“How did he do that to your curls?” Kai puzzles.
“What do you mean?”
“They’re…” Kai makes a twirling motion with his finger. “Not as, like, springy? I’m confused.”
You laugh, charmed by your boyfriend’s ignorance of hairstyles more complicated than his (admittedly very sharp) buzzcut. “He had to straighten it completely first, and then curl it this way.”
“Oh-h-h.” He looks like you just explained a great mystery of the universe. “Your outfit is very shiny.”
You stay up, and give him a little spin. “You like?”
Prada made your suit, which is a periwinkle silk organza that goes either gray or lilac depending on which way you shift. The blouse underneath is see-through and closer to lavender. You’ve got a true purple crepe de chine scarf looped around your neck, and fastened with a diamond-and-amethyst brooch worth a king’s ransom. Your team accessorized you with coordinating precious stones in your earrings and a number of gold and platinum stacking rings.
“It’s colorful,” he says thoughtfully. “I like the scarf. I think I’d have fun swishing that around.”
“I can ask them to give you one,” you tease him, going up on tiptoes for a kiss. “Maybe you could use it to accessorize your uni in the big game next week.”
“Eh. The Association has a bug up its ass about uniform standards,” he murmurs against your lips. “Gonna have to bea private-time kinda thing.” His lips taste like oregano and garlic. It’s kind of gross, but you’re smiling anyway. By his side, forgotten, the tinny sounds of low-stakes football blare through his phone’s speaker.
One of the stylists, a tall, serious redhead, comes storming into the room carrying black fabric over his arm, and just as quickly backs out when he sees you two smooching. “So sorry!”
“No, it’s okay,” you call, pushing away. “Nothing to see here. Come in.”
Looking flustered, he peeks back through the doorway. “We really need to get your jacket on and finish getting you ready, Mister Reinhart.” From the note of irritation lacing his voice, you get the impression that this isn’t the first time he’s uttered this statement.
Lightly, you smack Kai’s chest. “Stop giving everyone a hard time.”
“Not trying to give anyone a hard time,” he whines endearingly. But he obligingly clicks his phone off and stuffs the entire stub of his sandwich into his mouth in a way that, if you didn’t have an intimate knowledge of just how much he could fit in there at one time, would be disgusting and astounding. At least he has the decency to cover his mouth with one hand while he’s chewing. He holds up his finger at the stylist:just a minute.
You roll your eyes.
Kai’s brief foray into acting like a stupid teenage boy ends when you finally lay eyes on him in his complete outfit. He’s looking down, adjusting the fastener on a large golden watch. Two members of the style staff circle his big frame like fairygodmothers, swiping invisible dust and straightening seams. He looks up when you come out of the bedroom.
“Wow,” you say.
Trust your team to take Kai’s gripe about plain monkey suits and flip the idea upside down. His black suit is slouchy, which, on someone less statuesque, might look ill-tailored. Instead, it somehow accentuates his broad shoulders and clings to his thick thighs and arms in the best places. They didn’t give him a shirt to wear under the jacket, meaning that his wide, muscled chest is exposed in the deep vee above the buttons, just above his navel.Did someone oil him up?You wouldn’t put it past this crew to be helpless to resist a reference to his viral Kefi commercial.
“Necklace or no necklace, Mister Grayson?” Lydie, the lead stylist, asks. “We keep going back and forth.”
“It’s up to Kai, obviously,” you answer, “but I think a necklace would distract. The skin is what’s beautiful. No need to pull focus.”
“Aww, c’mon,” Kai grumbles, rolling his eyes. “Objectify me s’more, why don’t you?”
It would be too cheesy, and he’s already feeling awkward, so you don’t tell him what you are really thinking, which is that they’ve made him look like the star that he is. Wardrobe styling is a kind of magic, you’ve learned; clothes can send a message. No matter what he says, Kai isn’t just arm candy. He’s a main attraction.
“Yoo-hoo, Train! Over here, Train!” You affect a reporter’s put-on, overly-familiar chirp. “Who are you wearing, Mister The Train?”
Smirking like the cat that ate the canary, Kai pivots and cocks his hip, affecting a starlet’s pose.
“This old thing?” he coos. “Custom Dolce and Gabbana. Don’t drooltoomuch now, y’all; you’ll make my boyfriend jealous.”
It’s a joke, but you surge forward to kiss him again all the same. The stylists scatter like birds.
***
Eight hours later, accepting your sixth award of the night for “Golden,” a clean sweep, you’re on stage cradling your trophy for Album of the Year, the night’s biggest award, and you’re speechless. The whole auditorium is on their feet. You don’t have to peer hard into the crowd; just the second row, where Zhavia, Graham, and your whole team are whistling and cheering. You realize that, while you thought of a few acceptance speeches—you didn’t dare to be optimistic, but you aren’tfoolish—you didn’t come up with the biggie. The one momentous enough for the occasion.
Under the hot glare of the lights, you scratch absently at your hairline.
