Chapter 23
Teagan
“Whoa,” I mumble as I step foot into Quentin’s house and a bolt of shock rolls through me.
I knew he was a professional athlete, which meant he most likely had a decent amount of money, but I didn’t expect his house to be this nice.
Not only is his home located in a gated community, and yes, based on what I can see, the interior is just as luxurious, there’s a sign of life here that hits you as soon as you walk in the door.
It’s not spotless or without anything out of place. There’s folded laundry on the living room table. A few drying dishes sit on the counter. Photos of Olivia are hanging on the walls.
“Do you want to see the house or is this the only spot you plan to stay in?” he pipes up from beside me, shaking me out of my inner thoughts.
“I was merely taking it all in,” I tell him, eyes still drifting off to all the little quirks I can see.
It makes me feel at home, if that makes sense, knowing he’s human and leaves things laying around.
The entire ride over I was stressed that it was going to be one of those homes you’re afraid to touch anything in.
Except it’s the complete opposite from what I can see so far.
“We can hold off on a tour. Do you want to rest? It’s been quite the day,” he offers, reminding me of the dull headache I’ve been having since we left the doctor’s office.
“Rest would be great,” I say as I begin to follow him up the stairs. “Plus, it’ll be more fun to snoop around when you’re not here.”
“Such a brat.” He tsks as his shoulders shake with a laugh.
“May as well get used to it.”
Quentin looks at me over his shoulder, and God, why did he need to have the prettiest eyes? No, focus.
“Maybe I like it.” He tosses the words out casually.
“Platonic, remember?” I remind him as we reach the top of the staircase.
“That’s why I said maybe,” he fires back, making me chuckle quietly.
Quentin leads me down a hallway, pointing to a room on his right. “This here is my room.”
“I thought you were showing me mine…”
“I just wanted to show you in case you ever need to find me,” he explains, and we continue down the hall. I don’t plan on ever needing to find him, but I suppose it can’t hurt to know.
He opens a door to his left and waves me forward.
“There’s not much in here, but this is going to be Blueberry’s room.”
I glance around the room, noting the fresh smell of paint.
The walls are white, with swatches of different colours on the wall.
There’s a white dresser and matching crib, similar to the one I had at my place.
My eyes linger there for a beat at the reminder that I lost everything today. God, what a fucking day.
I’m about to turn around to face him when my eye catches on a stuffy sitting in a rocking chair, shaped like a blueberry with a smile on it.
My belly does this weird twisty thing again, making my hands instantly cradle my tiny belly.
Quentin’s in front of me in seconds, panic in his eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I smile. “My belly felt weird for a second. I’m probably just hungry.”
He mutters something in French as he runs his fingers through his hair. “I’m so sorry. We planned to get lunch and then all that happened. What would you like?”
“I can order something in. It’s no big deal.”
“Ordering food in a gated community is actually a pain in the ass,” he points out, then adds, “Let me cook for you.”
“I can cook for myself. I’m pretty good at it.” I cross my arms over my chest, not wanting to impose more than I already am.
Truthfully, though, my mouth is watering at the idea of him cooking for me again because this man knows his way around a kitchen.
“Sorry if that sounded like a question. I will be cooking for you while you rest, so what would you like?”
My body instantly heats at his bossy tone, liking it far too much for a girl who hates being told what to do. And who will tell someone to fuck off if they try.
“Whatever you cook the best,” I say as I rush past him, desperate to get out of the room that was starting to feel smaller than before.
We make our way down the hall to the room next to the nursery, and he opens it with a groan. “I’m sorry there’s not much in here. I don’t ever have guests, so…”
“There’s a bed. That’s all I need. All my stuff is burned, so I don’t have anything anyways.” I try to make it sound like a joke, but it only sounds pathetic.
Quentin types something on his phone, then stuffs it back in his pocket. “I’ll grab you some of my clothes to wear. The bathroom cupboard is stocked with girl products if you want to shower.”
“I thought you’d never had guests?” The question flies out of my mouth before I can stop it, because I know he can tell that it’s laced with jealousy.
He smirks knowingly, leaning against the doorframe. “I haven’t. It’s from Camille, who insists that I should have it here in case she or Olivia ever need to spend the night.”
“Good thing, I guess,” I reply as I sit on the bed and instantly want to melt into the mattress. I don’t think I’ve ever lain on something so comfortable.
