Page 30 of Comfort Read

“Marcelo Navarro, yeah, I know,” Kit says, and then grimaces. Did he learn nothing from that terrible first moment with Sage? “Sorry if that’s creepy, just—I saw your season of Famous Tables? I don’t want to be weird, but it’s cool to be here.” Glancing woefully at his hoodie, he adds, “I didn’t know we were coming until we got here; I promise I wouldn’t have worn this. Oh, and uh, I’m Kit Forrest, and it’s nice to meet you.”

Marcelo offers his hand, and, as they shake, solemnly says, “Thank you, Kit Forrest. I will be googling you at my earliest convenience.” His eyes, twinkling with mischief, belie his serious tone. “I just wanted to meet the man who merited being brought to dinner. I mean, finally! Sage comes here all the time alone, but that’s just good business—he’s never brought a date.”

Kit stares at him, reeling abruptly with the reality of this absurd situation. Marcelo Navarro, a celebrity chef who sees Sage regularly enough to track his dining partners, is standing here chatting with him because he thinks Kit is Sage’s real boyfriend. He doesn’t know the whole thing is fake, and why would he? Sage hasn’t told him; Sage hasn’t told anyone. Sage, just like Kit, is lying to his loved ones, maybe to everyone in his life except for Frankie. For all Kit knows, even Eleanor thinks they’re the real thing—Sage has never said, and Kit never asked. He’d just assumed…

God. What had Kit assumed? That fake relationships were so common in Hollywood that Sage would discuss this one with his entire inner circle? No, that wasn’t it. It was, Kit is discomfited to realize, something worse. Kit had not considered Sage’s relationships, his private, unseen connections with friends and family, because on some level he had viewed Sage as beyond those things. Real people had relatives and coworkers and old buddies from back in the day, but Sage Ballard had first crossed Kit’s path as someone two-dimensional, pinned to the screen.

Kit gnaws at the inside of his cheek, trying not to let his emotions show on his face. He’s been no different than these rubbernecked diners, still craning around every few minutes trying to get a look at their table: He’s been operating from day one as though he knows Sage. As though all there is to know is what’s publicly available.

His stomach flips, the lingering flavor of his dessert seeming to curdle in his mouth. Belatedly, he realizes Marcelo is staring at him, waiting for him to say something. He blinks, shakes his head, forces himself back to the present moment, and says, “Sorry, uh. I was just—wait, what do you mean good business?”

“Didn’t he tell you?” When Kit just looks at him blankly, Marcelo whistles and shakes his head. “Goddamn, but that boy never changes. Since he won’t big himself up, I’ll do it: He funded this whole place. My main investor. He didn’t have any reason to believe in me when I said I wanted to start my own restaurant as a twenty-three-year-old idiot; Lord knows nobody else did. But Sage said, ‘Start looking for real estate, let me set up some meetings, I got you.’ Didn’t even have to think about it.” His eyes go misty as he says, “He was only eighteen then—we grew up together, you know—and he’d just gotten control of his cash. I thought his uncle was going to murder him, Sage couldn’t go home for like a week, but there was nothing that little shit could do about it in the end. Never did like that guy.”

Marcelo seems to expect a response to this, so Kit hastily says, “Oh, uh. No, me neither. He’s always sounded like a real douchebag to me.” In fact, all Kit’s ever heard about the man is that story Sage told the other night, about having to redo stunt shoots over and over again. However, since that story did suggest the guy was a huge dick, it’s not technically a lie.

Still, it seems to be the right answer, because Marcelo beams at him. Thankfully, Sage returns from the bathroom before he can ask any follow-up questions to which Kit would have to scramble for answers. Although Sage groans to see Marcelo, and demands the interrogation cease at once, when Marcelo stands the two men hug. It’s the brief, back-slapping hug of brothers, as is the tone in Marcelo’s voice when he says, “Dude, Jesus Christ, you look grim. Let me sneak you out the back, okay? I think the cameras are stealing your soul.”

Sage glances nervously at Kit. “Would you mind? I know you were excited to eat here⁠—”

“And I was right to be,” Kit says firmly, setting down his napkin and standing up. “I’ll think about this meal until the day I die, but: I’ve eaten it. If you’re not feeling it, let’s just go.”

Sage looks startled by this; Marcelo, behind him, looks approving. When Sage, after a long beat, nods, they both follow as Marcelo leads them through the kitchen, and out into the cool silence of the night.

TWELVE

They don’t talk much on the ride back, which suits Kit just fine. He’s pleasantly full and thoughtful, turning everything he’s learned about Sage tonight over in his mind. For his own part, Sage still seems trapped in the snarl of his difficult mood, a divot furrowed between his dark eyebrows as he stares out the window. When he was with Emerson, in a situation like this, Kit would have felt compelled to do something about that mood, whether that was being entertaining enough to improve it, or by apologizing for something. It would have made him too nervous to just sit in it. But for some reason, Sage’s obvious discontent doesn’t make him uncomfortable. Sympathetic, sure, but not uncomfortable.

