Which I’m not.
At least.
I don’t think I am.
No, I know I’m not. I’ve always been attracted to men. I’ve dated men. Not only PR relationships, but real ones. I may have let fans believe that certain songs were about one celebrity or another when they were really about someone or something else, but that doesn’t mean I’ve only been pretending to be interested in men for my entire life.
The thing is, though, I can’t stop thinking about kissing that woman. And not only because it may have ruined my life. I haven’t made any kind of public statement yet—my manager and publicist are working on what they want to say—but there’s no way of denying to myself that I liked it. But since that’s the only sexual experience I’ve ever had with a woman, I’m not entirely sure what it means for me.
My brother is gay, and I’ve always been an ally. So the idea that I might be bisexual doesn’t scare me. It’s just confusing. Because I’ve dated plenty of men, and I’ve never been interested in dating a woman before.
I can recognize when a woman is hot, though. So what does that mean?
Groaning, I force myself out of bed and into the bathroom. I need totake a shower and make myself presentable enough to head downstairs to the inn’s dining room, where I’m meeting Andrew for breakfast.
I’ll have plenty of time to contemplate my sexuality while I’m stuck here hiding.
Laying low, I mean.
Andrew’slate,andIshould have expected this. He’s not a morning person. He teaches elementary school, so he needs to get up fairly early during the school year, but as soon as summer break hits, he reverts back to his natural tendencies.
I’ve always been an early riser. One of the many ways in which we’re different. At home in Tennessee, sometimes I’ll find myself waking up before the sunrise. There’s such a sense of peace in taking a cup of tea and my guitar outside and watching the sky change. I do some of my best writing at that time.
Andrew, on the other hand, used to do all his studying late at night. He’s a total academic nerd, whereas I used to daydream my way through school, jotting down song lyrics in my notebooks rather than class notes.
Despite how different we are, though, my brother and I are super close. It’s harder now that we spend most of the time in separate states, but growing up, we were inseparable.
And even though my reasons for being in Mayweather suck, I’m really excited to see him. If he ever gets here.
I order a cup of coffee while I wait for him, and I thank the server when she brings it to me. But she walks away before I realize that I forgot to ask for maple syrup. So as she turns from taking care of the only other occupied table across the dining room, I stick up my hand as politely as possible to get her attention.
My request might be a bit strange, but that’s how I like my coffee. With a tiny amount of cream and a little syrup to sweeten it. I didn’t think it was a big deal until I ask for the syrup and the server looks at me like I have a horn growing out of my head. Then, of course, she quickly rearranges her face into a well-practiced customer service smile and tells me she’ll be right back with it.
Only she doesn’t come back with it. Another woman, older than the server, comes out instead. She gives me a sharply assessing look as she silently sets the glass bottle down on the table.
“Oh, hi,” I say, recognizing her from when I checked in yesterday. “You helped me with my bags yesterday, didn’t you?”
“Yup.”
“Well, um, thank you. I thought you were a concierge. I didn’t realize you were a server.”
Her brown eyes—that weren’t exactly friendly to begin with—darken. “I’m the head chef.”
“Oh! Sorry!” I cringe internally, hoping I haven’t insulted her. “I’ve heard the food is delicious. I’ll probably be eating most of my meals here, so that’s good to know.”
This time she gives me a wry smile, which I guess is better than the glare. “Don’t worry. I’ll try to keep everything up to your five-star standards.”
“Uh... I didn’t...”
I’m at a loss for how to respond, taken aback by the obvious sarcasm. I’m used to people wanting to please me because of my fame, but I don’t normally ask for any special treatment unless it’s for security purposes.
It feels like this woman is being rude to me for no reason, and I’m surprised she’s not worried about me complaining to the owner. Not that I would.
I really appreciate him accommodating me on such short notice and assuring me I’ll be fine to stay in the suite as long as I’d like. And I alreadyhave more than enough bad press as it is. The last thing I need is for word to get out that I’m snobby and demanding to people in hospitality.
The woman taps the top of the syrup bottle with one short but perfectly manicured bare fingernail. “You know, we always bring out syrup when a guest orders something that might need it. But you haven’t ordered your food yet.”
“No, I know. I’m waiting for someone. I actually use the syrup in my coffee,” I explain. Then I let out a nervous giggle that I wish I could take back.
