Chapter 18
Harlan
A fter my shower, I head downstairs and find that Quinn’s friends are gone. And Carlisle tells me that Quinn is preparing food in the chef’s kitchen.
I pause in the kitchen entrance, where Quinn is at the sink, her back to me. She’s the only one in the room, which smells of fresh cilantro.
She’s washing tomatoes, humming to herself. There are onions and bowls on the counter, a bottle of olive oil.
It’s extremely odd, coming home to someone who isn’t employed by me.
It’s never felt so welcoming in here.
I just stand and watch her for a long moment, tying to comprehend this warmth that emanates from her at all times. Drawing me to her.
It’s not just the way she looks, though that’s part of it. It’s the way she feels .
The way I feel when I’m close enough to sense that warmth.
She’s changed into a little black-and-white checkered dress. Her turquoise hair is up in a loose bun, with pieces falling out.
It bothers me that I couldn’t resist the urge to leave the office early today, and come home after Carlisle informed me that she was here. With guests.
I knew that the surge of jealousy I felt when I heard she was in my pool with people—just women, even—in a bikini, and I wasn’t here, was irrational.
I knew that thinking about her all day while I was at work was unhealthy.
I knew that my compulsion to come home and see her was dangerous, if I indulged it.
But that’s what I did.
That’s what I’m doing.
Watching her, because I can’t fucking stop.
I take a step deeper into the room.
“What’s going on?”
“Oh, hi!” She glances at me over her shoulder. “I’m making us dinner. I hope you don’t mind? I asked Chef Edward if I could. I just wanted to thank you for letting me use your other kitchen. Without saying thank you.” She glances at me again. “You don’t seem to like that.”
I drift closer to the counter where the ingredients are. “What are you making?”
“Chicken tostadas. There’s some chicken breast already cooked, because Ed was going to use it for your dinner, so this will be easy.”
I absorb this, not quite sure how to interpret it.
Not quite sure if I should be jealous. But I am.
She’s calling him Ed.
I don’t even call him Ed.
“You don’t have any actual tostadas,” she goes on, maybe misinterpreting my perplexed look. “But we can use taco shells.” She makes a hopeful face. “Do you like cilantro, though? Be honest.”
“Cilantro’s fine.”
“Oh, thank god. It’s kind of a key ingredient. Did you know some people can’t eat cilantro because it legit tastes like soap to them?”
“I’ve heard that.”
“It’s because of a genetic variant that affects some people’s olfactory sense. I learned that in culinary school. I’m much better at baking than I am cooking, but this dish is served cold, and it’s so delicious. It just takes a lot of chopping.” She lays a cutting board in front of me and holds out a chef’s knife. “Can you chop?”
I take the knife. “Can’t we just throw it all in a food processor?”
“Ugh, no. The Romas will turn to mush.” She piles a handful of ripe tomatoes in front of me. “I know I said I’m making you dinner, but you’ve heard that saying, ‘If you can lean, you can clean’?”
“Uh… sure.”
“Well, Mom always told me, ‘If you can look, you can cook.’ Dice them up small. After that, I’ve got cilantro for you to cut up. I’ll handle the red onions, so you don’t have to cry in front of a girl.” She grins at me.
Then she takes an onion to the island and starts cutting.
We chop for a minute in companionable silence, which is fucking weird, while I tell myself to relax. Let down my guard. I’m in my own damn house, in my kitchen.
It just feels like it’s been invaded by a sweet, sexy chef I never asked for.
A little voice in the back of my head warns, Don’t get used to it.
“So… you’re a two-shower-a-day guy,” she says.
Observant. I’m not sure how I feel about her making observations like that about me. Other than uncomfortable.
“Usually,” I mutter. Sometimes three.
“I guess you hate this,” she observes further. Presumably, referring to the disaster the counter is quickly becoming.
“It’s okay. As long as it gets cleaned up right after.”
“Hmm.” She doesn’t say anything else as she takes that in.
I’ve never felt the need to justify my cleanliness and orderliness to a woman. But I’ve never lived with a woman.
I rarely even have them in my house.
Maybe that’s so I don’t have to justify, or explain. Normally, I don’t have people anywhere near my personal space unless they’re on my payroll.
I wonder how much of my house her friends saw.
“Your friends are… interesting.”
She considers that. “They are. But what makes you say so?”
“The conversation you were having when I got home. Something about me being a witch?”
She cringes. “You heard that?”
Her face says, What else did you hear?
“Don’t worry, I didn’t eavesdrop.”
“My girls speak their minds, but the mimosas didn’t help.”
