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He’s irresistibly awkward and finally pauses long enough to see he’s demolished the avocado. He adds the onions and peppers and cilantro and stirs.

Because it doesn’t look like he knows what to say, I remind him. “The text from Mr. Ito that said, ‘Can we meet someplace private and discuss a 10k donation.’ I didn’t want Van to know, because it felt so … fishy.”

“Right, so you asked me to the bar, which I thought was the private place.”

That moment flashes by in glaring clarity.

“Carlos, what do you make of this text?” and I’d handed him my phone.

He’d read it and looked at me with confusion. “I … well—”

“This is a guy I met at a charity ball. Tall Japanese fucker. I reached out with his business card earlier today. But this … meeting in private—does that seem unsavory to you?”

And Carlos had squirmed. Not because he was sweet, not because this was vulgar. But because I’d been talking about him and he had no idea how to proceed.

Kind of like just now. Carlos shakes a little as he spoons the guacamole into a serving bowl. “It put me in an … interesting position. I haven’t had a lot of luck with, well, I never had a sense of … how to get close to people before. And now with the, you know, money it’s just—”

He puts the spoon down and flattens his palms on the counter and admits bluntly. “My last boyfriend dumped me after I paid off his college debts and bought him a car, so I have … no idea how to trust people normally anymore.”

Carlos flexes his fingers on the granite as if he’s drawing the strength to meet my gaze. When he does, he’s terrified. Deeply aware he’s fucked up, but still hopeful. “But with you … I had the chance to … I mean, I could get to know you as Carlos, just some raggedy stagehand.”

He shifts away from the counter as if the memory requires him to give me distance. “But then … you guys needed … such a small investment. And I thought the game would be over once you got to the apartment. I thought you’d bring Van. Or you’d recognize me, and it would be a funny little joke. A misunderstanding and I’d donate the rest of the money right there, and you’d go home, and we’d all be friends still. But then … that text you sent back.”

If I’d been the sort to feel shame, I might have blushed. “Yeah. I basically gave you an erotic menu. What did I say?”

I lean on my arm to see if he remembers.

He swallows hard and recites, “You said: ‘I love role play, light bondage, blindfolding, hate water-sports, pet-play, whipping. Happy to top or bottom or just give head. Surprise me.’”

Yeah, that was it, all right.

On my way here, I’d pored over it, regretting every lousy choice in my life. Now the whole thing seems infinitely amusing. I’m not letting on yet, though. I can play his games, too. I’ll never get him quite as good as he’s got me, but I’ll spend the rest of my life trying.

“I mean, I know I…” A delightful blush covers not just Carlos’ cheeks but his neck and ears. “I should have told you sooner when you and Carlos … I mean, when we started getting closer, but … I was terrified I’d lose you.”

He looks up. “Have I lost you?”

He certainly has not, but I want to make him squirm for a little bit longer. “I don’t know.”

Carlos is crushed, and I can’t stand it.

I dip my finger into the guacamole he’s been making. Fucking delicious. “You’re a pretty decent cook and a damned good lay. I think I could forgive a little eccentricity from a crazy, awkward billionaire.”

He smiles with relief, collapsing into pure joy.

I lean closer to him on the counter. “Want to take it again from the top, Sweetness? Try to get it right this time?”

****

Halfway through our third annual summer camp, everyone is exhausted during the morning production meeting.

Scissors draws idly on her iPad, struggling to get the right look of “authentic scribble” and “polished art” for the costume sketches that will be released as promotional material. Faizz and Mercy argue about the talent and the rehearsal time for the choir we want to hire. It’s a bit of showmanship so they can get the one they want.

Joanna is having none of it, and the music-men are only saved from a verbal bitch-slap because our intern, with the timing of a god, brings coffee. She’s in her last year of college, under-paid—though she has no idea—and is right on track to become Joanna’s mini-me.

Carlos dozes off on my arm and only stirs when I reach for our drinks. He blinks to reorient himself, then takes his tea. He’s been working too much. Staying late at his company—new product launch soon. Coming in early at the theater before the kids to smooth out some of their sloppy, but functional work.

“We’ll talk about the choir later.” Van tables it and turns to Carlos. “How’s those practicals coming?”