26
Charlotte snuck from Quentin’s bed early the next morning, kissing his soft, warm lips before slipping back into her apartment and scrubbing herself clean. Clamping her eyes closed, the image of Pamela, staring at her, stampeded through her brain. She couldn’t have imagined it.
“Damn,” she whispered, her voice raspy and echoing in the shower. Just when Quentin had told her he was falling in love with her. Just when everything seemed to be falling into place.
“What the f**k was Pamela even doing at that party, anyway?” she murmured to herself, toweling off. Pamela had seemed like a snooty nerd, perhaps ultimately writing the classical music or jazz beat, rather than the chic rock and grunge beats.
Although she’d plotted to arrive at the office a bit before everyone else—hoping to get
