“Where do you want to go?” Charlotte whispered.
“I know just what you’ll love.”
Quentin paid for the massive tab with a flourish of his credit card and then grasped her hand, leading her into the sun-drenched, early fall streets. She slipped a cardigan over her shoulders, retrieved from her bag, and added her sunglasses atop her nose, conscious that all the panic she’d had, jostling around her heart for the past week or so, was receding quickly.
And she hadn’t even made a total fool of herself.
“God, I just want to shout it from the rooftops,” she breathed, giggling. “I want to tell the world that I f*****g did it. I f*****g killed that interview.”
“Hah,” Quentin said, his eyes gleaming with delight. “I love seeing you this happy.”
He led her down a side alley, toward a rusty set of