“I’ll leave you be while I cook. Feel free to do whatever you want and call for me if you need something. Before I go down to cook, though, I’ll drop off some clean clothes for you to wear.”
“Thank you…for all of this.” I clear my throat of the emotion that’s threatening to spill out for the second time today.
“Not a problem. It’ll be nice to have some company for a while,” he admits, then straightens and exits the room without another word.
I go straight to the shower, feeling like I need to wash the weight of the day away the best that I can.
It works marginally, as stepping out of a hot shower does make me feel slightly better, but it doesn’t erase the stress of the day.
The shower stuff and skincare products are okay for now, but I’ll need to hit a drugstore as soon as possible to get the products I usually use.
Along with an entire new wardrobe, shoes, bras…
Throb. Throb. Throb.
My head pounds as my list of things to do on top of baby stuff piles up. I do my best to push it aside and focus on feeling better right now, which means going downstairs to eat whatever he’s cooking.
As Quentin promised, there is a stack of clothes on the bed waiting for me. I hold the sweatpants up and frown because they aren’t going to fit.
I put them on anyways, tying them as tight as I possibly can. Once I throw the Detroit Panthers long-sleeve shirt on, I make my way downstairs.
A delicious scent wafts into the room as I plug my phone into the charger, grateful that I always carry it in my purse. I follow the scent down the hall and stairs, to the stunning kitchen.
Black cupboards, with gray marble countertops and backsplash to match, and two ovens stacked on top of one another, which tells me he cooks a lot.
“It smells delicious. What are you making?” I ask, signaling my presence in the room.
“I’m making chicken in a creamy mushroom sauce, with a side of rice.”
“That sounds delicious. Is there anything I can do to help?” I ask as I come up to the counter, my mouth watering at the sight of the meal he’s cooking. It looks amazing.
He peers down at me and tilts his head toward the living room. “You can sit down and rest. It’ll help me relax knowing you’re resting.”
I roll my eyes. “Not dying, remember? But I will go sit down only because I have a headache.”
“Feel free to put whatever on the TV or music,” Quentin calls out as I plop down on his couch that I already know is going to be perfect to nap on.
“Only if you’re ready for screamy music.” I chuckle as I settle in and grab the remote to turn the TV on.
There’s something about listening to music that’s loud and angry. It makes me feel seen because that’s how I felt growing up.
“This is going to be your home for the next couple of months, Teagan. I want you to be comfortable. If that means I listen to people scream as they sing sometimes, then I’m okay with that.”
Usually, people tell me to turn that crap off, or why the heck do you like this? This response is a new one, though, and it fills me with a strong sense of joy to be accepted for who I am.
“I’ll have to indulge you another time. My head won’t be a fan of that right now. Reality TV it is,” I say as I find my show, Singles in Saint Lucia. Since it’s one of my guilty pleasures, reveling in the lives of people and their drama, it’s already helping me relax
A few minutes into the show, Quentin places a plate of food on the center table, along with a glass of water.
“I could’ve gotten it myself,” I say as I sit up and slide across the couch to the table.
“And I could bring it. It’s no big deal,” he replies as he walks back into the kitchen, and the sound of a plate being taken out of the cupboard tells me he’s getting his own dinner ready.
I don’t why I do it, but I wait to take my first bite until Quentin sits on the other end of the couch with his plate on the center table.
My mouth bursts with flavor as I take my first bite and an uncontrollable moan hums in my throat.
Quentin raises a brow at me, his fork paused mid-air. “That good, huh?”
“You weren’t lying when you said you spent a lot of time in the kitchen as a teen,” I tease him, wanting to erase my moaning from his mind.
Rich laughter flows from his lips at my teasing, followed by a shrug as he casually says, “I was bored back home in Lorsica. When I didn’t have to check that Camille wasn’t being a menace, doing royal duties, or I wasn’t busy playing baseball, I was in the kitchen, learning from the staff.
It made me feel good to help, and I wanted to learn something that would be useful in case my baseball dreams didn’t work out. ”
Of course he would have an explanation as wholesome as that. I may not know him very well, but what I do know is that he’s an honest and caring person.
“What was it like growing up as a prince?” I ask curiously. “Sorry if I’m prying, but, well, I want to know. It’s not every day you meet a fairy-tale creature.”