There is one uncomfortable moment: when Sage, halfway through their drive, tells him where they’re going.

“I’m sorry if this is weird, but I had Frankie book you a hotel.” Sage looks like he’d rather drink a gallon of lead paint than have this conversation. “I promise the Hotel Bel-Air is nice, and I just thought—I mean—we don’t know each other very well, do we? And I’m sure this is all really weird for you. Maybe it would be good for you to have your own space?”

It takes Kit a moment to parse this. “Dude. Are you like… trying to apologize for not inviting me to your house?”

“Apologize,” Sage says, grimacing slightly, “isn’t quite the word I would use. Just acknowledge it, I guess? In case it’s weird.”

“I mean, the staff at this fancy hotel might find it weird,” Kit says, with a shrug. “To see me walking around in this same outfit tomorrow like a cartoon character. But I think it makes perfect sense; I never expected—well, to be totally fair, I wasn’t expecting to be in LA this weekend at all. But if I had been, I would have assumed I’d be at a hotel. It’s not like…” Kit swallows, for some reason finding the rest of the sentence difficult to vocalize. “It’s not like I’m really your boyfriend. It’s fine.”

Sage punches out a relieved breath and offers Kit what appears to be a genuine smile. For the first time since Kit got on the plane, Sage looks like the man who’d laughed with Kit over Mitch’s evasive chickens. It makes Kit’s stomach do a complicated series of somersaults, but Kit tells himself it’s probably Marcelo’s fault for making such delicious food, and thus forcing Kit to overeat. Nothing else.

“Thanks,” Sage says. “And we had everything you’ll need sent up to your room already, so you don’t have to act like a cartoon character unless you want to. If you do want to, though, don’t worry about the staff thinking badly of you. Trust me: Whatever you do, they’ll have seen worse.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Kit says, not able to think of a better response, and the chatter once again dries up.

But Kit doesn’t want to do anything bad at the Hotel Bel-Air. It’s the nicest hotel room he’s ever been in; it might be the nicest room he’s ever been in it. Every detail has been carefully chosen to invoke peace, and calm, and relaxation, and the space is so bright and clean that Kit keeps having to stop and revel in it. After eighteen months of living in the firehouse, with its temperamental locker-room shower and the constant, inescapable experience of his air mattress deflating underneath him, a soak in the jetted tub is pure bliss. When, afterwards, Kit collapses onto the cloud-like bed, wrapped in the thick, plush warmth of the hotel robe, he’s too overwhelmed by the joys of a proper mattress to resist it, and immediately falls asleep.

When he wakes up it’s morning, sunlight streaming through the windows brightly enough that Kit knows he must have slept late. After a disorienting second, he realizes what’s woken him is a knock at the door; when he answers, a staff member pushes a cart laden with breakfast foods into the room. She smiles at Kit, who presumably looks like death, and says, “Mr. Ballard said to tell you that he’ll be here to pick you up at two, sir. He says your time is your own until then, but asks that you please try not to get lost. If you’re still here at twelve thirty, our instructions are to return with lunch then, assuming that sounds good to you, sir. Does it? The kitchens have asked me to confirm.”

“Uh,” Kit says, his eyes flicking from her to the insanely delicious-looking chocolate croissant nearest to him. “Yes? I’m not planning on going anywhere, I don’t think.”

“Very good, sir. Just leave the cart outside when you’re done eating and someone will be by to collect it. And feel free to call if you need anything!” With a cheery wave, she vanishes back out the door.

Feeling slightly shell-shocked, Kit snatches the croissant, sits on the edge of his bed, and nibbles it, hoping it will encourage a few more brain cells to join him in the land of the living. The croissant is delicious enough that eventually he’s able to scrape a couple of thoughts together, and decides to poke around for the replacement luggage Sage promised him.

He finds it quickly. Or, at least, he finds the items Sage’s team left for him quickly—Kit cannot in good conscience call any of them replacements for his own things. They’re all of far better quality than anything Kit would have packed: a T-shirt and jeans from a designer brand that’s miles outside of Kit’s price range; a pair of blue striped silk pajamas, impossibly smooth to the touch; several different options for socks and underwear, all tastefully wrapped and clearly expensive. Even the phone charger is nicer than Kit’s. The one he left behind in Cedar Falls is just a cable you plug into the wall, but Frankie has provided one of those power bricks that can charge your device on the go.

And Sage has provided him one thing more: In the closet, hanging up against the door, is a wool three-piece suit in an unusual, distinctive shade of deep maroon, complete with a shirt, tie, and dress shoes. Absolutely every item is in the correct size.

Sticking out of the pocket is a note: