Twenty-One
Someone knocks at her apartment door.
A few seconds later, as she’s removing the first batch of chocolate chip cookies—twelve perfect mounds evenly spaced on the baking sheet—she hears it again.
She slides the baking sheet onto the stove, tosses the oven mitts on the counter, and crosses the room. When she peers through the peephole, an all too familiar jolt shoots through her.
“Wes?” Startled by his appearance, she blurts out his first name without meaning to.
He grins, breathtaking and too handsome to be fair. “It’s Wes now, is it?” He holds up a large paper bag. “Can I come in?”
She doesn’t move. “What are you doing here?”
“I have food.”
She crosses her arms over her chest. “That doesn’t answer my question.”
He rolls his eyes. “It’s not a bomb, Rogers.”
“I didn’t think it was, but the fact you jumped immediately to ‘bomb’ makes me suspicious.”
Muttering something under his breath, he reaches into the bag and rummages through the contents. She takes the time to assess him, her gaze roving over the backward Yankees cap covering his blond locks, his unbuttoned peacoat, the dark gray sweater and jeans.
While not anticipating visitors, let alone him, she’s acutely aware she’s wearing a pair of fuzzy slipper socks, her most comfortable sweats with a hole in the knee, and an overlarge bright pink T-shirt with The Wild rue printed across the chest, her curls half falling out of her bun.
“Here.” He holds out a clear plastic box containing a slice of carrot cake. “I got this for you.”
The buttercream frosting looks light and fluffy, and there’s an intricate bright orange fondant carrot with a bold green stem on top. When she looks at him, something like shyness crosses his face, but she’s certain she’s misinterpreting it. Wesley Quinn is not shy, not around her.
“Is this bribery cake?”
He wiggles the container. “I know it’s your favorite.”
She scowls. It is, and he would remember that small fact from so long ago, wouldn’t he?
Silently, she steps aside.
Flashing a pleased smile, he enters her apartment.
As he sets the paper bag on her kitchen table and slides the backpack she just noticed off his shoulders, his gaze tracks over her counter, snagging on the baking ingredients before landing on the chocolate chip cookies cooling on the stove. “You bake?”
She shrugs. “Occasionally. When the mood strikes.”
She loves baking, how it fulfills her need for order, the step-by-step rules without deviation. The systematic approach leaves her little room to think of anything else. She woke this morning thinking about him and how her body reacts to his touch, how she’s come to crave it.
She tries not to think about this now that he’s unexpectedly standing in her kitchen two weeks after his last text.
Doesn’t matter, she tells herself.
“It smells divine in here.” He tugs off his coat and drapes it over the back of a chair before removing his hat, his hair deliciously rumpled. He then proceeds to unload the rest of the items in his paper bag.
“The store was absolutely mobbed, but that’s to be expected today. I snagged some spring rolls.” He holds up the package. “Dumplings, Tostitos, and—oh!” He pulls out another familiar package. “Pizza rolls.”
Still clutching the carrot cake, Charlie rests a hand on top of the pile of other food, and he pauses his enthusiastic reveal.
“Quinn. It’s New Year’s Eve.”
He pulls out a bottle of prosecco. “Got you covered.”
Charlie peers up at him, taking in the symmetrical lines of his face, the sharp edge of his jaw, the softness in his gaze when he looks at her. Her heart beats in an erratic rhythm.
“Why are you here?”
“I came back early.” He places the prosecco next to the frozen food. “And, as you astutely pointed out, it’s New Year’s Eve, and I knew you were alone.” He shrugs. “I figured we could be alone together.”
Her chest fills with warmth, and for a heart-stopping moment, she thinks, He’s gorgeous.
She wants to press her face against the exposed skin at the base of his throat, wants to peel off his clothes, press her mouth to his pulse, run her fingers over the ridges of his stomach, trace the lines with her lips.
It’s dangerous and thrilling, but she turns her gaze to the bottle of prosecco, trying to steady her racing heart.
“Did you have a good Christmas?” she asks.
A shadow crosses his face while he fiddles with the boxes on the table. “It was fine. How was yours?”
She watches him, but he gives nothing else away. “Good. Relaxing.”
“Good.”
She rolls her eyes. “I suppose you can stay. You did bring me my favorite dessert, after all.”
He beams, his melancholy vanishing.
Returning to the stove, Charlie slides the cooling cookies onto the waiting wire rack. “I have to put in another batch.” When she turns for the mixing bowl, she catches him dipping a finger into the batter.
“Quinn!” she half laughs, half shrieks.
