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“I’m just making him dinner, Dani, really. It’s casual. I swear. Thank you for your concern, but I’ve got this.”

Then I shoo them gently out the door.

But the truth is, I’m already asking myself those same questions.

Because the way I’m feeling whenever I’m in the vicinity of Harlan Vance is anything but casual.

Chapter 18

Harlan

After my shower, I head downstairs and find that Quinn’s friends are gone. And Carlisle tells me that Quinn is preparing food in the chef’s kitchen.

I pause in the kitchen entrance, where Quinn is at the sink, her back to me. She’s the only one in the room, which smells of fresh cilantro.

She’s washing tomatoes, humming to herself. There are onions and bowls on the counter, a bottle of olive oil.

It’s extremely odd, coming home to someone who isn’t employed by me.

It’s never felt so welcoming in here.

I just stand and watch her for a long moment, tying to comprehend this warmth that emanates from her at all times. Drawing me to her.

It’s not just the way she looks, though that’s part of it. It’s the way shefeels.

The way I feel when I’m close enough to sense that warmth.

She’s changed into a little black-and-white checkered dress. Her turquoise hair is up in a loose bun, with pieces falling out.

It bothers me that I couldn’t resist the urge to leave the office early today, and come home after Carlisle informed me that she was here. With guests.

I knew that the surge of jealousy I felt when I heard she was in my pool with people—just women, even—in a bikini, and I wasn’t here, was irrational.

I knew that thinking about her all day while I was at work was unhealthy.

I knew that my compulsion to come home and see her was dangerous, if I indulged it.

But that’s what I did.

That’s what I’m doing.

Watching her, because I can’t fucking stop.

I take a step deeper into the room.

“What’s going on?”

“Oh, hi!” She glances at me over her shoulder. “I’m making us dinner. I hope you don’t mind? I asked Chef Edward if I could. I just wanted to thank you for letting me use your other kitchen. Withoutsayingthank you.” She glances at me again. “You don’t seem to like that.”

I drift closer to the counter where the ingredients are. “What are you making?”

“Chicken tostadas. There’s some chicken breast already cooked, because Ed was going to use it for your dinner, so this will be easy.”

I absorb this, not quite sure how to interpret it.

Not quite sure if I should be jealous. But I am.

She’s calling him Ed.