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“What’s that supposed to mean?” I interrupt.
“I thought you didn’t like me, and it bothered me.” Laurence scoffs, as if the notion is absurd. “I shouldn’t have cared less, usually wouldn’t, yet I felt…rejected. I had this overwhelming urge to get you on side. Not for sex. Not because I fancied you…although I did. I do. I genuinely just wanted to get to know you, wanted to know why you felt different from, well, everyone else I’ve ever met.”
Different? I’m the most ordinary, least exciting guy there is. “You thought I didn’t like you? Why?”
How?
“Our first dinner, you looked like you wanted to be sick when Andy left. Things got better, or so I thought, until we headed to your room for your jacket. I dunno. I just felt you couldn’t wait to get rid of me.”
Because you touched my shoulder…and it thrilled me. The same spark ripples down my spine as I remember. “I was nervous.”
“I know that now. I know you now. What I don’t know, I want to learn.”
“Laurence…”
“I didn’t want it to grow into this. I’m not that guy. I don’t go around destroying marriages for shits and giggles. It just happened. With every smile you gave me, every effort you made to enjoy the things I like, every time you shared something about your life, every time you just…listened. Whatever it is I’m feeling, I tell myself it’s wrong, that I should leave you alone, but it keeps getting bigger. And now…now I think it’s too big to walk away from.”
Heat creeps into my cheeks.
“I like watching your nose wrinkle because your wire stripper isn’t behaving. Or seeing you trying to hide the disbelief you feel when you see the prices on a menu at a restaurant of my or Andy’s choosing. You’re unfazed by my job, by my celebrity,” he says, flinching at the last word. “You’ve never asked the questions that I know you want answers to because I see you searching for them in my eyes. From that first night, you’ve stared right into them. So intensely, as if you were desperate to find the real man behind the face on the screen and…and the scariest part for me since that night, is that I felt like I might just let you. That’s what it’s about for me, William.”
He shuffles closer, my breath hitching as our knees brush. “There’s something here. I know you’re scared. I know you have a family. I also know you feel it. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me I’m wrong and I’ll…I’ll drop it.” The sentence fades, his words uneven and hesitant. It makes me wonder if he’s strong enough to drop it.
Am I?
My expression melts. Lips quiver. “I can’t.” I can’t disagree. I can’t fall into his arms and blow up my entire life, either.
“I will wait, William. If you need to go, think, figure things out. If we need to be friends… then I’ll do it. I’ll do that for you.”
My head rolls from right to left before dropping to my chest. “I can’t ask you to do that.”
“You didn’t.”
My thoughts are interrupted by a knock on the suite door, which makes my heart leap into my throat.
“It’ll be dinner,” Laurence says with a smile, amused by my panic.
“Right,” I say, but it will take a moment for my pulse to cease thudding. Christ. I feel like I’ve just been caught with his dick inside me by my entire neighbourhood. And we’re just talking. I’ll never be brave enough to confront this situation. The box I’ve used to trap these feelings for so long is starting to look awfully appealing once again…
A member of the concierge enters the room pushing a trolley. He follows Laurence to the dining table and sets our plates down before removing the cloches. When he’s finished, he stands tall and waits. I wonder what for until I see Laurence remove a wallet from his back pocket.
I don’t see how many notes he removes, but the concierge looks satisfied with the amount when he takes them from Laurence’s fingers. “Thank you, sir. Can I get you anything else?” He makes brief eye contact with me too as he asks, and I freeze. Can he tell what’s happened here? Can he see something in me? Do I look…different?
“No, thank you…” Laurence leans in to read the badge attached to the concierge’s blazer, “Phillipe. I’m Laurie.”
I can’t help smiling at the interaction. I’ve noticed him do that before, introduce himself to people he may never even see again. Laurence Cole has an unexpected air of old-fashioned politeness to him. Manners that make me covet his childhood, the good parents that clearly raised him.
With an acknowledging nod, the concierge turns and leaves, taking his trolley with him.
“Shall we?” Laurence says, waving over the table.
I’m not in the slightest bit hungry until I get closer. When the aroma of lamb enters my nose, it dives straight to my stomach, stirring my appetite. “This looks great,” I say as I take my seat. I’ve forgotten the French word already, but it appears it translates to rack of lamb, served with fondant potatoes, vegetables, and sprigs of green garnish to make it look posh.
