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I prop myself up on my elbows. ‘When we’re on holidays, do you want to, you know—’ God, now I’m bad with words. ‘I mean, we should talk about sex.’
‘Very romantic.’ Gabriel’s voice is warm and teasing. ‘I don’t have any viruses if that’s what you mean. You already know I’ve never been with anyone.’
‘So, let’s talk about that,’ I say.
‘Let’s not. It’s not something I’m proud of,’ he replies—and I get it. Even though it’s nothing to be ashamed about, I understand he doesn’t want to elaborate. ‘When was the last time you had sex with someone else?’ he asks.
‘Over a year ago. I got tested a few months after. I could get tested again if you’d like but I promise I haven’t been with anyone else.’
‘I believe you,’ Gabriel says.
‘Should Isignsomething?’ I ask, because isn’t that something you’re supposed to do with celebrities? Victor’s already sent me his exhaustingly long rulebook about dating Gabriel, so maybe that suffices.
‘It’s not necessary. I trust you. You’re the only one I’ve ever trusted to—’ He pauses, clears his throat. ‘Well, do this with.’
‘Sex?’ I clarify.
‘Arelationship,’ he says exasperatedly and then spews out a string of French words, sounding truly vexed over my confusion. ‘Stop thinking with your dick, I was being sincere.’
‘You’re such a sap,’ I reply. ‘But I trust you too. Even with the very bad parts of me.’
‘Me too,’ he whispers on the other end of the phone. ‘I’m afraid I can get a bit hard to handle at times.’
Gabriel, my veritable cinnamon roll of a boyfriend, who doesn’t like swearing because it makes himfeelbad, thinks that being slightly difficult is enough to scare me off? Bless him. Bless his little cotton socks.
It’s the day of the big match and I’m belting out ABBA’s ‘Gimme Gimme Gimme’ in the shower and considering whether to shave my balls—and if Gabriel has any strong opinions about pubic hair. Probably not, I decide. I can’t be bothered with the effort, so I trim the area and leave it at that.
Shutting off the water, I go to my wardrobe and grab my latest geometric cotton shirt, tossing it on the bed as I rummage through my drawers for a clean white tank top.
It’s barely one in the afternoon, but I’m already excited. Tonight, I’llhopefullywatch my lover win his first grand slam and then tomorrow, I’ll reunite with Mum at a café in the city, then Gabriel’s taking me on holiday on Tuesday—and wow, if you’d told me I’d be doing all this just two weeks ago, I would have laughed in your face.
But it’s real. It’s my life.
My phone plays a mix of the queerest energetic hits: Dua Lipa, the Pointer Sisters, Lady Gaga, Elton John. Suddenly, Lady Gaga’s voice cuts out and is replaced by the ringtone I’ve reserved just for Bella.
No!
I know I used to complain about not getting enough shifts at Mark’s Place but being the Rosewood’s flavour of the week makes it almost impossible to plan around shifts. I’ve already picked up an extra shift this week. Still, Bella has been nothing but welcoming and I’d feel guilty if I ignored her call.
‘Hey, Bella,’ I say, wedging the phone between my ear and shoulder.
‘Noah, we’re swamped!’ she yells over the phone, so loud it makes my ear hurt. ‘Is there any chance you could come in?’
I check the time. I have to leave for Gabriel’s match in less than four hours . . .
‘You’d be doing me a huge favour,’ Bella insists.
‘Fine,’ I relent. ‘But I’ve got tickets for a match at seven. I gotta leave at six.’
A part of me hopes the offer of a short shift will make her reconsider.
‘Yes, yes, that’s perfect,’ she gushes. ‘Thank you!’
Clearly not, then.
I hang up and toss my geometric shirt back on the bed, pulling on a clean black shirt and a pair of black dress pants. Gabriel will be pissed if I’m late to his match, but I’m so new at the Rosewood, a part of me still wants to make a good impression, and I’ve just told them I’m unavailable all next week for Gabriel’s ‘surprise’ getaway, so it’s not like I can really say no. Besides, I want to be trusted and, hell,likedby Bella and the team.
I want to fit in.
