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“If you could excuse us for a moment, please,” he said, smiling with practiced ease. As soon as the waiter stepped away, Max reached under the tablecloth and pried my hand off the edge of the chair. When I tried to pull away, he tightened his grip on my fingers, refusing to let go. “Arlo, talk to me. What’s wrong?”
I took a long slow breath, in through my nose, out through my mouth, setting my hair swaying in the puff of air. “I can’t afford any of this,” I finally admitted, and it worked like a pressure valve, venting off some of the tension. My shoulders eased away from my ears where they’d crept up.
Max chuckled, seemingly relieved this was something he could handle. “Oh, is that all? We’re not going Dutch on the check, Arlo. This is my treat.”
I shook my head sharply, clenching my teeth. I knew what my friend Cass would say, that Max was essentially my sugar daddy and I should just enjoy the ride, but that wasn’t me. This was a kind of excess I didn’t feel comfortable with.
“I’ll pay you back,” I muttered under my breath, hoping nobody could overhear. I could only imagine the stories that would circulate if news of our arrangement got out.
“Please don’t. Hell, I can probably write some of it off as a business expense, since you’re technically an employee, right?” He laughed, trying to lighten the mood, and his thumb was drawing circles over the pulse point at my wrist. He leaned in just a little bit, pleading with me, “I really didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just… wanted everything to be perfect.”
My heart stuttered in its rhythm, softening at this sweet man’s confession. “Perfect would be just the two of us, with no audience, but I know that kind of defeats the purpose of what we agreed to. In order to play your fiancé, we need to be seen.”
He smiled slowly, his eyes taking on a more familiar glint of mischief. “I don’t know about that. I mean, fans love to speculate about what happens behind closed doors, even more than gossiping about what they can see with their own eyes. You want privacy? I can do that.”
Max motioned for the waiter, who quickly made his way back to our table. “We’ll take our meal upstairs,” he said without preamble, and in the same moment, pushed his chair back and tugged me up, our hands still joined.
This time when people watched us leave in a hurry, they were wearing knowing smirks, and I could practically hear their naughty speculation. I laughed in relief as the elevator doors closed behind us, shutting us safely out of sight of prying eyes.
I felt suddenly lighter, freer than I had all day. Until I texted Cass to let him know where I was and that I would be late. He texted back with: Bow-chicka-wow-wow!
And just like that, the pressure was back—except now it seemed concentrated in my pants, pressing tight against my zipper.
10
Max
As the hotel room door closed behind us, Arlo let out an audible sigh, his body practically sagging.
“Better?” I asked, standing as close to him as I dared.
“Much.”
Now that I watched the tension leave his body, I felt like I must’ve been blind not to see it creeping into him. How long had he been stressing out? Since we sat down at the restaurant? The concert? Or even earlier, at the clothing store this afternoon? I’d been so distracted playing the part of fiancé that I forgot I had a co-star.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, inching closer. “That was a lot, wasn’t it.”
Arlo chuckled, running a hand through his hair. “You could say that. Is it always like that?”
“Pretty much,” I said, shrugging. “I don’t even notice it anymore.” But that wasn’t exactly true. I kicked my shoes off, and Arlo followed suit, then he followed me farther into my suite. “You know, I think I’ve just gotten so used to it that it’s embedded in every move I make, you know? Like, I dress a certain way, anticipating that I’ll end up on some gossip website, talking about how I ordered my coffee at the corner café, with one cream and one sugar. And I’ve spent so much time fostering my nice-guy role that I have to hide who I am in the bedroom, even with the dates I take to red-carpet events. I can’t trust anyone not to sell my secrets behind my back.”
“That sounds really lonely,” Arlo said softly, and his words seemed to echo in that hollow cavity inside my chest. Lonely was an understatement. “Well, I promise you don’t have to hide who you are with me. Telling people about you would mean telling them about me, and that’s never going to happen.” As serious as his words were, he bumped me with his hip on the way by, throwing a wink at me, before sliding past to check out the room.
He spun in a circle, looking left and right, up and down. “Wow, check this place out. Swanky.” His tone of voice implied he was teasing, but he also wasn’t wrong. The VIP room was seriously nice by most standards. It was more like an apartment than a hotel room. The entire floor of the hotel was broken into only four suites, each with a bedroom, living room, dining room, small kitchen area, an office, a boardroom, and a massive bathroom with whirlpool tub and a walk-in shower. There was a balcony that extended the entire length of the suite.
Whereas most of the hotel had kept its classic 1920s charm, they had obviously allowed a little more flexibility in the design up here, for its guests who were willing to pay for luxury. The flocked wallpaper was crimson and gold, with thick red drapes, a carpet plush enough to dig your toes into, and a king-size bed decked out with a memory foam mattress (obviously not period accurate).
My eyes followed Arlo as he disappeared into the bathroom. His long, low whistle echoed. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ll be moving into this bathroom for the duration of our time together,” he called. “It’s bigger than my apartment!”
“I assure you, the bed would be more comfortable than sleeping in the bathtub.” Did I mean for that to sound like an invitation to stay? Maybe.
Before I could explore that thought any further, a knock came at the door. I was grateful for the interruption. I opened the door to find a tall man with a room service cart. “Your dinner, sir,” he said. “You didn’t have a chance to order your main courses, so our chef took the liberty to prepare something special for you.”
“Wonderful, thank you, Joseph,” I said, reading his nametag. “Please, just set it up on the balcony.” I stepped aside and gestured for him to enter.
The staff member pushed the cart ahead of him and got to work, laying out place settings, removing cloches, and pouring wine.
“What are these towels made of? Like, angora ballhair or something?” Arlo said, coming out of the bathroom rubbing a towel on his cheek. When he saw the room service staff, he zipped his mouth shut, his cheeks blushing. “Sorry,” he mouthed at me.
