sensing Quentin’s eyes upon her. She felt under a microscope, analyzed from the front, rather than the back, this time.
Rachel and Morgan continued to chatter beside them, leaving Charlotte and Quentin in a kind of shell of silence, which brimmed with sexual tension and desire. Charlotte hadn’t been able to get this man out of her head since the morning. And now, he was her neighbor.
“Oh, wait. Which floor did you need?” Rachel asked, piping up and shattering the silence on the other end of the elevator.
“Nine,” Quentin said, his eyes dark and centered on Charlotte’s. “Looks like you’ve already pressed it.”
5
Quentin watched his daughter nibble the last of her strawberry cone as the elevator swept past the second floor. He clung to his stupidly, recognizing that he looked like a fatigued dad, rather than a wayward, drugged, sexual musician. But with Charlotte’s angelic face before him, her pink lips pressed together expectantly, she reeked of inexperience.
“So, you’re helping move her in, then?” he asked the friend, instead of Charlotte. “That’s a kind move on your part.”
“Well, I owe her,” Rachel said, giving Quentin a bright, flirty smile. She wasn’t unattractive, with her bright red hair in curls down her shoulders. She had the same wholesome look as Charlotte. “She helped me pack up when I moved out here a while ago.”
“Just four months ago,” Charlotte piped up, her cheeks glowing with red. “Not that long, is what I mean.”
“Right,” Rachel said, rolling her eyes. “Well, I already feel like I’m becoming one of you.”
“The city gets into your blood pretty quickly,” Quentin said, speaking companionably. He eyed Charlotte tentatively, sensing his groin pulse up in his crotch. He could smell her. He felt wolf-like, a predator, zoning in on her. He’d scouted her without even trying. “Which apartment are you in?”
“Marcia. Marcia Barracks,” Charlotte whispered, her voice catching. “She’s my aunt. She goes to Florida every winter.”
Quentin nodded. “Morgan used to go there to water her plants in the wintertime.”
“That place smells weird. Like cats,” Morgan agreed.
Charlotte flashed a toothy grin at the young girl. She looked like she could inhale her tongue with nerves. Quentin craved making a woman feel this way. He’d watched them dive after him, during his shows around ten years before. He’d flaunted it, bragging about the women who’d done anything he asked.
And now, Charlotte was his employee, bound to do whatever he asked, regardless.
But that no-fraternization clause was there for a reason.
“I was just at piano lessons,” Morgan said, striking through his reverie. She lifted her backpack and drew out a whole book of songs she was practicing, flipping it toward Charlotte.
Charlotte grasped the book, her eyes glowing with recognition. “I used to have this very book when I was first playing,” she said quietly.
“You play?” Morgan asked, her voice high-pitched.
“I did. Until I was maybe eighteen,” Charlotte answered. “But then I focused on writing.”
“Kind of like Daddy,” Morgan said, gesturing wildly. “He used to be in a band or whatever, but now he just writes. Boring.”
Charlotte’s eyes flickered up toward Quentin as the elevator halted at the top floor, dinging the doors open. Quentin gave her a half smile before guiding his daughter into the hallway and tossing his half-eaten cone into the trash. Rachel and Charlotte walked out after them, yanking their suitcases along. This would be their release point. But something in Charlotte’s eyes forced his shoes on the ground, keeping him glued, towering over her. She bit her soft lip with white teeth, her eyes growing steamy, her eyelids heavy.
