Chapter 12 Quentin
TWELVE
QUENTIN
“You’re late,” Sadie said, opening the door just wide enough for him to see her.
“Well. You feel late.”
She stepped aside anyway, arms already folding like she’d practiced this stance in the mirror.
Quentin didn’t want to admit it, but he’d been looking forward to running lines with Sadie all damn day.
He told himself it was just about the script.
Totally professional. Extremely normal. Never mind that she’d been avoiding him for days like he was some kind of contagious rash.
Or that when she finally did stop ignoring him, they’d ended up having dinner and he’d opened up more than he had in years.
Now, standing at her front door, he rolled his shoulders, trying to shake the weird, nervous energy clinging to him. He was chill. Totally chill. Not at all like a guy who had mentally rewatched their last conversation more times than he’d seen Die Hard.
Sadie stood there, freshly showered, her auburn hair darker and damp, clinging to her shoulders.
She was dressed in a matching sweatshirt and pants, and if that wasn’t enough, her face was bare, free of the makeup she usually wore.
For the first time, he noticed the freckles that dusted her cheeks and the bridge of her nose.
“Freckles?” he blurted out, unable to stop himself as he stared at her like he was seeing her for the first time.
“Pardon?” she asked, her eyebrows furrowing in confusion.
“You have them,” he said, feeling ridiculous as the words left his mouth. Sadie gave him a look. A mix of bemusement and concern for his mental well-being.
“Yes I do. Are you okay? Should I get you a chair? Or are you reverting back to Neanderthal?” she teased, crossing her arms as if waiting for him to say something more coherent.
“They’re—” beautiful, mesmerizing, completely ruining his ability to think—“cute,” he finally managed, though the word felt wholly inadequate.
Her freckles weren’t just cute. They were tiny constellations scattered across her cheeks and nose, and he had the overwhelming urge to connect the dots with his fingertips.
“Thanks?” she said, clearly amused by his sudden fascination. “Come in, caveman. Try not to have an existential crisis over my face.”
Easier said than done. Her face was one worthy of an existential crisis.
He stepped inside her cabin and immediately took in the lived-in chaos. Makeup scattered across the counter, a messy pile of shoes by the door, including his cowboy boots she had worn last night. Seeing her small sneakers parked next to his beat-up boots made him smile for some strange reason.
His gaze moved further in, landing on the coffee table, which looked like it had survived a paper explosion. Notes, scribbles, and loose sheets covered every inch, each one scrawled with the kind of furious handwriting that suggested either creative genius or a full-blown nervous breakdown.
Without asking, he dropped onto the couch like this was his natural habitat.
“Make yourself at home,” she said dryly, arms crossed, but there was a smile playing at the corner of her lips.
“Ever the gracious host,” he shot back, grinning as he tugged off his boots and neatly lined them up beside the couch. His socked feet stretched out like he was settling in for a long stay.
Then he picked up a stray piece of paper from the floor and scanned it. “So… are these the ramblings of a mastermind or the early warning signs of madness?”
Sadie snatched the paper back. “Little column A, little column B,” she said, settling next to him on the couch. Close enough that he could feel her warmth and catch the clean citrus scent of her shampoo. It was extremely dangerous proximity.
She glanced at the paper in her hand. “It’s actually a business plan. I’ve been working on launching a color-inclusive special effects makeup line.”
Quentin raised his eyebrows. “That sounds really exciting.”
“Yeah, I think it could be,” she said, tucking a strand of damp hair behind her ear. “It’s something the industry really needs, and I’ve been pouring myself into it, trying to get all the pieces in place. Hence…” she gestured vaguely at the piles of papers around them, “the mess.”
He picked up another sheet, flipping through it. There was market analysis, sales plans, and financial projections. She wasn’t just throwing ideas around. She had a full-blown empire brewing in her living room. “Where are you in the process?”
She shrugged. “I’ve got the formulas finalized, and I’ve saved enough to get started. I just don’t have investors yet.” A beat. “And I don’t want family money. I want it to be mine.”
That stopped him.
He scanned another page, slower now. This wasn’t a half-baked dream. This was a blueprint. “So you’re basically one yes away.”
“Pretty much. It’s a hard pitch, though.” She sighed. “Special effects makeup doesn’t sparkle like beauty brands. But I know it works. I know there’s a market.”
Quentin looked at her, then back at the papers. “Sadie… this is really good.”
She eyed him like she didn’t fully trust the compliment. “You don’t have to say that.”
“I absolutely do. And also,” he added, leaning back, “I might know someone.”
Her brow lifted. “Define someone.”
“I could introduce you to Bianca Amato.”
Sadie stared at him. “The Bianca Amato?”
“Yes. The one with the billion-dollar clean beauty empire and the terrifyingly perfect skin. You know Radiance, right?”
“Do I know… Quentin, Radiance Cosmetics is everywhere. Their lip oils have a waitlist. Their foundation just won like five awards. Everyone wants to work with them.”
“It’d just be a meeting,” he said quickly. “Not a handout. Just a door cracked open.”
