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Oliver laughed, trying to hide his shock that they were going to the goddamn owner’s box for this game. “I thought you wanted chicken wings.”
Victor’s mouth opened, then snapped shut. “I forgot.”
“I bet there’s some really good food where your seats are at. We could take our chances.”
Victor hummed, then reached for the panel of buttons and touched the one for the ground floor. “You promised me a mess, didn’t you?”
Oliver grinned. “Yeah. I believe I did.”
Victor pressed the button. The elevator continued up, paused with the doors opened, and then they began their descent. Oliver caught Victor’s gaze, and they both grinned.
He had no idea what the hell was supposed to happen next, but he had no regrets. As they headed to the bottom floor, Oliver took his phone out and quickly sent a Venmo refund to his client, then a quick email that simply read: Cancelled appointment.
He felt a buzz in his hand before he was even finished putting his phone away, but he ignored it in favor of offering the crook of his elbow to Victor when the doors opened. They both stepped out, Victor keeping his distance.
“I told you I don’t need—”
“Isn’t this what fancy rich people do?” Oliver interrupted.
Victor stilled, then laughed very softly under his breath. “In Victorian England?”
“It seemed…nice,” Oliver said with a shrug. And it had. Really. He didn’t know what the hell was wrong with him. He just knew he wanted to make this night good.
Victor hesitated only another minute before he finally looped his arm through Oliver’s and let him head up the slight ramp toward the smell of buffalo wing sauce. “People will think you’re my sugar baby. Or…man of the night.”
“Man of the night,” Oliver asked, erupting into giggles. “Is that what people like you call hookers?”
Victor blushed, and he glanced away. “If they’re being polite.”
“Have a lot of experience with that, do you?” Oliver asked. He was half teasing, half testing, but he sure as shit wasn’t about to give himself away.
Victor’s blush darkened further. “I didn’t happen upon money by accident. I wasn’t one of those inspiration stories. I’ve been around men like that my whole life.”
“And?” Oliver pressed.
Victor said nothing as they approached the hostess. She couldn’t have been more than seventeen, with long dark hair and makeup done in an attempt to make her look older. She gave Oliver an appraising look, then raised her brows at Victor, and yeah… she’d come to that same conclusion.
Not that he gave a shit. He hadn’t dressed to impress for the evening. He’d dressed to look hot and keep a guy turned on so he could get paid. His shirt was tight enough to show off his nipples, and his jeans were expensive and artfully ripped.
He figured he should probably buy a T-shirt or something if he was really going to go up to some VIP owner’s box or whatever the fuck they had at the arena. Those guys were probably also used to paying for the occasional date, but he didn’t want to put that kind of scrutiny on Victor. After all, he wasn’t the one withholding information.
“Table for two,” Oliver said when Victor remained silent.
“We’re on an hour wait,” the hostess replied, her tone flat.
Victor started to sigh and back up, but Oliver held him fast. “We’re in the owner’s box tonight. Any chance you can find a way to squeeze us in somewhere?”
She gave him a skeptical look.
With a sigh, he turned to Victor. “Do you have your email invite to the owner’s box, hon?”
Victor looked adorably confused as he pulled his phone out and opened up his texts. He scrolled down a few until Oliver saw the name Gabriel Morales, and he didn’t have to be a huge hockey fan to know that he owned the Sol Azur Jaguars, and he started coughing out of shock.
Fuck, maybe this was a mistake. This Victor guy was no imposter. And he was no average rich dude.
“Should I call him?” Victor asked. “I just have this.” He showed her the screen, and she quickly turned on her heel and walked off. Victor looked adorably distressed as he tucked his phone away. Oliver could feel him start to tremble a bit, and worried he’d fall again, he stepped in closer. “Maybe we should go.”
“Oh, she’s just getting a table. Trust me,” Oliver said. “Who even are you, by the way. Are you, like, best friends with Gabriel Morales?”
