13
“She’s really good,” Charlotte finally managed, her voice raspy. Had she been able to breathe for the past few minutes? She couldn’t feel her fingers, her toes. Her heart ramped up intensity against her ribcage, making her feel like a tiny animal, caged. She eyed the door, conscious that if she left immediately, she could avoid pure disaster.
She could avoid this growing intensity.
She could avoid this—could it be heading toward—love?
No. She’d known him just over a day.
“Well, she’s much more diligent at it than I ever was.” Quentin rose and collected their plates, dropping them into the sink and tossing out the Chinese trash.
Charlotte stood, her shoulders quivering, and watched him from the counter. She felt frozen. Finally, he turned toward her, catching her staring at him. Hi
