I passed it over to himwithout a word, taking his empty plate instead. Seeing him eat something thatwas mostly chocolate and butter withoutworryingabout it felt likemonumental progress.
“Are you sure?” he asked,eyes wide as saucers as he licked chocolate off his lips.
“Positive,” I said. “It’sgood to see you breaking the rules.”
“They’re stupid rules,”Quinn said, tearing a chunk off the second croissant. “Whocaresif I gain fivepounds? I can afford to buy new jeans.”
Not that I was going to sayanything, but I thought he’d fill them out a little better if hedidgain a fewpounds. He was very sweet now, but a little more padding wouldn’t have hurt atall. I liked an arse I could squeeze hard and deep.
Quinn’s arse wasn’tsupposed to be any of my concern, but Ididappreciate it.
“Quite right,” I agreed. “Besides,you don’t see me worrying about it, do you?”
“You’re unfairly beautiful,though,” Quinn said. “All chiseled muscles and stupidly tall and you’ve gotthat permanent sexy smirk. Some of us are working with limited resources.”
Laughter welled up in mychest, and I couldn’t have stopped it escaping me if I’d wanted to. Quinn wasadorable.
And clearly, he thought alot of me. I wasn’t sure I’d earned that, but I’d take it.
“I was a skinny teenager,” Isaid. “And I’m notstupidlytall, thank you. This is avery sensible height. I can, for example, reach the high shelves in yourkitchen.”
“The shelves are also toohigh,” Quinn said. “It’s a badly-designed kitchen.”
“I suppose you’d live in ahobbit hole, given half a chance.”
“If it meant I got to moveto New Zealand and away from all this? Absolutely.”
“Really?” I asked,surprised. Surely, if Quinn wanted this career, Los Angeles was best place hecould be?
Quinn looked down at hissecond empty plate, licking a spot of chocolate off the side of his indexfinger. I tried not to imagine his tongue against my own skin, but it was hardgoing.
Hardbeing theoperative word. I’d done a very good job of ignoring my cock, but it twitched allover again as I watched Quinn lave his finger, eyes half-closed like he washaving the time of his life, and my brain wasn’t having any trouble replacinghis finger with other, more exciting parts.
I shouldn’t have beenthinking about that. Quinn hadn’t brought it up, so I assumed we were ignoringlast night and hoping it’d go away.
“Those lyrics that leakedyesterday,” Quinn began, picking a flake of pastry off his plate. I had half amind to go and get him another one, but I suspected this conversation wastaking a serious turn. “Those were… I wrote that song myself.”
“Right,” I said. I’d neverassumed otherwise, and I wasn’t sure why he thought I had.
“No, I mean…” he sighed,glancing out the window for a moment before turning his attention to the topbutton of my Henley. “It was theonlyone I’d writtenmyself. On this album. I’ve never, umm… there’s never been any song I wrote myselfon one before.”
“Oh.”
I frowned. I did vaguelyknow that a lot of pop stars didn’t write their own lyrics, but for whatever reason,I’d assumed Quinn did.
“I fought so hard to beallowed to record it,” he continued, looking up at me. “And now they’re takingit away from me.”
The conversation last nighthad been about something like that, hadn’t it? I’d been focused onVincent’s tone, on whether or not Quinn was more upset than was acceptable, sothe contents had escaped me. But I remembered something along those lines.
“I’m sorry.”
What else was there to say?This clearly meant a lot to him.
Another pang of guilt hit mesquare in the stomach. Was this my fault? When had the notebook gone missing?
I was really gone, too, notjust photographed without his knowledge. Quinn hadn’t been able to find itanywhere. He hadn’t had backups, either. The blow was more devastating, Ithought, than he was letting on.
I’d seen Quinn in tears, I’dwatched him pass out, but I’d still come to the conclusion that he was made ofstronger stuff than most people. I wouldn’t have traded jobs with him.
