by Ashlyn Kane
Sure, Steve knew he’d fit in with people. But Drew was still, despite their growing friendship, something of an unknown quantity, and he liked to stand out. “What if he shows up in designer jeans and a sports jacket?” He’d grumbled about having to wear a tuxedo—maybe he’d decide to buck the status quo. What would Drew think if he dressed casually and Steve wore a tux? No matter that it was a very nice tux with pants that flattered his ass and a jacket fitted to show off his broad shoulders. He didn’t want to give Drew the wrong idea.
Whatever that was.
“Send him home to change,” his mother suggested airily.
“Mom!” He switched the camera back. “My hair looks okay?”
“It’s fine, I promise.”
“Should I shave?”
“Do you have time?” she retorted. “Anyway, a little day-old stubble never hurt anyone. Well. Not seriously.”
Oh Lord, he’d opened the door for his mother to make innuendoes. “Mom.”
“I’m more worried about the practical matters. Did you brush your teeth? Are you wearing nice underwear? Remember it’s not safe to keep condoms in your wallet—”
He took a deep breath. “Mom. There’s such a thing as being too supportive.”
She laughed. “Ridiculous.”
The bands of anxiety around his chest eased a little, and he conceded. “You don’t think I’m making a mistake? What with….” He waved his hand, intending to encompass Drew, the date, the movie, his romantic past, hell, Hollywood in general.
“What if you were? Life’s about making mistakes. It’s not about getting everything perfect the first time.”
Easily said by a woman who hadn’t wanted for anything for most of her life. But he wasn’t sure she was wrong either. “I never said I wanted to be perfect.”
“You didn’t have to. I know you. And you like this man. So go on a date with him.”
“I liked the last guy too.”
“Not everyone in Hollywood is a self-absorbed backstabbing opportunist,” his mother reminded him. “But I have to go, baby. You’re not the only one with a date tonight. Have fun, okay? I love you.”
Of course. He could never expect his mother to stay in on a Saturday night. “I love you too. Bye, Mom. Take your own advice.”
“Always, darling. Oh, and if you see Rico tonight, avoid him. I broke up with him and he’s sulking.”
Steve tried to remember which one Rico was—had they met, maybe, one weekend at his mom’s place?—but it eluded him. “Thanks for the tip.”
The call disconnected, and Steve slipped his phone into his jacket pocket. The tailoring held up fine—no weird pulls or lines. You got what you paid for, Steve’s mom always said, and she insisted he pay top dollar.
“I am really going to do this,” he told his reflection.
His reflection looked back, flushed with anticipation. Had he remembered to put on deodorant?
In his pocket, his phone chirped, and he pulled it out to check the message. Be there in five.
Well, at least his panic now had a shelf life. Keys, wallet, phone… time to go downstairs. He locked his apartment, pocketed his key, and got in the elevator.
If this were a movie about his life, the doors sliding closed would have marked the end of act one.
They opened again on Drew Beaumont in a tuxedo, the top three buttons of his shirt undone, bow tie hanging out of his pocket. He was stepping forward as though he were about to enter the elevator but couldn’t now because Steve was in the way.
“Hey.” Drew smiled, showing off his dimple. Steve’s heart tried to skip a beat, but he willed it into submission. “Your neighbor let me in.”
“The perks of fame, huh?”
“Guess so.” He stepped aside to let Steve out of the elevator, giving him an appraising once-over. Make that twice-over. Steve’s cheeks heated. “You look great.”
That felt like a bit much coming from Drew, who looked like he’d just stepped out of the opening scene of a Bond movie. He’d probably spent Steve’s monthly grocery budget on his bouffant.
Oh God. Drew just gave him elevator eyes. While he was stepping out of an elevator. This was totally a date.
Steve found his voice. “Thanks. My mom insisted on the whole shebang.” Shit. Why had he brought her into this? He absolutely did not want to talk about his mother.
“She’s got good taste.” But maybe Drew knew Steve was kicking himself, because he changed the subject. “Come on, we’d better go. I double-parked. Sometimes I hate LA.”
