Chapter 19 Quentin #2
He found himself rooted in the doorway, the air thick and humid, steam curling into the room.
She was sprawled in the tub, bare and wet and glistening like a fucking vision.
Skin flushed, nipples hard from the heat, her thighs spread wide under the water.
Her head tipped back against the edge of the tub, hair damp and clinging to her neck, lips parted as she whispered his name again, soft and wrecked.
Somehow, he was kneeling beside the tub, close enough to feel the heat of the water against his skin. Close enough to see every flutter of her eyes, every hitch of her breath. He didn’t touch her. He just leaned in, mouth near her ear, and started talking.
He told her everything. Exactly what he wanted to do. How he dreamed about fucking her with his mouth, his fingers. How he wanted her on his tongue.
And she listened. Eyes half-lidded, breath stuttering, her hand never slowing between her legs.
Like his filth fed her. Like she needed it as much as he needed to give it.
Her knees started to tremble. Her spine arched.
And then she came and his name was spilling from her lips like a prayer.
She was the most divine thing he had ever seen.
He had never been so turned on in his life. Not even close. His cock ached, hard and straining against his jeans, just from watching her, just from being in the same room while she dripped with the aftermath of coming to the sound of his voice.
“I think I hurt her,” he said finally, choosing the safest possible sentence. “Not on purpose. But she won’t tell me why.”
Eden stared at him. “Come on.”
“I’m serious.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “She says we met before. Years ago. But I don’t remember it.”
“Wait.” Eden blinked. “She remembers you.”
“Apparently.”
“And you don’t.”
He shook his head. “She said I brushed her off or forgot her. And she won’t tell me when or where. Just keeps looking at me like I’m this… this walking reminder of everything that went wrong.”
Eden squinted. “You’re telling me that someone like Sadie—my gorgeous, terrifyingly cool, no-bullshit sister-in-law—had a run-in with you at some point, and you don’t remember?”
“I know,” he said. “It sounds insane. She’s unforgettable. Believe me, I’ve been trying to figure it out since she first brought it up.”
“Did you black out? Were you drunk? On mushrooms? In character as Mr. America?”
“I wasn’t on anything,” he said. “I’ve gone through every year, every shoot, every event. I would’ve remembered her.”
Quentin exhaled hard and leaned back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling like it might drop answers on his head.
“I mean, what am I supposed to do?” he asked finally.
“Besides groveling at her feet?” Eden said, voice softer now. “You could start by acting like it matters.”
He looked at her, brow furrowed. “It does matter.”
“To you,” she said. “Now. But it mattered to her then. That’s the difference. You showed up late to your own emotional arc.”
“Okay, well, time travel’s not an option,” he muttered. “Unless you’ve got a DeLorean stashed in your tote bag.”
She gave him a flat look. “Do not try to sarcasm your way out of this.”
“I’m not. I’m just—” He let out a frustrated sound. “You don’t get it. Every time I’m around her, I feel like I’m playing a game where she knows the rules and I don’t. And every time I try to fix it, she shuts me out like I’m a mosquito buzzing at her window.”
“Maybe because you are,” Eden said, not unkindly. “But, like… a hot mosquito. With abs.”
He threw a throw pillow at her. She caught it and hugged it to her chest.
“Look,” she went on, “you’ve spent years playing characters. Saying someone else’s words. This is the first time you actually have to show up as you. No script. No stealth suit. Just Quentin.”
He was quiet.
“That scares the hell out of you, doesn’t it?” she added.
He looked at her, eyes tired. “You ever feel like you’re trying to make up for a mistake you don’t remember making?”
She smiled sadly. “Sure. It’s called marriage.”
That coaxed a reluctant laugh from him.
She reached for her tote again, rifling through it. “You need carbs,” she announced. “And emotional clarity. But mostly carbs.”
“You brought snacks?”
“I brought survival gear. You think I came to this sad beach bachelor crypt unprepared?”
She produced a slightly squished croissant, two string cheeses, and a half-melted chocolate bar.