Popping his finger in his mouth, he dodges her attempt to swat his hand, and she watches his tongue drag along his bottom lip.
“Tastes good,” he says.
Her cheeks heat. “Wait until those cool.” She points to the ones next to the stove. “There’s raw egg in there.”
“Please. As if that ever stopped anyone from licking the bowl.”
Charlie, holding back a grin, scoops another dozen dough balls onto the baking sheet. Wes slides onto one of the barstools, observing her. She arches a brow, feeling much more at ease than she did five minutes ago.
“Yes?” she says.
Leaning his elbows on the counter, he props his chin on his fists in a pose of childlike innocence. “Aren’t you going to tell me how the sex fair is going?”
She laughs, and his smirk transforms into a grin.
The semester finished in a flurry of final exams and papers, and Charlie woke on the first day of break feeling like she could take on every man in Congress who believed they could tell women what to do with their bodies.
This was in large part due to the fact that she’d finally booked a space for the expo—Warren Park, a lush location with an expansive lawn only a mile away from campus that frequently hosted summer concerts.
Betsy Jacobs would be the headliner, and Charlie had booked two more comedians as well.
Carolyn had booked a drag queen—Cleo Torres—as the MC for the raffle and silent auction, and Diana had finalized the website.
Just before Christmas, Carolyn soft-launched her marketing campaign on social media, and she plans to ramp it up after tickets go on sale January first.
Tomorrow.
Thinking of this sends a flutter of anticipatory nerves through Charlie’s stomach.
Vibes Come First agreed to set up a booth selling and showcasing their products, and one of their founders was scheduled to appear on a panel discussing vibrators and sex toys and how to pick the right ones. Theo would do a live recording of his podcast, complete with a meet-and-greet.
“As long as Victoria agrees to do it with me,” he said when Charlie called him a few days ago, sounds of the beach in the background.
While there was plenty more to do, the progress she’d made in two weeks was tremendously gratifying.
In between planning, she and Syeda binged old sitcoms from the early aughts, rewatched the entire fifth season of Love Island UK, and ordered all their favorite takeout.
Yesterday, however, Bri called. Sy looked up from her carton of biryani, panic flashing across her face. She’d seemed to be coping well enough, but Charlie suspected it was largely a front.
“What do I do?” she whispered, as if Bri was in the room with them.
“Do you want to talk to her?” Charlie asked.
Sy hesitated. “I mean…kind of.”
“Go on.” Charlie gave her a reassuring nod. “I’ll be here when you’re done.”
She disappeared into her room, and when she reappeared thirty minutes later, a small, cautious smile graced Sy’s lips.
“She came out to her parents,” she announced. “And she wants me to visit for New Year’s.”
“That’s wonderful!” Charlie threw her arms around her friend. “What are you going to do?”
She bit her lip. “I want to go, but I don’t want to leave you alone.”
Charlie immediately waved her off. “Syeda. Please go if you want to go. I will be mad at you if you don’t because you think I need you here.”
Sy pretended to be offended, but Charlie could see the relief and excitement pouring off of her. “You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
Now Wes hovers behind Charlie while she washes the dishes, listening to the list of things she’s accomplished like it’s the most fascinating story. Music from an artist they discovered they both like pumps softly from her portable Bluetooth speaker on the kitchen table.
“There’s this online birth control company that delivers anywhere in the US, and I’m meeting with one of their reps next week.
I’d love it if they set up a table or spoke on a panel.
” She removes her third and final batch of cookies from the oven before shutting it off.
Wes snatches one of the cool ones, shoving half of it in his mouth.
She smiles, rolling her eyes at his boyish grin before returning her attention to the dishes.
“We also need a way to feed people, like a food truck or something, but Carolyn says she has it handled.”
“When is it?” As he reaches for a paper towel, Wes’s arm brushes hers, her skin fizzing at the brief contact.
“April eleven.”
He tenses, his expression pained. “I take the LSAT that day.”
Inexplicably, her heart sinks, but she forces her face to remain neutral. She wipes the already spotless countertop with a towel, annoyed by her disappointment.
“That’s okay.” She flashes him a smile he doesn’t return. “It’s not required for the Peer Advocacy group.”
He frowns.
“It’s fine, Quinn,” she says, pausing her cleaning. “It’s not your event.”
“But I want to be there.”
“The LSAT is more important.”
“Rogers.” He eyes her with reproach. “Come on. I would argue it’s not.”
“It’s fine. Okay? Don’t worry about it.”
He doesn’t look convinced.