“The traffic sucks,” Steve agreed, following him outside. “That’s why I don’t—”
He stopped.
I don’t know what I expected.
Because honestly, the car couldn’t have been more Drew: a sleek candy-apple-red…. “What is that?” Steve finally asked, stumped.
“This,” Drew said, waving his arm like Vanna White, “is a McLaren 570GT.”
Bullshit, Steve thought. That is a phallic stand-in. Someone might as well have written I have a big penis on the back. It looked even more dickish blocking in two other cars. “Why is it, though?” he said. “This is LA. You’re never going to be able to drive it faster than twenty miles an hour.”
“Well, it wouldn’t make much of an impression if I picked you up on an e-bike.” Drew put his hand at the small of Steve’s back and ushered him forward.
Steve’s central nervous system lit up like the Hollywood Sign. Only muscle memory kept his legs moving forward. “And the bike would have clashed with your tux,” he managed through a suddenly raspy throat.
“See? You understand. The car has to look as good as me.”
They reached the car, and Drew opened the door for Steve and stepped aside to let him enter. Without the searing touch of Drew’s hand at his back, Steve could breathe again. “Suddenly everything makes sense.”
Drew winked as he shut the door.
Steve had mostly recovered by the time Drew slid behind the wheel, but he had heart palpitations all over again as Drew fondled the steering wheel. “So.” He pushed the ignition and the engine purred to life. “I see that you know how to tie a bow tie.”
“This could be a clip-on.” It wasn’t, though; Steve’s mother would kill him.
“Penrose London doesn’t make clip-ons,” Drew said dismissively. “Now, can you help me or not? Leigh always does this for me.” He scrunched up his face in an expression of simultaneous distaste and self-disgust. “That sounded both pathetic and entitled.”
Steve huffed in amusement and tried not to think about what other things Leigh usually did for him. “A combination I’m sure is unique to you.” They turned toward each other in unison, and without overthinking it, Steve reached over and started buttoning Drew’s shirt.
“Hey!” Drew seemed to think about what he was protesting. “I can’t decide if I’m offended at being written off as not special because other people are also pathetic and entitled.”
“Take your time.” Steve reached the final button. His fingers were remarkably steady, even as they accidentally brushed the skin of Drew’s neck. In the close confines of Drew’s ridiculous car, he smelled incredible, warm and fresh and heady at the same time. “I hear it’s fashionable to be late to these things.”
“A fair point. We could….”
Steve tugged Drew’s tie from his pocket and looped it around his neck before crossing one end over the other. When Drew didn’t continue after several seconds’ pause, he looked up. “Could what?”
Drew’s eyes were even darker than usual, his cheeks an unusual pink. Steve was caught for a moment, frozen. Then Drew wet his lips and cleared his throat. “Could get ice cream before we show. You know, since I’m blowing my diet tonight either way.”
Nope. Watching Drew lick an ice cream while trying not to drip any on his own tux sounded like a recipe for wardrobe malfunction. “Pass.” He made the right side of the bow. “I am not explaining ice cream stains to the press.” No one would believe him.
Hell, Steve wouldn’t even blame them.
“Always gotta be the voice of reason.” Drew sounded a little strained as Steve finished tying.
With a frown, Steve tucked a finger down the side of the tie. It didn’t seem like it was constricting, but some people were more sensitive than others. “Too tight?”
Drew cleared his throat again. “No, just a tickle. Sorry. Ready to do this?”
Steve sat back in his seat and blew out a breath. Was he ready to subject his life to the kind of intense scrutiny that came along with associating with a megastar? “Probably not!” He should have thought of that before he let Hilary talk him into acting. “But there’s only one way to find out.”
Drew gunned the engine. “That’s the spirit.”
Chapter Nine
THE valet at the Aquarium of the Pacific opened Steve’s door, which was simultaneously annoying and a relief. On the one hand it meant Drew couldn’t, and on the other it meant he didn’t have to and wouldn’t be dealing with the fallout from the gesture in the press.
