Page 6

There are droves of paparazzi outside the hotel.

It’s like diving with great white sharks in a steel cage, being that close to danger.

Even knowing that they can’t access you, it feels scary.

They snap some shots of the SUV, but the windows are tinted black.

They get essentially nothing as the driver pulls into a gated underground parking garage.

Cal pulls out of the car ahead of you two and leads you both to a service elevator.

It’s remarkably unglamorous, the tile floor scuffed and the fluorescent lights blue-green and headache-inducing.

He has to sweep the hallway before Sterling is allowed to disembark, the second bodyguard—you need to get his name—holding the DOOR OPEN button with one thick thumb.

When Cal is satisfied, he allows Sterling to lead you to a room all the way down and to the left.

There are no other doors around, so it’s obviously a suite.

“Room’s been stocked for you, Mister Grayson,” Cal says briskly. “Levitt and Jordan are going to relieve me at three. You need anything, you just let us know.” He swipes a key card. The door opens a sliver, revealing honeyed, glowy light.

“Thank you, Cal. You both have a good night. I appreciate it. Tell the guys that I’ll be up and moving by ten.”

You nod at Cal and the other guard as you enter the room, unsure about what to add.

The suite has been prepared, as if someone was already settled down for the night and set everything up just so.

It’s massive and gorgeous. The accents are Asian-inspired.

The front door lets you into a sprawling living room appointed in inviting hardwood and cream plaster.

Candles are lit and scattered aesthetically, and there’s soft music playing somewhere.

There’s a kitchen to the right, and an open door to a bedroom to the left.

Big windows reveal a show-off view of the beach, which is dotted with light even at this hour, and the dark, rolling ocean beyond it.

Sterling clears his throat.

“I’m going to take a quick shower,” he tells you. “Dinner should be ready in the kitchen, if you want to set everything out. I won’t be long.”

You nod, feeling out of sorts. Sterling walks through the living room into the bedroom, and closes the door behind him quietly.

Left alone to your own devices, you stifle your quick-stepping heart by crossing the room in the direction of the kitchen.

Part of you wants to poke around. Part of you wants to run for the hills.

But you can do this. You are good at following instructions.

There are several covered dishes on the counter in the kitchen, all arranged carefully in a way that tells you it was room service.

You carry them gingerly to the table by the windows in the living room.

There’s a lot of food. Peering under the cloches reveals cold noodles with veggies in what smells like a spicy peanut sauce, a seitan stir-fry over farro, miso soup with tofu and spring onion, and a dressed salad with cashews, cilantro, cucumber, and red bell peppers.

You try to arrange it all in a presentable manner, remembering every word your mother ever taught you about setting a table.

You are so busy fussing with the cloth napkins and silverware that you barely notice Sterling re-enter the room some time later.

“How’s it look?” he says, by way of greeting. “I didn’t know what you would like. I just had them send up a bunch of stuff.”

“It’s very… green,” you blurt out, immediately regretting what a kid you must sound like.

“I try to avoid dairy when I’m touring, so it’s easiest to just order vegan stuff at that point.

” Sterling smiles, and slides into his seat.

He’s wearing a thin, silky pajama set, with a sleeveless, loose top and flowy pants that look incredibly soft.

His hair is wet. “You’re probably more of a meat- and-potatoes guy.

I’m sorry. I’ll remember for next time.”

That next time zings through you pleasantly. You shake your head.

“Nah, it’s cool. It looks delicious.” You sit down too.

You occupy yourself with deciding what to eat—the fussy little finger foods at the concert were not filling, and, besides, that was hours ago at this point—and have just scooped up a big ladle of the stir-fry onto your plate when Sterling speaks up.

“I’m not going to have sex with you tonight,” he announces abruptly.

There’s nothing in your mouth, but you manage to choke anyway. You take a quick sip of the sparkling water by your plate. Sterling just watches you with an inscrutable expression.

“That’s cool,” you manage to repeat.

“I’m not trying to play head games,” he says. His focus and straightforwardness is a little scary. “I just have a policy of not sleeping casually with people. Especially ones I like.”

