12. Bryce
TWELVE
brYCE
“Bobo? Where’s my goodest boy?”
I’m sweating like a whore in church as I walk shirtless into the apartment after my audition. Between the intense choreo, the heat outside, and climbing the stairs, I need a shower, stat. But first, Bobo needs a walk.
“Bobo? Emerson? Are you here?”
I dip into the bathroom quickly, but there’s nothing. It’s not like Bobo to not run to the door and greet me.
“Where are you guys?”
There are only so many places a man the size of a hunky football player and a dog the size of his mascot can hide in this barely five-hundred-square-foot apartment. It’s like playing hide-and-seek in a closet.
They’re not here.
As I reach for my phone to text Emerson, the door flies open. Bobo trots to his water dish and laps like he’s been stranded on a desert island for days. My eyes move to Emerson, who’s leaning against the doorframe, looking too damn handsome for his own good .
He’s not wearing the khakis, dress shirt, and blazer combo I’m used to during the day.
He’s swapped them for a tank top and khaki shorts.
My eyes linger, perhaps a little too long, on his exposed perfect armpit as he leans.
Bobo walks over to my feet and sits. He melts into me, and I pet him as his panting scores our conversation.
“Hey there,” Emerson says with flushed cheeks. “Not sure I’ll ever get used to all those stairs.”
He looks like he’s gotten some sun, and there’s a slight sheen on his face that makes him look like an angel—the kind that wears tank tops to show off his massive arms.
“Hey,” I say, still half caught up in the fact that Bobo’s already had his walk. “You didn’t have to take him. Rule … um, which rule is it again? The one about me taking care of Bobo?”
Emerson raises an eyebrow, his head tilted in that way he does when he’s trying to figure me out like I’m a new appliance.
“Rule Four,” he replies with a half-smirk. “But his eyeballs were yellow. And I needed some fresh air.” He gives me a small shrug, like it’s no big deal.
I sigh, running my fingers through my sweaty hair. “Well, thanks. I didn’t expect the audition to go so long.”
Emerson steps closer to Bobo, who’s now flopped down on the cool floor by his water dish, looking entirely too pleased with himself, and gently scratches his head. “Did you get it?”
I wipe a hand down my face. “No, just kept me waiting around forever. I don’t think they were expecting so many dancers.” I shrug. “But when your show is produced by a certain Latina pop diva with a propensity to get on the floor, everyone shows up. And most people don’t mind waiting for tonight.”
Emerson’s face scrunches but then softens, his eyes glinting with a mix of concern and empathy. “I’m not sure what most of that means, but I’m sorry about the audition. ”
I let out a small grunt, walking over to the couch and flopping onto it, finally letting myself breathe again. “Meh. I’m used to it.”
The room quiets, the weight of the day settling.
I’ve been through this routine too many times to count—getting my hopes up only for them to come crashing down when I don’t land the part.
It’s become almost second nature now, this quiet acceptance of my place in the dance community.
I’ve learned not to take it too personally, because this industry is brutal, and rejection is just part of the game.
You don’t get the role, but you keep going, because what else can you do?
Emerson stays by Bobo for a moment, watching me like he wants to say something more, but he doesn’t.
I toss my shoes aside. “Anyway, where’d you guys go?”
He smiles, his entire face lighting up with an upbeat energy I’m not used to from him.
“Oh, we had the loveliest time. We walked down to the park, and I let Bobo run around a bit. Did you know on hot days Central Park is full of shirtless men? A few women, too. So much skin.” He shakes his head, but not in a negative way, more like he’s trying to shoo salacious images away.
And then he looks at me, and his eyes move down to my naked torso.
“Oh, gosh,” I say, popping up, riffling though the dresser in the corner where I’ve shoved my clothes. “Rule Two or Three, I can’t remember. Fully clothed.”
“It’s fine, Bryce.” Emerson grabs a glass and runs the cold water. “It’s hot. I’m in a tank top. That’s practically shirtless.”
“No, we have rules, and I’m already breaking them,” I say, wishing he’d pop his off and break this one with me.
I grab a green shirt I don’t recall at first and slip it over my head.
As soon as I pull it down, I realize the issue.
It’s not mine. I think it’s an old shirt Anthony left behind.
For a brief moment, I’m reminded of my dumped-and-squatting-on-the-sofa predicament, and then, to add insult to injury, it hits me .
I’m standing in front of Emerson looking like a sausage trying to escape its casing.
The fabric clings to me in all the wrong places, and the sleeves cut off circulation in my arms. My stomach is being squeezed by a vise, and if I breathe too deeply, I’m pretty sure the shirt’s going to revolt.
Emerson’s smile morphs into this big, boisterous laugh. I’ve never heard him laugh like this before—my stomach actually drops, but it’s definitely not because of the damn shirt. It’s his booming, infectious laughter. And the way he’s looking at me.
“You okay, there?” he asks, his voice light and teasing.