“I guess it’s good to have friends who tell you what they really think,” I say neutrally.
I really wouldn’t know.
“They’re just looking out for me. We’re like family.”
Yeah. I still wouldn’t know.
It’s not that my family doesn’t tell me what they think. I’m just usually not listening, when it comes to their thoughts on my personal life.
Usually, I don’t even give them the opportunity to voice them.
“So… can I ask you something?” she says.
“Maybe.”
She laughs a little. “Why did you lie to your siblings about Darla, really?”
I take a deep breath. This, again.
“I don’t like anyone in my private business.”
“Even your siblings? Your twin sister?”
“Even them.”
“Huh. So… you were never in love with Darla, though?”
“No. I told you that already.”
“But you were sleeping with her?”
“Yes.”
She’s silent for a moment, but I know we’re not done here.
“I lied for you, Harlan,” she says carefully. “I’d appreciate more than a one-word answer on this. Like, why can’t you just tell your siblings who she really is, and that she’s not me ? Why can’t they know the truth, now that your relationship with her is over? Why the secrecy?”
Shit.
I know what she’s doing.
And I knew this might happen.
That if we kept seeing each other, she might ask about Darla again. She already told me she was jealous. She knows I lied to my siblings. The deeper I let her into my life, logically, the more curious she might get.
And the closer she might get to discovering the truth about Darla.
That can’t happen.
And now, to complicate things, it’s clear that her friends don’t trust me. They joked—I think it was a joke?—that I’m a fucking witch. So maybe they think I’m working some kind of black magic on Quinn, tricking her?
I have no idea what she told them about me, but logically, she trusts them more than she trusts me. Combine that with the fact that she knows I lied to my family, and she’s probably come to the conclusion that I’m not trustworthy.
As in, she trusts me to get her naked, wrists bound, in my bed, but not to tell her the truth about my ex-lover. So, she’s going to probe a bit to figure out where the line is, between my lies and my truths.
I’ve been trying to come up with a solution to this possible problem ever since I realized that she wasn’t going to stay away. And that maybe I wouldn’t be able to stay away. To prepare myself for this moment.
I hoped it wouldn’t have to come to this. But here we are.
“Because,” I tell her, “she’s famous.”
“Oh.” She sounds… intrigued. Like, way more intrigued than it occurred to me she might be. “Like how famous?”
“Very.”
Maybe I should’ve known it would never be that simple.
“Well, shit, Harlan. Now I need to know.”
“I really can’t say who she is.”
“But you must know by now that you can trust me not to say anything. I didn’t mention her to anyone, even my best girlfriends.”
I give her a look. “I told you not to.”
“I mean… full disclosure, I did tell them you blackmailed me into a fake date.”
I stare at her. “Are you kidding me?”
“Um. No?”
“Fuck. Quinn… You told your friend Nicole?”
“Yes. But don’t worry?—”
“She knows Jameson’s fiancée. What if it gets back to him, through her?”
“It totally won’t. Nicole is a sealed vault when it comes to me. She won’t say a word.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because we’re friends .” She gazes at me expectantly. “We’re besties . We’re girl squad .”
I don’t know how that’s supposed to reassure me, but she seems to think those terms are sacrosanct or something.
“You should’ve told me.”
“I’m telling you now. So we can build trust.” She blinks at me hopefully. “Come on! How could I not tell them? I wasn’t going to just go off on a date with you and not tell anyone where I was. You were scary . You blackmailed me.”
I consider that.
“But I never mentioned Darla. Because I don’t know her, and she’s really none of my business. But…” She bites the side of her lip. “Now that we’re having sex… it’s different. I’d like to be able to trust you.”
That’s fair.
I just don’t know how we’ll accomplish it, if she won’t stop asking me questions to which she’s not satisfied with my answers.
“So… is she in business, like you? Or like, really famous? Like a supermodel or actress or musician?”
Fuck me. Telling her that Darla is famous seemed like the perfect excuse, the best way to make Quinn understand why I would never reveal her identity. But I can see that I was wrong. Her eyes are literally gleaming with excitement.
“It’s not for me to say, Quinn.”
“Harlan, come on. I’m trustworthy.”
She gives me those big blue eyes of hers.
“You’re ridiculous,” I tell her.
“Please!”
“Why would you even want to know?”
“Because I’m a slight masochist? And I really, really want to know.”
“No.”
“Okay, fine. Just give me some clues and I’ll figure it out. Is she like household-name famous? Or like only-in-certain-circles famous?”
She waits, her bright eyes blinking hopefully.
I shake my head.