Steve whistled as Drew tossed the keys to the valet. The aquarium had rolled out a literal red carpet for the event, though it was understated enough not to need the velvet ropes. At least so far. Cars were starting to line up, though, and a handful of figures in black tie were making their way toward the main entrance. A few scattered paparazzi had perked up when Drew stepped out, and Drew gestured Steve past them, press smile firmly in place. “Sorry in advance,” he said, hoping that would be enough for Steve to brace himself. Before they could take another step, the photographers started yelling:
“Drew! Hey, Drew, who’s your date?”
“Over here, Drew, give us a smile!”
“Drew, where’s Leigh?”
Probably getting hounded in Hawaii, Drew thought. But maybe not. Maybe she’d had the sense to book a very private vacation and the budget to bribe someone to keep it that way.
“Just smile and wave and keep walking,” Drew advised, inclining his head toward Steve. “They’ll figure out who you are eventually, but stopping now is a recipe for hearing questions you don’t want to answer just so they can get a reaction.”
“I remember now why I never wanted to be recognizable,” Steve said around a plastic smile. He looked a little green. “Is that Cooper Miles? Is he performing tonight?”
Drew hoped he wasn’t going to puke. “Only official photographers inside,” he said as a uniformed woman held the door for them. “They’ll send any pictures to Hilary and my publicist for approval before releasing them. We don’t have to tell anyone anything. You can just be my friend Steve.”
“Is that what you want me to be?”
Drew didn’t have time to answer that before they came up to the security booth. He handed over his cell phone and raised his hands for a professional pat-down from a severe-looking security guard. Then he stepped through the metal detector.
“All set, Mr. Beaumont,” she said, and her stony expression transformed for a second as she smiled and returned his cell. “The cocktail reception is in the Great Hall and just outside the Ocean Science Center. Dinner will be served on the front lawn at nine. Have a nice evening.”
“Thanks.”
Steve finished with his pat-down and got his phone back from his own guard, whom Drew was doing his best not to envy. At least he was professional.
“All right,” Steve said, his color returning to normal. “I might actually eat sometime this year.”
“You’ll get your appetite back when you see the spread they put on here.” They followed the flow of people farther into the Great Hall of the Pacific. Pub tables with black satin tablecloths dotted the space, populated with glittering Hollywood elites of all ages. “I hope you had a light lunch.”
“Kind of. I was worried my pants wouldn’t fit. It’s been a while since I wore this.”
Drew wondered about that—most people didn’t just have a tuxedo in their closet. But lots of Hollywood parties had dress codes, and anyone in the biz had a legitimate reason to keep one in their wardrobe. It was probably nothing.
Anyway, it wasn’t like he was going to complain. Steve looked incredible, and if his pants were a little on the tight side, so much the better.
“But you never answered my question.”
Is that what you want me to be?
“You noticed that, huh.” They walked under the blue whale, and Drew took a breath. “To be honest, I don’t know what I want. It’s been a long time since I let myself think about it.”
Steve’s face shuttered, that open, easy quality transforming into something inscrutable.
Wrong answer, Drew thought.
“Oh.”
Shit. They hadn’t been here five minutes, and Drew was already making things awkward. He wondered what kind of Hollywood magic it would take to extract his foot from his mouth. What the hell was wrong with him? “But I’m interested in finding out. So I guess, uh, if you’re agreeable, then for tonight, you’re my costar, and the writer, and also my date. Like a date date. Which you can tell anyone who asks.” And then, in a fit of inspired bravery, he added, “And people who don’t. If you want.”
He bit his lip. He had to be right that Steve wasn’t using him, but that didn’t make believing it enough to date publicly easy.
He only got two more steps before Steve caught his hand. Drew turned his head and their eyes met.
“I’m not going to take out an ad in the paper or anything,” Steve said. They were coming up on the doors to the waterfront, and the lights made his eyes shine and highlighted the color in his cheeks. Drew had the sudden intrusive thought that he looked like he belonged here, in the spotlight, on Drew’s arm. “Let’s see how tonight goes first.”
Drew had a good feeling about it now.