“Totally fine,” I lie, tugging at the fabric again, like that’s going to help. “I must’ve washed it in hot water. It’s shrunk.” I pull at the front and finally, with a little more room to breathe, I let out a deep breath. “A lot.”
I yank again, desperate to get this thing off before I suffocate or pass out. The fabric’s way too tight, clinging to my chest like it’s been superglued. But as I try to wiggle out of it, the shirt gets stuck over my head, like it’s holding me hostage. Great.
“Uh … hey, could you—” I stop myself, embarrassed that I’m even asking. But I sense him next to me already, the heat of his skin so close to mine, and then his hand lands on my naked back, guiding me to the edge of the sofa.
“Come here,” he says, his voice soft and calm.
I freeze momentarily as his fingers brush against my skin when he tries to pull the shirt off.
My gut says to bolt. Although I’m not sure where in this tiny apartment.
But it doesn’t matter because I can’t move, not with the shirt ensnaring me, not with him standing so near, his breath just barely grazing my neck.
For a second, everything feels charged, like we’re balancing on the edge of a cliff, and I can’t tell if it’s just the shirt or the heat in the room or something else entirely.
His hand is still on me, steady, but then, through the thin fabric of this damned shirt, I’m keenly aware of just how close Emerson’s face is to mine.
And just when I think this is it, that we’re about to take a leap, or at least cross some line, I pull back quickly, tugging harder at the shirt, suddenly desperate to avoid whatever the hell this moment is about to become.
My heart’s pounding like I’ve danced in one of those twenty-four-hour marathons for charity, but at least the shirt’s finally off.
“Thanks,” I say.
I’m half-naked, but at least I can breathe. “I’ll just grab one that hasn’t … shrunk.”
“Bryce, it’s all good. We’re roommates. We can be shirtless around each other. It’s like we’re at the beach.”
I collapse on the couch, exhausted from the audition, the stairs, and the shirt fiasco.
“It is so fucking hot. It feels like a beach in here. Without the hot guys in banana hammocks or refreshing ocean breeze.” I use the shirt to wipe the sweat from my forehead.
“We really should get an air conditioner. Or at least another fan.”
Emerson sits next to me. He’s not too close, but with this heat and my bare torso and his naked arms, it’s suddenly feeling like a sauna in here.
“Thank you again for taking Bobo for a walk.”
“Really, we had a lovely time.” He shifts so he’s facing me, and I do my best to keep my mouth in his line of vision.
“Before we hit the park, we were walking down the street, and this Italian guy came running out to give Bobo a meatball. It was like a scene out of a beautiful foreign film. And then he gave me one, and it was the best meatball—no, make that the best food—I’ve ever eaten. ”
“Oh my goodness! You met Luigi? He’s the best. That’s a Spicy Meatball is an institution in the neighborhood.
People think it’s all about the ambiance with restaurants, but it’s actually about the food.
The place may be a hole in the wall, but Luigi knows food—especially turning meat into balls.
” My face flashes hot. “Plus, he has a thing for big boys, right Bobo?”
“Luigi? If you tell me his brother’s name is Mario and they have a plumbing business on the side …”
“No, no,” I say with a laugh. “It’s just him and the meatballs.”
“I swear, this dog is living his best life. You should’ve seen his face. It was like he’d reached doggy nirvana.”
I laugh, the image of Bobo devouring the meatballs so vivid I almost feel like I was there. “He doesn’t get many treats and those meatballs are …”
“Pure bliss,” Emerson says. His eyes drift off, and I watch, waiting for him to lick his lips. “Look at him.” He nods toward Bobo, who’s fallen asleep with his tongue out. “He’s still riding that meatball high.”
“He’s the goodest boy.”
“He really is.”
Bobo has a way of making everyone smile in a big, heartfelt way. Right now, as Emerson gazes at him, snoozing after his meatball-infused walk, that signature Bobo smile is shining on his face.
“I promise I won’t let it happen again.”
“Bryce, I told you, shirtless is okay. We’re at the beach.” His eyes shift from Bobo to me, and the heat of his gaze on my chest makes my blood simmer.
“No, no, I mean, Bobo. I’ll make sure I’m home to take him out.”
“Oh, that. I mean, honestly, I enjoyed it. He’s easy. And who else could get me a free meatball on the streets of New York City?”
“Very true. Okay, well, I should grab a shower. Do you need …” I nod toward the bathroom.
“Nope, all set.”
I stand up, our eyes meet, and an unexpected wave of emotion hits me—somewhere between the need for connection and the weight of everything that’s happened. I hesitate, and the urge to do something, anything—a hug, a high-five, a simple gesture to show my gratitude—creeps up.
But I can’t mess this up. Bobo and I have nowhere else to go.
So, instead, I lean over and tap his shoulder lightly, my voice quiet but full of sincerity. “Thanks again. For everything.”
Emerson’s eyes soften, and for a moment neither of us says anything. There’s nothing more to say, but in the silence, I realize something’s shifted between us.