But the sick taste of dread is gathering in my throat. Her interest in this topic is giving me a glimpse, maybe, of how badly she’d take it if she found out the truth.
She truly cares about this. For some reason I can’t fathom.
“How many Instagram followers does she have?” she presses. “Just ballpark.” When I don’t answer, she says, “Has she won any major awards? Like Oscars? Grammys? Does she have a sex tape?”
I roll my eyes.
“Does she have an album on the charts? Is she on TV? Headlining her own tour? Has she starred on Broadway?”
“Quinn.”
“Has she dated other celebrities? Is she internet famous? TikTok famous? Does she get oodles of free stuff to wear on the red carpet? Has she had cosmetic surgery?”
Jesus.
I have no idea what a celebrity’s life would be like, nor do I fucking care, because I would never date a celebrity. The whole idea of dating someone famous, who lives so much of their life in the public eye, makes my skin crawl. It offends every fiber of my being.
But… Jamie’s an attention whore. He’s dated famous women.
Who was that actress who was all over him several months ago? Before he met Megan…
Quinn is still drilling me with questions—“Does she have her own celebrity makeup brand? Has she performed at the Super Bowl?”—when I finally cut her off.
“She’s an actress, okay? Her name is Geneviève Blaise.”
That finally shuts her up. But her eyes widen, telling me she knows exactly who Geneviève Blaise is. “Oh. Wow.”
“Darla is just a pseudonym, for her privacy. Let’s leave it at that.”
“Okay…” she says. And I can tell it’s going to be very hard for her to leave it at that.
But she actually stops talking.
She’s looking at me differently, though. Like this new information about my ex-lover is giving her way more food for thought about me.
I don’t love it.
What does it matter who I was with in the past?
The past is the past.
I have no interest in hurting her by talking about any previous lovers of mine. It’s pretty evident from this inquisition that she’s the jealous type. I get that. So am I.
But I’d rather throw her a bone than have her just keep searching.
To my surprise, she doesn’t ask any more questions.
Maybe now that I’ve given her a name, it’s uncomfortably real.
“I wanted to be an actress when I was little,” she says tentatively.
“So, what happened?”
“Thin skin. I couldn’t take all that rejection. So then I wanted to be… wait for it. An accountant.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yeah. But all the CFOs I’d have to work under were these horrible, controlling tyrants, absolutely obsessive about bossing me around?—”
“Watch out,” I warn. I can’t believe she suckered me in. “You’ll get another spanking. Tyrants don’t like to be lied to.”
“But then I found cakes,” she says, ignoring the threat. “They’re much sweeter. And sooo chill.”
“Well, that’s a real loss for all the CFOs out there.”
“Hey.” She tosses a piece of onion at me.
“I’m serious.”
“Sarcasm and seriousness are not the same thing.”
“I can’t believe you just made up that crap about wanting to be an accountant. And I thought you were the honest one.”
She snickers. “Hey. I never said I’d be honest about everything .” After a moment she adds, “We probably have a lot more in common than either of us would’ve thought, huh?”
“Such as?”
“Well, for one, I have kind of an obsessive personality myself. Or so my friends tell me.”
I consider that.
“Do they really know you, though?”
“Yes. They really do. Better than I know myself, sometimes.” She’s quiet for a moment, pensive. “I’m thirty-one years old and sometimes I feel like I’ve already lived nine lives. And I still haven’t figured myself out. Do you ever feel like that?”
“No. I know exactly who I am.”
I can feel her staring at me.
“Maybe that’s why I’m so drawn to you,” she says softly. “You’re as precise as a razor blade.”
Actual tingles run down my back. She’s drawn to me?
Maybe I knew that, but hearing her say it is different.
“You make me sound so warm and cuddly,” I say gruffly.
“You’re not. But…” She glances at me, and our eyes connect. “I like how hard you are.” She shrugs. “I’ve always been soft.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
We stare at each other as my heart thuds in my chest.
She likes me? Is that what she just said?
I don’t even want her to say that.
Her eyes are glistening, but maybe it’s just the onions.
I swallow.
I’m supposed to be in control here.
But I can feel the equilibrium tipping. And I don’t even know how to stop the downward slide we’re on. The one where we both get wrecked at the bottom.
Maybe because I’ve never been here before. Wherever this is.
“Quinn. This thing between us… It’s just sex.”
For a moment, I think she’s going to reply with sass. But she says softly, “You made that clear.”
“I can’t offer you more.”
“I know.”
But she’s probing at my sharp edges, seeking more.
The thing is, she wouldn’t like me, if she knew the truth.
That I’ve lied to her about Darla all along.
And that I’m not going to stop.