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“Also,” I add, “thank you for being there to catch me.”
He still grips the microphone, even after having caught me. “Always,” he whispers to me, bringing his lips to mine, consuming me in the deepest, most breath-stealing kiss I’ve ever known. The nightclub erupts into applause and triumphant hooting.
Always, always, always …
48
Benjamin owns it.
Our first date goes exactly how it ought to.
Well, minus the people who spot us in the restaurant and pull out their phones to subtly (and not so subtly) snap pics and take videos. But really, what else is new?
“I’m pretending not to notice,” whispers Trevor over the table with the candlelight flickering in his adorable face.
“I don’t care about the pic-snappers,” I mumble back, “as long as they’re not catching my bad angle.”
“You don’t have a bad angle.”
I smile, elbows propped on the table with my hands near my face, wringing them gently as I stare down Trevor across the table and try not to distract myself with the hundred different things I want to do to him when we’re alone again.
Strangely, the first thing I want to do is cuddle him. Does that make me a softy? Does that make me lame? I don’t give half a fuck if it does; I find the idea sexy as hell to strip off our clothes, get into something comfortable, and caress each other’s bodies on the couch while something on the TV makes our skin glow with its lazily flickering light.
After dinner, we stroll down a quiet street to my high-rise, chatting the whole way. Though others might objectively see our night as completely unremarkable, I feel like we just had the best first date ever. Trevor complained about the room spinning at first, but quickly calmed down the more we talked. My insides are bursting with happiness at the fact that I haven’t lost Trevor for good. It might be a strange reaction to have, but even with my entire career hanging on the brink of absolute destruction, my biggest fear was that Trevor would walk away without giving us a shot. Clients who want to sever ties with me or look elsewhere for representation, or business executives who get shifty feet … I can replace all of them.
But there’s nothing—nothing—that can replace what exists between Trevor and I.
When we arrive at the penthouse, Trevor finds the toy sword he had given Lance sitting on the kitchen counter. I wince apologetically when he picks it up and gives it a wiggle, turning to me. “Sorry,” I murmur, coming up to Trevor’s side. “He doesn’t … really play with toys.”
“Where is Lance?” he asks.
I poke my head around the corner of the hall. Lancelot sits at the door to the terrace staring out of the glass. He glances over his shoulder at us, a sour look in his eyes.
“Ugh. Fuckin’ birds,” I gripe. “Lance won’t go out there to do his business when they’re there.”
Trevor eyes me. “Birds? Your dog is scared of birds?”
“You should see them. Big scary fuckers.”
“But your dog Lancelot is a Knight of the Round Table,” he protests, tilting his head cutely. “He should take on anything!”
Before I can stop him, he marches toward the terrace door. Lance backs away, spooked, until he realizes Trevor is just passing him by, shoving his way out of the door and onto the terrace.
I stand by the opened door with Lance. “Uh … Trevor?”
“Where are you at??” Trevor calls out, brandishing the dog toy like an actual sword. “Come out, birds!”
Lance is by my side. We watch, alarmed, as Trevor wields the dog toy and looks into the sky.
He doesn’t have to look for long; the birds find him.
“Hey, you!” he yells at them. “Get out of here! This rooftop belongs to Sir Lancelot!”
That was a mistake. Two of the birds, entirely unconvinced by Trevor’s declaration, descend on him with colossal beating wings and outstretched talons.
Trevor screams and runs away. The birds chase him in a circle around the garden and the trees. He dares a peek over his back, trying to bat away the birds with his little squeaky sword, but each time he isn’t looking where he’s running, he stumbles, and the birds gain on him.
More birds have joined, too, and before long, there’s an avian army of six or more squawking and flapping above him to claim their territory.
Then, Lance barks.
I turn to him, surprised. Lance? Barking? Lance is invested, watching the scene with a mix of distress and bloodlust. His eyes chase each bird as he pants, watching, hyper focused.
Trevor, terrified, cowers by a tree, putting his arms over his head and blindly waving the sword above it. The effort is feeble at best, but it is a clear and obvious sign of his surrender.
But not for Lancelot.
The dog bounds after Trevor and the tree to defend his honor, barking wildly and snapping his jowls at the birds. The birds are clearly taken aback, fluttering away, confused, circling only once or twice before realizing they’re no match for the crazed dog, who snarls and snaps and barks and yaps at the birds, dancing in front of Trevor and the tree. The birds start fluttering away.
