It was better this way.
“It was a little fling,” he whispered to himself, practicing. “It was nothing at all. We fed our curiosities, and now we’re both over it. Completely.”
At that moment, the doorbell rang. Quentin’s stomach clenched. He wiped his hands on the blue-striped kitchen towel. With each movement, his tattoos flashed from beneath his rolled-up shirt.
“Dad? Are you going to get that?” Morgan called from the piano room, halting her playing.
“Got it, sweetheart. Keep going!”
Quentin began his stern march toward the door, pressing his lips together firmly. If it was Charlotte, he’d have to send her back down the hallway. What was she thinking, anyway? He had a child. It was still relatively early, which meant she wasn’t in bed yet.
This felt invasive. This felt wrong. This was everything he was trying to avoid.
Through the crack in the door, he revealed that it was indeed Charlotte. Immediately, her beauty caused his throat to catch. She wore a deep, V-neck T-shirt, black leggings, and a pair of off-kilter, red socks—a bit of personality, maybe. Her figure was an absolute dream, with those large, soft breasts, that cinched waist, and those doe eyes.
In her hand, she held a greasy, white bag. A Chinese food bag.
“Hey,” she stammered, clearly feeling awkward.
The tension was nearly impossible to slice through. Quentin peered at the greasy bag, questioning.
“They gave me your order,” Charlotte murmured. “The Chinese place. And I’m guessing—“
“You have orange chicken,” Quentin said then, understanding. After a pause, he whispered, “Fuck. They really screwed us over, didn’t they?”
Charlotte pressed her lips into a smile. “It’s almost stupid, really.”
“DAD? WHO’S AT THE DOOR?”
“I see you’re not alone,” Charlotte said, drawing strength into her voice.
“Not often, no,” Quentin said, accepting the bag of Chinese from her outstretched arms. “And we’re both starving.” He paused again, searching her eyes. She seemed sad, demure. Almost expectant that they shouldn’t be together, right now. Almost as if she understood precisely what was on his mind.
“I’ll grab yours,” he said, tossing the bag onto the counter and trading them off.
“Thanks. How was your meeting? With the Morning Stars this afternoon?” Charlotte asked, her voice lilting. She was making slight small talk, trying to bridge the friendship.
“Ah, maybe we should talk about this at work tomorrow instead,” Quentin said, passing her the food.
The line was drawn. It was over. It had to be. His heart ached with the truth of it.
“Makes sense,” Charlotte whispered, her eyes glimmering.
Morgan hopped from the piano room, then, and spotted her. Her wide grin forced a larger smile onto Charlotte’s face. Quentin watched as Charlotte gave the girl a slight wave, her slim fingers pointed skyward.
“Hey, kiddo. Sounds good in there.”
“You haven’t even heard the best part!” Morgan cried, tumbling closer. “What did you bring?”
Charlotte searched Quentin’s face. Quentin bowed it, giving her the okay. She could handle this on her own.
“Just your Chinese,” Charlotte said, speaking in light tones. “The Chinese restaurant mixed up our orders. How silly, no?”
“That’s hilarious,” Morgan said, smacking her palms onto her jeaned knees. “They are always mixing up our orders. But Dad says they’re the best in the city, so.” She shrugged, sounding blasé, like a much older woman.
“She sounds like she knows what she’s talking about,” Charlotte said warmly, eyeing Quentin once more.
What did she see when she looked at him? Her boss? A rock star? A father to the little girl between them?
“Well, then, you have to eat with us,” Morgan said, her voice insistent.
Charlotte hesitated. She bit her lip in that sensual way she always did. Quentin could almost literally see the wheels cranking in her head.
“Come on, Charlotte,” Morgan said, rolling her eyes. “You can’t just hang out in the hallway all day. The food’s getting cold.”
“I don’t mind eating alone,” Charlotte said hesitantly, glancing up at Quentin once more. Something within his gut clenched with interest, with yearning.
“Dad says it’s unhealthy to eat alone,” Morgan said primly. “He says that’s why I can’t eat in front of the television by myself. Dinner is for communion.”
“Does he say that?” Charlotte murmured.
Quentin shrugged evenly, not even hating that his daughter was giving him away. He couldn’t take his eyes off the gorgeous girl. He opened the door a bit wider, gently tossing his head toward the dining room table. “Come on, Charlotte. Like the girl says, it’s completely irresponsible to eat alone. You’d be doing your body a disservice.”
He gave her a meaningful look, raising his eyebrows. Charlotte’s soft pink lips parted. Tiny, thin feet flicked over the entrance of his apartment as she entered, shrugging her shoulders, unable to break their eye contact.
“Yay! A guest!” Morgan cried out, leaping up. “We never have guests. Just Mom, sometimes. And she never lets me eat Chinese food.”
Morgan clipped the door closed behind Charlotte. The noise burst in Quentin’s ears, reminding him that he was trapped with this girl he “couldn’t” lust after, at least for the next hour or so. With her just a half foot away from him, he inhaled her scent, which was, frankly, still a mix of their sexes, together.