He squeezed Steve’s hand once, then gave it a tug, leading him out the glass doors to the patio.
The waterfront was dressed up with all the glitz and glamor only Hollywood could furnish. White-clad waitstaff with gleaming trays circulated the crowd, delivering hors d’oeuvres and champagne. Even the boats in the marina seemed to have been scrubbed until they shone.
“Wow.”
Drew smiled. “Never been here for a private event before?”
Shaking his head, Steve looked around, taking everything in. “No. Been to a couple fancy Hollywood shindigs in my time, but never here. Nice ambiance.”
“Champagne, sirs?” The waitress offering the tray barely came up to Drew’s elbow.
“I will, yeah. Steve?”
“Sure. Thank you.”
Drew took two glasses, and the waitress wove off through the crowd. Soon enough people would be clamoring for his attention, but for now—“Cheers,” he said. “To our jobs, our movie, and our date.”
Steve touched his glass to Drew’s.
And then, slowly, the crowd swallowed them.
“You can relax a little,” Drew said. “No one’s going to get mad at you if you accidentally bump into them. We’re all here to have a good time.”
Steve looked up, and Drew could see him try to loosen the set of his shoulders in an effort to take up the correct amount of space. “That obvious, huh?”
Drew tapped the side of his nose. “Acting. I am a student of body language.”
If he’d gone with Leigh, they’d have drifted apart and back together a few times over the course of the night—but that wouldn’t have really been a date. With Steve he stayed close, and people noticed.
He was trying to steer them in the direction of more hors d’oeuvres when he literally bumped elbows with someone he recognized, and he stalled Steve with a quick tug and smiled widely. “Well, well. Fancy meeting you here.”
“Drew Beaumont, as I live and breathe. And who’s this?” asked Lorna Prout with a devious twinkle in her eye, no less a gossip queen at seventy-three than she was at twenty, or so Drew had been led to believe. “I’m not sure we’ve met.”
This time Drew didn’t even need to take a fo
rtifying breath. Of its own accord, his hand found the small of Steve’s back and pulled him closer. “Lorna, this is Steve Sopol. My date.”
For his part, Steve never seemed to get starstruck. He shook hands gamely or exchanged nods with a few notorious germophobes, or, as he did now, pulled off a suave knuckle kiss as though he had old Hollywood running through his blood. But it never felt fake or condescending. Steve was a better actor than Drew had given him credit for. “A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Prout.”
“The pleasure is mine, Steven. And call me Lorna, please.”
Or maybe he really was just that good with people. Lorna certainly seemed charmed, more so when Steve procured another glass of champagne for her. She and Drew exchanged anecdotes about dogs, Steve chiming in with his own story about Jarmo, his neighbor’s Akita, who loved his “grandma” so much he dragged his master thirty-seven blocks for a visit.
“And then her mom wasn’t even home,” Steve said, “but the dog wouldn’t leave until she showed up.”
Lorna laughed. “Maybe I should get my son a dog, is that what you’re saying? Then he’ll visit more.”
“Couldn’t hurt!” Steve smiled, then finished his champagne and set the glass on the table. “Excuse me—I’ve got to go powder my nose.”
Drew watched him leave, shaking his head.
“Where did you find him?” Lorna asked, leaning in. “He is charming.”
“My agent’s office, indirectly.” Ironic, considering Drew had fired his publicist for arranging his dates for him, once upon a time. “A happy accident, I think.”
She raised her eyebrows in polite censure. “You think? Young man, if you aren’t sure, I can think of several parties who would be interested. Those shoulders….”
Yes, Drew knew about the shoulders. And the butt. “It’s only our first date,” he protested.
“Ha! Oh, darling. You set the bar high, didn’t you?” She took a sip of her champagne. “What are you going to do for the next one? Fly him to Fiji?”
Drew could think of worse ideas, though that was getting ahead of himself. “We haven’t decided there’s going to be a next one yet. I don’t….” He sighed. I don’t trust my judgment anymore was a lot to lay on someone at a party. “You know how it is.”
