“I missed you.” Not long after the entourage had parted and Hayes had changed out of his suit, we found ourselves on the sofa. Alone.
The heightened energy of his celebrity had dissipated in the absence of those whose job it was to fawn and dote and cater. As exhilarating as the fame aspect could be, there was something appealing about him not having to be “Hayes Campbell, pop star.” Something raw, naked, accessible.
“It’s only been two weeks,” I said.
“For you it’s been two weeks. For me it’s been ten cities.” He reached for my hand then, sliding his fingers between mine. Suggestive.
“Well, if that’s how you’re measuring time—”
“Ten cities… What, thirteen shows? Three hundred fifty thousand screaming girls… who were not you.”
“No. I’ve never been a screaming girl.”
“Well, we’ll have to change that, won’t we?”
God, he was good. The ease with which he slipped in these little lines: seemingly innocuous, but loaded.
The side of his mouth was curling up in that way that I had come to adore. “What are you smiling at, Solène?”
“Nothing,” I laughed.
“I know what you’re thinking.”
“Do you?”
He nodded, his free hand reaching up to finger my hair. I could smell whatever fragrance it was he had put on his skin. Wood and amber and lime. “You’re thinking, ‘God, I could really use some lunch right now.’”
“Yes. Exactly. That’s exactly what I was thinking.”
For a moment he did not speak, and I could hear my heart pounding in my chest as his thumb traced the side of my jaw. So faint I might have imagined it.
“Okay… Let’s go out and get something to eat.”
He’d already crossed the room before I registered what was happening. “Outside?”
“Yeah. There’s a great sushi place not far from here. Do you like sushi? We can walk, it’s such a beautiful day,” he called from the closet.
It dawned on me that, sheltered in the Four Seasons fortress, he was probably not aware of the commotion he had caused on Fifty-seventh Street. “Have you seen what it’s like out there?”
He returned from the bedroom then with a pair of black boots in hand. The infamous boots, I gathered. “What? Are there a lot of fans? All right, so I’ll have Desmond take us over in a car then—”
“It’s not a matter of not walking, it’s… I don’t think you can leave the building.” The idea of trying to get through that throng accompanied by one of the objects of their desire terrified me.
“It’s really that bad?” His eyes searched mine before he made his way over to the window. But the window did not open and there was no way at that angle that he could see the street.
“Well, that’s crap,” he said, tossing the shoes aside. “They followed us over from Rockefeller after the show. Swarming the cars. Complete insanity.” He turned back to me. “I’m sorry…”
“Don’t be.”
“Ireallyhate being locked up in here… All right, so, plan B, then? Room service? Bloody hell, that sounds not romantic at all.”
I laughed at that. “Were you trying to do romantic?”
“I was giving it a shot. Unless…” His eyes widened then. “Come with me.” He grabbed my hand, leading me toward the bedroom. Romantic, indeed.
I followed him into the room, past the bed and a wardrobe trunk markedAUGUST MOON/H. CAMPBELL, and out onto a large terrace. Spread before us was an unobstructed view of Upper Manhattanand Central Park in all her spring glory. A green oasis under a clear blue sky.
“So…” He squeezed my hand. “Lunch? Here?”