“Choose your fighter.”
He took the croissant. It felt symbolic. It was flaky and fragile. Likely to fall apart under pressure.
Eden pulled her legs up onto the couch, settling in like she wasn’t planning to leave any time soon. “You know what I think you should do?”
“Run into the ocean and let the waves claim me?”
“Tempting,” she said. “But no. I think you should stop trying to figure out what you forgot. And start trying to earn her trust now.”
He stared at the floor. “Even if she never tells me?”
“Especially if she never tells you.”
They sat in silence for a beat, the ocean waves outside doing its dramatic sighing thing again.
Eden nudged him with her foot. “You know, for a guy who once did a shirtless monologue about liberty on a flaming horse, you’re surprisingly bad at emotional vulnerability.”
He winced, because his brain immediately served up the image. Shirtless, oiled, wind machine in full overkill. He had said words, too. Apparently those hadn’t mattered.
“I was wearing chaps.”
“Oh, believe me, I remember.”
Quentin rubbed a hand over his face. “God. What if I already ruined it?”
Eden shrugged. “Then ruin it honestly.”
He gave her a side glance. “You really should write Hallmark cards.”
“I did. Once. Got fired for writing one that said ‘I love you even when you chew like a goat.’”
He snorted. She reached over and poked him in the temple. “You’re not hopeless, Q. Just emotionally constipated.”
“Thanks for the pep talk.”
“Anytime.”
He hesitated, then the truth slipped out while his self-preservation instincts were apparently on break. “I like her.”
His brain immediately panicked, cycling through a dozen better, more articulate versions he could have used instead.
“The croissant?” Eden asked.
He gave her a look. “Sadie.”
Her face froze in mock surprise, hand to chest. “Oh no! The scandal! You like a woman you have undeniable sexual tension with and can’t stop thinking about? Shock. Awe. Headline news.”
He sat up straighter, rubbed a hand along his jaw, then shrugged helplessly. “I like her. Even when she looks at me like she’s planning my murder. Which, to be fair, she probably is.”
“Go on.”
Why did this feel harder than memorizing a twelve-page monologue?
“She’s funny,” he said slowly. “Not like ‘haha, punchline’ funny. She’s clever. Sharp. Like she knows the joke before you do and lets you walk into it anyway.”
Eden smiled, just a little.
“And she’s determined. She doesn’t back down. Not from me, not from anyone. I respect the hell out of her. Even when she’s actively trying to stab me with her makeup brush.”
“Okay, but what’s the real kicker?” Eden asked, her voice gentler now.
Quentin looked down at his hands. Then back up. “She’s beautiful. And not just because she’s got those eyes that could incinerate a man from ten feet away. It’s the way she moves. The way she talks. She’s... luminous. And terrifying. Like an angel who’s also very much done with your bullshit.”
He exhaled. “I don’t even know when it happened. I just looked up one day and realized I was trying to make her laugh like it was a full-time job.”
There was a long beat. Then Eden said, “Well, damn. That might’ve been your most emotionally mature moment to date.”
He gave a crooked smile. “I’m assuming this is my peak.”
“Probably. But at least you did it without a flaming horse this time.”
Eden got up from the couch and stepped toward the kitchen. “You know what that means, right?”
“What?”
“You have to tell her.”
He paled. “You mean with words?”
“No, Quentin. Through interpretive dance. Yes, with words.”
He groaned, flopping back onto the couch. “I was really hoping there was a way to love her from over here. Quietly and safely. Without risk of death by blunt contour stick.”
Eden stuck her head back around the corner, coffee mug in hand, eyes bright.
“Cute idea, but no. Love’s messy. That’s the point.” She disappeared again, footsteps retreating, humming something under her breath.
He stared after her, half-annoyed, half-grateful, her words echoing louder than the crash of the waves outside. If messy was the price of admission, then fine. He’d show up dirty, unprepared, and probably say the wrong thing. But he was done standing on the sidelines of his own damn feelings.