You look up and hold his blue-eyed stare for longer than is probably comfortable. His face is intense. Gorgeous, but intense. Like someone with laser beams for eyes in a sci-fi movie, or something.

“You like me?” you ask, finally .

“Yeah, I do.” His tone is like a challenge.

That, you can handle. Sterling might be intense, but you have faced down left and right tackles intimidating enough to make Jesus weep.

“Good,” you say, the food landing on your plate at last. “Because I like you too.”

Sterling only nods and plucks at some of the noodles, but there is a secret smile stealing across his face. “So, we’re okay on that front? The sex thing?”

“I’ll survive,” you say lightly. “I have my right hand and all those slo-mo creeper fan videos of you on the beach in Mallorca in a Speedo last summer. Lo-res. Grainy film. Like, super hot.”

Sterling is the one who sounds like he’s choking this time as he laughs, shocked.

It’s a good sound.

You both eat. The food is tastier than you’d expect, and surprisingly hearty for being what you consider to be rabbit food.

The conversation flows easily, despite the fact that it’s incredibly late and Sterling must be exhausted.

He regales you with a laundry list of all the things that went “wrong” with the night’s performance.

They are “errors” that not even the most eagle-eyed Grayling would notice: flubbed cues missed by half a beat, “ wardrobe malfunctions” that consist of nothing more than a snagged sleeve, and notes that fell ever-so-slightly flat.

Sterling, you discover, is a perfectionist of the highest order.

He tells you how he tries not to nitpick his staff, because he doesn’t want to be a jerk, but how mistakes bother him.

You can’t relate. Your particular type of football is a gross motor exercise. Knocking guys down requires choreography, but not the delicate kind.

“I think the show was incredible,” you venture. “The crowd seemed to think so.”

“The crowd is always amazing,” Sterling says. “I have the best fans in the world.”

You frown at your miso soup. Not because you dislike the taste, which is umami-heavy and a little funky. But more because…

“You don’t have to do that thing,” you say slowly. “We’re cool. I’m not going to judge you.”

“What thing?”

“Sometimes, when we’re talking, it sounds like you’re giving an interview. Like, saying things that people want to hear you say.” You shake your head. “You can keep it real with me.”

A bit of a sad look comes across Sterling’s face. “Sorry. I hear that from people sometimes. That I’m ‘on’ even when I’m not trying to be. But you have to understand, Kai. I don’t get the luxury of keeping it real with very many people. There are too many risks.”

You shrug. “Makes sense. Not trying to push you. We can discuss or not discuss anything you want.”

He reaches across the table. Grabs your fingers. “That’s really sweet. Thank you.”

You push your plate away after just one helping of food, because it’s the middle of the night, and you don’t want to be so full you can’t sleep. Which, by the way, you should probably think about doing. A discreet glance at your watch tells you that it’s almost two.

“Want to come to bed for a little while?” Sterling says.

You blink in surprise. “Uhh. I thought that we weren’t…”

“We’re not.” Sterling shakes his head decisively. “And you’re not sleeping over, because I’m not super comfortable with that, either.”

There should be more there, and you wait for it. But Sterling’s looking at you with that face again, like he’s expecting a challenge. You don’t give him one.

“Okay,” you say simply. You’ll sleep when you’re dead .

“...But,” he says finally, “I thought we could… you know. For just a little bit. I really like kissing you.”

There’s that warmth again. Discouragingly, you feel a fresh stirring in your pants. You will it to subside.

“I like kissing you, too,” you say cautiously.

“Well, then.” He extends his hand. “I think that we might be on the same page.”

The bedroom is stunning. The main focus is the bed, a massive vessel amidst the splendid trappings of luxury, all clad in gray linens.

There are more windows in here, this side facing the high-rises of Miami Beach.

A low lounge against the window has a robe thrown over it.

There’s a display of blooming orchids on one bedside table, and more candles throwing a subtle glow over the space.

Sterling moves like a lion in his silky pajamas. Like he’s perfectly placed in the luxurious setting, a prince in a palace, when he crosses one leg beneath him atop the high mattress. He gestures at you.

“You can take your pants off if you want,” he offers. “I want you to be comfortable. Don’t think any of my clothes would fit you, though.”