She looked down at her notes, then back at him. “I’m trying to do this on my own.”
“And you are,” he said gently. “Getting a meeting doesn’t build the business. You do.”
She searched his face, clearly weighing it. Finally, she let out a breath. “You’re very casually offering something huge.”
He smiled. “I’m good at casual.”
Sadie shook her head. “I don’t believe you.”
“Believe it,” he said. “You’re building something real. It deserves to be seen.”
Quentin had spent years around people who coasted on names and connections. Sadie wasn’t one of them, she was building something on her own terms. And damn, he respected the hell out of that.
“I pitched to investors last year,” she said finally. “Most of them brushed me off. A few pretended to listen and then suggested I pivot to normal beauty products instead. You know, ‘something more marketable.’”
Quentin scoffed. “Morons.”
Her mouth twitched. “Right? But Bianca would actually listen?”
“She’s sharp,” he said. “And she likes smart ideas. You’d have to impress her, but…” He gestured to the papers scattered everywhere. “From what I’m seeing, you’d be fine.”
Sadie chewed the inside of her cheek, her fingers tightening slightly around the stack of papers in her lap. She glanced down at them before looking back up at him. “Are you offering this because you ‘owe’ me for running lines with you?”
He shrugged. “That, and because this is actually good. You did the work. You know your stuff. It would be wildly irresponsible of me not to help you get in the right room.”
She narrowed her eyes. “So what’s the catch? You want a cut? Equity? My firstborn?”
He laughed. “Sadie. I don’t know if you’re aware, but I’m offensively rich. I do not need your money, your company, or your hypothetical children.”
“Okay,” she said slowly. Then, more confidently, “Okay. Yeah. That would be… really great. But if they’re serious, I’m doing a full pitch. No half measures.”
“Deal,” Quentin said, already grinning. “I’ll make the call tomorrow.”
Her eyes went wide. “Tomorrow? Oh my god. I need to redo my pitch binders. Update my deck. Reprint the market analysis. Panic. Cry a little. Then panic again.”
He laughed. “You’re gonna crush it.”
She looked at him, eyes bright and slightly unhinged in that special pre-spiral way. “Thank you. Truly. If this works, I will name a shade after you.”
He raised a brow. “I already have the perfect name. Obscenely Handsome.”
She snorted, then smiled at him, soft and real and completely disarming.
The smile hit him square in the chest. The kind that made everything slow down half a beat.
It was radiant. Traffic-rerouting. Name-forgetting.
Quentin felt warmth bloom behind his ribs, steady and unexpected, like someone had lit a candle where his cynicism usually lived.
He’d always liked helping people. It was easy.
But helping her? That felt dangerously right.
She flipped open her script, all business again, but with a grin that said she was riding the adrenaline. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s practice your lines. I need to earn that meeting.”
They barely made it two pages before things went completely off the rails.
Somewhere between a tragic monologue and a brooding stare, Quentin slipped into a wildly incorrect accent that sounded vaguely European and deeply offensive to several countries. Sadie lost it. Full snort. Had to bend forward laughing, clutching the script like it had personally betrayed her.
“Absolutely not,” she said, wheezing. “That man is not allowed near a stage.”
“I was experimenting,” he defended. “You stifled my process.”
They tried again. This time, during an emotionally devastating confession, Sadie silently mouthed the words along with him, complete with exaggerated eyebrow acting and silent sobs. Quentin caught it mid-sentence and broke, laughing so hard he had to put his head in his hands.
Time blurred into a mess of bad accents, dramatic flailing, mock-crying, and eye contact that lingered just long enough to feel not accidental. By the time Quentin checked the clock, it was after ten, and the idea of leaving hadn’t even crossed his mind.
“I’ll be right back,” he said, stretching. “Bathroom break before my Tony-worthy performance.”
When he returned, he stopped short. Sadie was curled up on the couch, one arm slung over the back cushion, the other tucked under her cheek, completely out cold. Her script was abandoned on the floor.
Her face was softer in sleep, her long lashes casting shadows against her cheeks. Her lips were parted just enough to drive him insane. Plush, pink, and utterly kissable in the golden spill of the lamp light.
Quentin let out a breath through his nose, rough and uneven, then dragged a hand down his face.
“Focus,” he muttered. “You’re not a creep. You’re a professional. With boundaries. And morals…” His gaze dropped to her mouth again. “Christ, that mouth.”
He turned away, like distance could fix it, like five feet might dull the ache in his chest or the heat creeping low in his stomach. It didn’t.
He grabbed the throw blanket and gently draped it over her shoulders. She shifted, letting out a soft little sound that was half sigh, half hum, and something in his soul fully caved.
He should leave. Slip on his boots and walk out the door. Head back to his sad, empty cabin. Instead, he sat down on the edge of the couch. Just for a second. Just until he got his willpower together.
The room was warm. She smelled faintly sweet and distracting. His limbs felt heavy, his thoughts slowing, the fight draining out of him. Moments later, his eyes slipped shut. And just like that, he drifted off beside her.