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I can’t fucking sit down. I need to move.
Was this a bad idea? Is it too presumptuous? Am I taking advantage of someone who’s just exploring and doesn’t feel what’s consuming me?
Every second that passes, I’m both relieved he hasn’t shown up and disappointed. I said I’d fuck him. That’s basically what I told him in that damn broom closet. How gentlemanly is that? It’s still a terrible idea for all the reasons I’ve thought it was a terrible idea, but my willpower crumbled. It’s not why I’m here, though. It’s not why I rented the best executive suite they had and tediously set up this room. Not at all. But what if he wants to?
I should be nervous about what to do. I’m not, and it worries me I’m not. I should be going over all my research in my head, so I can make sure I do everything possible to ensure he enjoys it. It’s just… my bold talk and my performance aren’t what I’m worried about screwing up.
This is my chance to give him a real gift, one not made of freaking silicone that needs to be inserted somewhere. This entire evening is my love letter, but I’ve never written one. I can’t be Unleashed Pete tonight. I need to be Perfect Pete. Given that I’m the polar opposite of perfect, terrifies the shit out of me.
Oh, fuck. He’s here.
My drink sloshes over the top of my glass at the soft knock at the door. It’s got to be him. Only Cameron would knock in such an unimposing manner.
Rolling my neck, I clear my throat and shake the sand sensation from my hands. I probably look like I’m having a full-body muscle spasm. I’m a freaking catch alright.
Fake gay. Liar. Filthy talker. Toy inserter. I’m basically a goddamn psychopath.
Fantastic. Not the motivational speech I need right now. Answer the door, Pete.
Exhaling, I pull the lever, scolding myself for not arranging to have a key for him at the desk. I was too preoccupied with all my last-minute errands. Here’s hoping they live up to what he deserves.
It’s him. He actually came, and he’s… He’s wearing a long-sleeved, navy-blue Henley and jeans. Jeans. I look like a fucking idiot.
His curious gaze takes in my crisp black tux. He pauses on the boutonniere pinned to my jacket pocket as though it’s a foreign object.
“Hello,” I greet, but it comes out gruff and choppy when I start speaking before I finish clearing my throat.
“Um…hi.”
Drawing the door back, I hold it open for him and gesture. Eyeing me curiously, he hesitates for a moment, but then steps inside. I wish I knew if the surprise on his face as he takes in the room is indicative of good surprised or bad surprised. The dining table, the music I have playing on the balcony, the champagne bucket—did I go overboard and charter into creepy territory?
Shit. I almost forgot about the flowers. I should have brought them to the door with me.
Moving to the side table, I grab the small bouquet of roses, hating how the cellophane sheath crinkles under my grasp. It makes them seem less exquisite. The blooms knock one of the stupid Meydenbauer Bay Lodge complimentary pens off the table. It lands on the floor. I pinch my eyes shut, knowing I’ll not be able to fight the urge to take it home and place it on my nightstand next to his shirt button.
Be normal, Pete. For one night. For him. Please.
I present him the bouquet by way of practically thrusting it too close to his chin, but he gets a handle on it, gaping at the deep red blooms. When he looks at me, it’s the first time I see that telltale look of confusion—the kind people give me when I do something weird like move table settings around. I knew I’d fuck this up.
“These are for you.”
No shit, Pete. Who else is here?
“What…what is all of this?”
“It’s…your prom. The one you should have had.”
He smells so good. The candlelight from the dining table flickers reflections in his eyes as he stares at me, looking bewildered. Right. Overboard. Definitely went overboard.
Fix this, Pete.
“I can’t change your past,” I explain. “I can only give you new memories and hope they’re better ones.”
Say something, Cam. Anything.
He doesn’t, but after a few agonizing moments, his face softens, and he smiles. Glancing down at his flowers, his smile grows, and I can finally breathe again.
“Are you hungry?” I gesture to the platter of muffins I set up on the table.
