Chapter Sixteen
Christian
Even after the phone call, I’m still not entirely fucking certain that she’s going to show. Louis sent me a message saying that they were en route, but it’s not like he’s going to flip her over his shoulder and haul her up here if she changes her mind. This entire thing is taking much longer than I thought it would. I’d figured Quinn for the type who would leave the office right at five, and instead Louis lingered out by the curb for a full hour before she showed.
A full hour of me, pacing this apartment, my heart pounding like it’s banging on the door of my chest.
I take another lap around my space on the Upper East Side. It’s significantly smaller than my penthouse in Midtown, but it serves its purpose: having a place to entertain women that reveals nothing whatsoever about the real me.
I chose all the furniture, of course. Well, I chose the designer who chose the furniture according to my specifications. I have the place cleaned once a week, but it’s really more like a hotel suite than a truly lived-in space.
I have plenty of personal things here. The closets are stocked with my clothes, and the bathroom has a full complement of towels embroidered with my initials. The design still looks strange, after all this time, but the towels are plush as hell and the cleaning woman arranges them perfectly every time she’s here.
There’s just nothing truly personal.
There are no family photos and only a few token books. For a while, back in high school, I kept a journal—who the hell knows why—but I’ve long since broken myself of the habit of writing down any kind of detailed accounting of my life.
It’s just too risky.
Jesus Christ, how long does it take to drive here?
I’m desperate to see her, even though the smallest part of me hopes she won’t arrive.
If Quinn sidesteps this like a true professional, if she puts that insane, hot connection between us second to her work priorities, it will make my life significantly easier in the long run.
Would it?
The fucking pesky devil’s advocate taunting me from the back of my mind can’t shut his mouth. I don’t know. That’s the bitch of it. I don’t know if it would be easier, in the long run, to live without someone like Quinn.
That’s just a goddamn cop-out. To live without Quinn.
There’s just something about this woman that I simply can’t shake—there’s no way that I can go on without fully exploring her and learning everything there is to know about her. Who knows—maybe we’re a total mismatch, but the way her body felt against mine, the way her mouth opened to let my tongue have its way with hers, the way she kissed me back—it all tells me that we’re perfectly matched, we’re so compatible that it would be an utter waste to stay away from each other.
At the same time, it’s like lighting a match near gasoline. One of us is going to go up in flames, and I have no doubt that person is going to be me.
I can never tell her.
What would Quinn even say if she knew? If she knew the truth about me?
I entertain the thought before I can stop myself. I am one hundred percent certain that she would react coolly to finding out that—
I shake my head, ending it there. I can’t go there. I just can’t. It’s been too long. Nobody would take that kind of news in stride, much less someone who was in love with me.
Oh, my God. She’s not in love with me. We’re not in love.
Aren’t you?
I flop down on the sofa, putting a hand to my forehead.
I can’t deny there’s a current of something running wild and deep and true between us, but what does that mean for the future? There are no guarantees. Not ever.
Sitting down on the sofa just makes me feel restless, so I get back up again and look through the window down at the street below.
Out of the line of traffic, I see a black Town Car disengage from the main flow of traffic and head for the curb.
Spinning on my heel, I turn away from the window. I don’t want to see if she’s standing me up.
Taking in a deep breath, I try to force myself to be calm, cool, collected. The truth is, I remind myself sternly, this, right now, is about the fact that the two of you need to have your hands on one another. There’s no point in speculating about what that means. There’s no point in getting hung up on the possibility of a relationship you can never have. You are still in control.
That’s fucking right.
I’m in control.
Thinking that doesn’t make my heart pound any less when there’s a soft knock at the front door of the apartment.
I make my way to the door with slow, measured steps. I won’t give myself away by rushing to open it.
The doorknob is cool and smooth under my hand as I twist it, pulling the heavy door open.