So Close, and still so far

Chapter 11: Iain

What the fuck just happened?

I was so close to kissing her, I almost blanch at the thought of it. 

God damn it, Hargreave!

My subconscious gives me a kick straight for the groin.  What the hell were you thinking?  You nearly molested a minor!  What the fuck is wrong with you?

It started out all innocent.  She looked like she was enjoying listening to me play, so I decided to go along with it, despite the warning bells ringing in my head. 

It was all part of the music appreciation thing.  My grandfather did this exercise with me so I wouldn't be bored playing something that didn't have any meaning to me. 

I even taught it to Becky once and so far, I'm glad at the progress she's made with her piano lessons.  Why in God's name do I even want to make Quinn care about the stuff I like?  I don't even want to know why it seemed so important at the time to make her catch a glimpse of my own private bubble.  You really got it bad, I almost roll my eyes at the thought that out of all the women I could have taken my pick from, the one who's gotten under my skin; the only woman I want is too young and inexperienced for her own good.

I've done my research on her.  I know it sounds creepy, but it pays off in the corporate world. 

My family does countless of background checks on potential girlfriends for me and wives of my dad, so this wasn't new. 

I already knew about her history with that Mohawk punk; that they've had a baby together and that Beth was adopted by some woman who was a teacher at McKinley named Shelby Corcoran who also happens to be Rachel Berry's biological mother.  I wasn't going to destroy her life like that other moron did. 

Looking at how vulnerable she is now, with her mouth quivering and her blush reaching across her soft delicate cheeks and tears welling up her eyes I feel like a cross between a lecher and an idiot. 

I run my hands through my hair caught between laughing in frustration and groaning in agony because I don't know which is worse, wanting to kiss her or feeling guilty for not kissing her when she looks so forlorn from rejection.

"You're hungry." I find myself frowning as I murmur that thought aloud.  "You need to eat."

It's a lot easier keeping this distance, I turn my heel and saunter off the kitchen leaving her.  I ignore gut wrenching sensation when I catch her hastily wiping a lone tear from her face because I feel lower than a snake for doing this to her.

She doesn't need this in her life, I tell myself as I silently prepare the table while she sits at one end looking like a pale ghost of a vibrant girl who had just voiced out the same sentiments I felt about the song I played earlier.  In fact, she described it better than me, I remarked bitterly. 

I talk aimlessly about how my day went, keeping in line of the conversation pulling her out of her sullen mood.

I chuckle at the memory of Mrs. Taylor, our longtime housekeepe, and her painstakingly patient efforts to teach me how to cook when I started living on my own after I dropped from Harvard.  For the past six years or so, I've been living on my own and can whip up a decent meal with whatever leftovers I could use without having to go out to buy food from a convenience store or dine out.

So far the salad I've prepared isn't half as bad as I thought it would be and that the Moussakas mixed with minced lamb were just as good as how Mrs. Taylor made it. 

I mentally pat myself at the back that I've managed to cook a rather decent dinner despite my limited audience. The only person I've been cooking for had only been just one person. You guessed it, me.